Hatred Day

by T S Pettibone

  “Just a heads up,” Desya said. “Everything’s voice automated, so just tell things to shut up, or turn on and they will. Also, the window doesn’t open.” He nodded to a glass bay window above the bed. “It doesn’t have a filter screen. It’s just for looks.”

  “I won’t break it open,” she promised. “But…you’re sure all this stuff is mine?”

  He gave her a small smile. “I’m sure.” He pointed at a bathroom next to the desk. “If you need to shower or anything that’s your bathroom. The water’s like dragon spit, so turn it warm if you want it hot.”

  “I’ll need it hot to wash off the slum.”

  He waved a hand at her hair, his nose wrinkling. “Yeah, you’ve got some goo or something stuck in your hair.”

  “I don’t know what it is; it was all over me when I woke up in the woods.” She patted her hair and winced upon finding a crusty patch. The slime had congealed too much to be rinsed out with sewer water, which was all Master Mookjai had allowed her.

  “If you want to have a shower, we can look at more photos after.”

  She nodded. “I’ll need to burn my clothes after, too. I had to lift them off a body.” She paused at the desk computer. The background displayed a photo of Desya and a stunning exotic girl with rich black hair.

  Desya seemed to notice what she was staring at. He touched a chain around his neck, then quickly crossed his arms. “Her name’s Parisa Namdar. She was your friend and my…uh…my girlfriend until she became one of the Chancellor’s mistresses earlier last year.”

  Snofrid almost let the knife fall from her sleeve. “You dated her?”

  “Yeah.” His expression remained so composed that she suspected he was hiding something. But he definitely had reason to: coupling with a human was a Level Three Offense. Even though Desya already bore the shame of his parent’s treason, this was a personal stain on his name. Human worshipers, as they were infamously called, were officially titled vagrants. This thought left her petrified, for if what her brother had done was ever made public, he’d undergo severe corporal punishment and then be expelled from Inborn society.

  “You should clean up,” he suggested. “I’ll wipe your photo from Mookjai’s database while I wait.”

  “Before you leave, I want to thank you,” she said.

  “Don’t. We always watched out for each other, Sno. It’s nothing that even needs thanking for.” He gave her a reassuring glance. “Even though we were adopted, I always thought of you as my real sister.”

  In the bathroom, Snofrid caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Apart from a pair of large slanted eyes, the face that stared back at her was familiar. She assumed the eye-slant was due to mutation.

  Planting her back to the mirror, she shook the knife from her sleeve. The glass reflected the brand mark, M, that had been tattooed on her nape by Master Mookjai’s slave groomers.

  She bit down on her lip, bracing herself, before scraping off the brand with the blade. Blood dripped onto her tunic. Squeezing her eyes shut, she set her teeth as the scalding pain pulsated through her neck. The blood trickled along her spine, slowing as it reached her tailbone. Suddenly it stopped and reversed, retreating along its path and surging back into the cut. The torn skin stitched together, leaving her neck pure. Spotless.

  She exhaled a shaky, relieved breath.

  The King of Terrors

  A nightmare wrenched Snofrid from sleep. She kicked the damp blankets from her body, hands fisting the mattress, and took long, deep breaths through her nose. When her heart calmed, she rolled onto her side and stared blankly at the vase of orange lilies on her nightstand. Her body trembled as she contemplated her nightmare. It had forced her to relive the final day of her imprisonment at Oubliette. Although the day had begun uneventfully, it had taken a violent turn when Master Mookjai had ordered one of his slave groomers to interrogate her until she surrendered the secret of her healing. Snofrid winced as she recalled the biting lashes of the slave groomer’s belt. Since there was no secret to Mystish abilities—it was simply genetics—the interrogation hadn’t been brief.

  For over an hour she laid still, struggling to find peace in the knock of the rain against the window. She longed to forget most of the memories she still possessed. They floated across her mind like fiendish ghosts, taunting her. She detested Master Mookjai; she hated what his groomers had done to her. A part of her yearned for justice, wanted Master Mookjai to get his due; but a larger part reminded her that in war, there was rarely justice.

