The Sightless City

by Noah Lemelson

  “Okay, it’s finally oozing less,” Marcel said. “We’re lucky it didn’t hit a major artery.” He tossed the cloth back into the steaming pot. That had been Sylvaine’s one contribution, as medicine was not a subject of much interest to most engineers. The body was far too messy of a machine for her tastes, but at least she had the wherewithal to realize that an æther-bolt-melted ball of scrap served well as a source of heat.

  “How’s my leg?” Marcel asked back to her.

  “Oh. Good, close to done,” Sylvaine said quickly, turning back to the still-somewhat smashed prosthetic. It was strange to watch Marcel sit with only a single leg, but it seemed the man managed. Sylvaine herself had made slow progress on the prosthetic, distracted by Kayip’s condition.

  “I am fine,” the monk said, catching her worried glance.

  “You might be fine if this were a real medical institution,” Sylvaine snapped in response. Gualter’s makeshift infirmary was nothing more than few mattresses dragged to the ground floor of what had recently been one of the guards’ apartment complexes.

  Mutants around them groaned and twitched. Some injuries were treated well enough by a wet rag and drinking water, but many of the mutants were clearly not long for the world. Gualter and a few others helped as best they could, but with little more than water, cut-up clothes, and a handful of scavenged foodbars there was a limit to their ability.

  “I have suffered many worse wounds,” Kayip said, grinning, half from pain.

  “Well why did you seek this one!” Sylvaine said. “Why did you lie to me?”

  His forced smile fell. “It is my fight, Sylvaine. I had to see that they were brought down.”

  She tossed an iron nut at his shoulder. The monk grunted, and Marcel yelled a “Hey! I’ll need that.”

  “Maybe spare a moment to think about what happens after you get your revenge,” she muttered.

  “It is not mere revenge,” Kayip said, pushing himself up against the barrel. “It is far more important than my life. Roache is still out there. Marcel, am I not yet well enough? We have to catch the man.”

  “You’re well likely to get an infection, the way you are now,” Marcel said.

  “Roache was heading to the south gate,” Kayip said.

  “Yes, three hours ago. Where do you think he is now?”

  Kayip slumped back. “Then I have failed. Again.”

  Marcel removed the linen, dampened it, and reapplied the clump. “If you haven’t noticed, Kayip, the gunfire has fallen silent. There are no screams anymore, the only people I’ve seen running past there,” he pointed to the open, hinge-broken door, “have been mutant revolutionaries. We won.”

  Sylvaine opened up Marcel’s leg, gently folding pieces back into place, and fixing broken pistons. After a few more minutes of work, her on the leg, Marcel on Kayip, the monk spoke again.

  “Roache is still out there,” Kayip said. “This is not his only nest.”

  “Well he’s not welcome in Huile, I can tell you that,” Marcel said.

  “He has friends in the Wastes,” Kayip said. “Raider folk.”

  “So he has a few cog-loose bandits.” Marcel shrugged.

  Kayip grabbed Marcel’s arm. “Not a few. Not a few.” He held it, tense, eyes locked. “He is not done, Marcel. He will plan something, it is in his nature. I know evil is still to come.” He kept the gaze for several seconds, before dropping it, and laying back.

  “It’ll be okay,” Marcel said, a slight tremor in his voice. “We won here. Desct will make contact with Phenia, or maybe some local Resurgence town, and if Roache tries something, we’ll have a UCCR army on his ass.”

  “Where is Desct anyway?” Sylvaine said. “If he won, shouldn’t he be calling people together, sending a message out?”

  Marcel glared at her a moment with an anger that surprised her, and must have surprised him, since he caught himself and shook the grimace off his face. “He’s just… Probably negotiating with City Hall,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Sylvaine replied, turning back to the leg. “I’m sure something like that.”

  The already broken door was pushed aside as four mutants walked in, two dragging large sacks, the other two armed. The foremost held a large bludgeon made from a bit of an autocar axle, the second, Sabyn, had found himself a rifle. He jogged over to Sylvaine and produced a small glass cylinder from his pocket.

  “This the kind of thing you were looking for?”

  “Yes!” Sylvaine took the diminutive æther-oil tank. She picked out the last pieces of glass from the old one in Marcel’s leg and laid in place its replacement. “This one’s a bit larger than ideal, but…” She sucked in her breath and focused, morphing and molding the pipework, “it should be fine.” The leg kicked suddenly, as if in agreement.

  Sabyn nodded, then began distributing medical supplies. Sylvaine passed the now mostly-functional leg to Marcel, who, to his credit, first worked at applying the newly scavenged ointment onto Kayip’s wounds. This the man did flinch at.

  “Well, it’s as good as it’ll ever be,” Marcel muttered.

  He finished wrapping the bandages, after which Sylvaine helped him reattach his leg. Kayip lifted himself up, and then caught Marcel, whose leg gave way as he stood.

  “Shit,” Sylvaine said, “are you okay?”

  “I’m good. Good.” Marcel caught his balance, and with some assistance took some steps. “Just a little loose-feeling is all.”

  “Well, I had to make some workarounds,” Sylvaine admitted, “but it should be, if anything, better. A lot of gunk had built up between those gears, and I don’t think that was Verus’s doing.”

  Marcel’s face displayed a hint of red. “No good engineers in Huile for fix-ups.”

  It would have required little more than a corner mechanic, but Sylvaine didn’t press the point. The mutant medics were quick at work applying whatever treatments they could manage with the new bandages, bottles of rubbing alcohol, scalpels, and sutures. One of the scavengers who stood in the middle of the hurry attempted to show off some of his looted treasures, to the annoyed indifference of the busy medical workers.

  “Found a whole bunch of aurem coins in this one guard’s drawer.” He shook a bag at a Gualter who simply ignored him as he stitched up an unconscious mutant’s belly, “had some old photographs too. I tossed them, but there was this one back room, had a lot of great stuff, a full voxbox, couldn’t lug that obviously, and this coat and hat.” He pointed to his headwear, which appeared to be some blue, dust-covered Principate officer’s cap.

  “Oh, and this!” The man pulled a rust-tinged pistol from his coat, barrel first.

  “Hey, that’s mine!” Marcel said, limping over. The mutant watched his approach with indignation and held the weapon close.

  “I found it,” he said.

  “That man blew up the monolith!” Sabyn said from across the room. “Give him the damn pistol.”

  The mutant scowled, but seeing no support around him, slunk his shoulders and handed the weapon back to Marcel.

  “Thanks,” Marcel said. “Was wondering where Verus was keeping it. And thank you,” he addressed Sabyn, who simply nodded and continued inventorying supplies.

  Marcel checked the chambers, then messed around with the weapon. “Not working right. Some Lazacorp idiot must have been messing around. Can you—?” Marcel said, before Sylvaine waved him over, rolling her eyes as the man handed her the gun.

  Truthfully, it was nice to be useful. She started to unscrew the grip, studying the simple machine below her. For the first time in over a month, she felt a sense of ease. Yes, Roache had escaped, but she was wondering how much that mattered. Marcel might be naïve on some things, but the truth about Lazarus Roache was out, the lies he had built now completely demolished. Whatever hired guns he had left couldn’t bail him out of this. As for her own vengeance… the man wasn’t dead, but what would his death truly give her at this point?

  Sy
lvaine glanced up at Kayip, who had now joined Marcel in helping to treat the wounded. A mad monk and a private detective who couldn’t solve a mystery if it slapped him in the face. Yet, she was grateful that they had both made it through alive and mostly well. This wasn’t what she had expected to gain from a quest for revenge, but she was glad she had met them.