  Unable to sleep, she rose and searched the kitchen for something sugary. The mochi ice cream she found brought her little comfort.

  Setting down her bowl, she touched the spot on her nape that had once been marked by a slave tattoo. The spot felt clammy, silky with hair. The Commander who’d tried to purchase her hadn’t strayed far from her mind; his bull-head gasmask grinned at her when she shut her eyes and it snarled at her when she opened them. What could a Commander, a man who presided over armies, want with her? She was a mere Inborn civilian. She wondered if perhaps they’d met before. Almost immediately, she dropped the idea. Desya and Neko hadn’t recognized him either.

  After putting away the ice cream, she returned to her bedroom and rummaged through her belongings in search of clues about her past life. The drawers creaked like rickety floorboards and she cupped the sides, trying to keep quiet. Desya was still asleep.

  The drawers held nothing but clothes, so she combed the bookcase beside her dresser. In vain she tried to locate at least one familiar book. The titles ranged from biology, archeology, and religion to fairytales and historical novels, to proper speech and etiquette. Clearly, she’d valued education after moving out of Gehenna. Out of pride or real interest in these subjects, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps she’d merely wanted to fit in with the fashionable people of Vancastle.

  Selecting a sketchbook from the bottom shelf, she found it empty except for a drawing of an upside-down black tree on the first page. She frowned, thinking the drawing strange. An upside-down black tree was the Inborn symbol of death.

  As she traced her fingers across the boughs, an image popped into her mind of a young man with bright red hair. He was laughing, and on his neck was a tattoo of the same upside-down black tree. Her hand flew to her head in surprise, and she fumbled with the sketchbook. When she finally registered that the image was a memory, she gasped. Then she latched onto it, treasuring it protectively.

  With a rush of excitement, she eyed the door, debating if she should call Neko or wake up Desya and tell him. Whoever the red-haired man was, he was the one person in all the world she remembered. Maybe because he was important to her. In that case, surely Desya knew who he was.

  Snofrid snapped the sketchbook shut and hurried downstairs. With each step, her spirits rose from anticipation. If she was already beginning to recall things, she had hope that Neko could restore her past fully. He’d promised to examine her that evening, though now it felt like the moment would never come.

  The door to her brother’s room was cracked. Peering through the opening, she found him asleep on a low platform bed beside the television. She was midway through the doorway, when the sight of his pale face stopped her. He’d been searching for her for days and probably hadn’t even slept since she’d gone missing. She sighed. The sun would rise in less than two hours. Waiting wouldn’t be too onerous.

  A short while later, in the aftermath of the storm, the sun rose gloriously. Snofrid lingered at her window, rolling the rock shard from the Oubliette around in her palm as she watched a few courageous citizens climb into their cars and drive to work; the rest were hiding in their homes, unwilling to venture into the city on Hatred Day.

  As she went to dress, the television switched on and she spun around in alarm. Annoyed at herself, she quickly regained composure. She needed to get a grip and stop imagining that the Commander was coming after her.

  On the Coast to Coast News station, an android fashioned after a woman stood proudly befo
re a podium stamped with four interconnecting circles—the emblem of humanity’s one-world government, the New Global Union. The android’s steel exoskeleton, glossy visor, and erect posture gave it an influential flare.

  “This is Tera X, reporting the will of the New Global Union,” it began. “New Global Union citizens are expected to follow the proper Hatred Day safety procedures. Authorities will not be held responsible for tragedies that occur in disregard of these guidelines. If medical assistance is needed, citizens are advised to call the emergency codes which their district area has provided.” Snofrid skimmed the map of the New Global Union that appeared on a hologram screen behind the robot announcer and found many areas were red zones. “Police aid will not be provided to those who reside outside of green zones,” the robot continued. “If citizens wish to pray, spiritual gatherings will be held in local centers until midnight.” The android propped up a metal hand in warning. “Rioters and looters will not be tolerated. Citizens who show violence to their fellow man will be shot by authorities on sight.”

  “Television off,” Snofrid said. She checked the clock on her nightstand: 5:44 a.m. The details of previous Hatred Days were a blur, but she knew the anniversary of the Inborn crossing brought about more violence than usual.

  Crossing the room, she drew back the closet doors. Hanging in neat rows was an assortment of silk and lace dresses, silver fox and sheared rabbit fur coats, hiking gear and a medley of cashmere sweaters. “Stone me,” she gasped. The clothing must have cost a fortune, for it contained brands such as Carter and Roke, Armani, Louve, Valentino and Imperial Black.

  She unhooked a men’s white suit jacket from the rack. Its scent of oakmoss and laurel was familiar. Stitched into the collar were the initials A.B.F. She guessed the jacket belonged to one of her friends.

  “Sorry man, you’re gonna have to be the one to tell Sno about our decision.” Desya’s voice echoed from the kitchen. “The Chief wouldn’t take the Gurkha. I’m on duty until 6:30.”

  “I’ll tell her,” a man promised. It was a new voice. Perhaps it belonged to Lycidius.

  “Awesome. Uh…and if she asks about her past, try not to drown her in info.”

  “She’s probably already drowning in info.”

  A sound like skateboard wheels pricked Snofrid’s ears. Looking out the loft window, she saw a young man coasting around the kitchen on a beat-up skateboard. Immediately, she recognized him as the man from her memory, and pressed toward the window in eagerness. He had the same black tattoo on his neck—an upside-down tree, barren of leaves—and the same sterling red crew cut. It gleamed like ruby satin under the kitchen lights and clashed with the orange jackal-head emblazoned on the back of his scuffed bomber jacket. There was only one confusing difference: unlike the man from her memory, this one emanated brute hostility. His bearing was aggressive, as if a network of invisible cords was hitched to his shoulders and he was trying to break free of them.

  She noted the streams of magic rushing from his mouth and cocked her head in surprise; he was a Necromancer Inborn. She was curious how he and Desya had managed to become friends: generally, Necromancers and Hematics detested one another.

  When she got a good look at his face, she found it difficult to turn away. Masculine and intimidating, Lycidius’s features drew her in like a pair of forceful hands, pulling her toward him despite resistance. She edged away from the window, suddenly worried, for her compulsion toward him wasn’t a shallow pining, easy to neglect—it was a deep aching that called out from parts of her she didn’t yet know. The girl she was now hardly felt a response when she looked at Lycidius, but it was clear that the ghost of her did. Hesitant to be left alone with him, she decided she’d go to the café down the street until Desya returned home.

  Over at the stove, a three-armed robot grilled fish while pouring Desya a cup of green tea. Desya, who wore his navy bluecoat uniform—a beret stitched with eight silver stars, white gloves and a steel-plate vest—swiped up the tea and chugged it in three gulps.

  “Avoid the south sky-tunnels,” Lycidius advised, trading his skateboard for a laptop. “They were just bombed and the whole skyway is blocked off.”

  Desya cursed. “How bad?”

  “57 dead. 28 critical.”

  Desya rubbed his eyes, cursing again, and then grabbed a trench coat off the table. “Check the north sky-route.”

  Snofrid’s nerves wound up like a music box. With the rise of city bombings, she penciled out her plan to leave the mansion. Hopefully Lycidius was nicer than he looked.

  She moved to hang up the suit jacket and something fell out of the right pocket: a photo. She picked it up and looked at it. Why she’d be anywhere near the steps of a grand log cabin, she could only guess. She was hugging a young man. His face was covered by a gasmask, but the sureness of his stance and spirited blue eyes spoke for his personality. His blond hair was slicked back so precisely he could’ve been a manikin. The jacket she’d found definitely belonged to him, for it matched the white silk suit he wore, which was tailored to the cuffs. Nervous that he might be her boyfriend, she decided to catch Desya on his way out and ask him.

  Once clothed in a blue cotton dress, she climbed into the kitchen with the photograph in hand. Flames crackled in the fireplace and the air was rich with the aroma of miso soup, grilled fish, seaweed and green tea.

  “Desya already left,” Lycidius said as he stalked from the washitsu. Unlike Desya and Neko, his aura was detached and his presence seemed to fill up the whole room.

  “How did you know I was looking for my brother?”

  “Who else would you be looking for? You’ve forgotten me.”

  “Well, I—” He met her eyes directly and Snofrid’s reply stuck in her throat. His gaze picked her apart, slicing her into smaller and smaller pieces before being examined. Even more alarming was that his left eye looked like it possessed a will of its own: it was cloud grey and bared frustration, while the right, which was sky blue, seemed to dismember her under its scrutiny.

  She cleared her throat, trying to disguise her discomfort. Why hadn’t his left eye been as frightening in her dream? And how could her past self possibly be drawn to it? It was like the eye of a monster.

  “You’re not the first person,” he remarked.

  “I’m not the first person to what?”

  “Be afraid of my eye.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stare,” she said.

  “Don’t apologize.”

  As he heaped her a plate of grilled fish and steamed rice, she observed that his bearing was becoming more and more rigid, like screws being tightened. It made her wonder if his severity was really a natural trait, or if it was being generated by her presence.

  “Go ahead and eat,” Lycidius said, sliding the food on the table with a pair of chopsticks.

  “I don’t remember your name,” she prompted. “But I’m assuming you’re Lycidius—the friend.”

  “It’s even simpler than that. We just live together.”

  “I’m sure you mean well, but since we’re not friends, looking out for me seems inconvenient. It’s also unnecessary. I don’t need a babysitter.”

  “Having amnesia makes you vulnerable,” he countered. “Saying the wrong thing in public, or forgetting the safety rules will get all of us shipped to a death camp. Without memories, you have the intelligence level of a child. Children need babysitters.” He chewed something in his mouth. “Sit and let’s get this over with.”

  She hid her annoyance for the sake of getting information and seated herself on one of the zabuton table cushions.

  “I’ve put in an order with a contact for three new identities,” he started. “We’re moving in a week.”

  Snofrid felt a nip of guilt, for she immediately knew the reason behind the decision to move: her. All the attendees of the slave auction had seen her face, which risked their exposure as Inborns. “Clearly you’re not happy about moving,” she said, “so why don’t you stay here? Desya and I will
be fine on our own.”

  “You two couldn’t last on your own,” Lycidius answered. “Your savings wouldn’t last six months; Desya’s still paying off your adopted father’s debts.”

  “I said we’ll be fine,” she assured.

  “The decision’s already been made.” Lycidius crouched on the cushion across from her, and his eyes dipped to the photo in her hand; his face betrayed a struggle. “You’re wondering about the man in the photo and want to have a talk,” he guessed. “The one we’re about to have will give you answers, not closure.”

  “I don’t expect all the answers to be happy ones, but I still want to have them.”

  “Then you’re setting yourself up for disappointment. It’s naïve.”

  She frowned at his patronization. “In my position, anyone would want the same. I have a right to know the truth.”

  “You do,” he conceded. “But the truth isn’t always satisfying.”

  “Like I said, I still want it.”

  His eyes sparked at her persistence, but the spark perished with his words. “He’s Atlas Bancroft. He’s a munitions dealer, authorized by the New Global Union.”

  “Is munitions dealing his only profession?”

  “Yes.”

  She referred to the photo, perplexed. Thanks to the Inhuman War, munitions dealing was widely popular. It was almost as common as being a soldier, so unless Atlas held a high position in a large corporation, she didn’t see how he could own such an expensive-looking house. She lowered her chopsticks at a thought. Unless he was a dirty munitions dealer.

  “You met him this past October,” Lycidius continued, stroking his temple as if it pained him. “You were rock climbing in the Cascades.”

  “What class of Inborn is he?” she asked.

  “He’s British—raised in Sweden.”