  She picked through Marcel’s pistol. The mainspring was rusted through, hard to see how a Lazacorp goon could be responsible for that. Not a problem, she sucked in her breath, focused, and…

  Nothing.

  Panic flowed through her. The æthermantics wasn’t coming, her Knack, had it finally left her? She pushed through every corner of her mind, eyes closed, breath held. She couldn’t lose it, not now, not after all she suffered through. Then suddenly the power came rushing out of her, enraged and wild. With a muffled shout she thrust her hand to the floor, sparks flying, concrete chipping.

  “You okay?” Marcel called.

  “Fine! Almost done!” Sylvaine said. She shut her eyes tight and grit her teeth. A few moments later, with a flash and sigh, the pistol was fixed. She held it up, hoping no one noticed that she was drenched in sweat.

  “Thank you,” Marcel said, as he grabbed the gun and inspected it.

  Sylvaine muttered an empty sound. She had been deluding herself. Roache may have fled the city, but the bastard was still with her, his drug still infused into her blood. She hated the power, but cherished it even more, it humiliated her, but if she lost it she would be nothing. Kayip was right; this wasn’t over, not as long as Lazarus Roache lived.

  Sabyn walked past, loading a clip into his rifle. Several of his companions were following him out, each one carrying a bludgeon or firearm.

  “You doing another supply run, or something?” Marcel asked.

  The man nodded. “But not coming back here. Heading to Desct.”

  “You have seen Desct?” Kayip asked.

  “Not exactly,” Sabyn said. “Found a runner of his while out. Needs all able and loyal mutants to help with the continued fighting down by City Hall.”

  “City Hall?” Marcel said, nearly tripping again. “The revolution is won. Why in Inferno is there fighting in Huile?”

  Sabyn slung his rifle over his back. “The revolution has spread.”

  Huile citizens flock the streets as the victorious army of the UCCR marches past battered walls. Despite rumors of a collapse of the Resurgence’s assault, the dawn of yesterday’s morning arose over a defeated Principate army. Such an incredible rout, in fact, that military experts predict it will force to an end the entire Principate incursion. Details of this stunning victory are still coming in, but early reports suggest a defector from the imperial camp provided vital intel on the city’s defenses.

  “In truth, victory in Huile was always assured,” stated General Durand. “The Principate rarely attempts attacks over the Atsols for this very reason, they inevitably must retreat when facing a proud Resurgence army.”

  The General’s words could not have come at a better time for, as this very paper previously reported, undue fear-mongering had sparked panic in several northern cities over the past few weeks. Now a sensible calm is certain to return.

  “This victory merely makes clear the obvious. The Confederacy will hold strong against all assaults,” the General concluded. “The bravery of our soldiers will forever stand as a bulwark for the rights and freedoms that all good Citizens cherish.”

  As for the lucky city of Huile? “A bright future awaits our freed brothers and sisters!”

  Even now reconstruction has begun, soldiers assisting civilian efforts mere hours after victory. Food rations are driven in by the truckload, and plans are being drawn up for new housing projects, agri-factories, and even a trolley line. All this will be funded by extraction of the rich sangleum fields that sit beneath this city.

  “Huile will be our diamond in the Border States,” announced General Durand. “It will be a beacon of freedom to shine over the Wastes, a bastion of peace and prosperity.”

  —Front-page article from the morning edition of The Phenian Post, Eishwind 12th, 1747 AD (After Diedrev).

  Chapter 43

  Dying flames ate at the husk of a smashed police autocar, one of many, tossing out a blanket of smoke over the bodies of dozens of mutants and policemen. An uninhumed graveyard stretched from the street up to the wall of Huile. There light poured in through what used to be twenty metres of brickwork, not the light of Huile’s streetlamps, nor of apartment windows, but of fire. Marcel staggered forward towards the smashed wall, his slow movement more from shock than his creaking leg.

  “Demiurge Desct,” he muttered to himself. “What did you do?”

  Kayip clutched at his Disc, knee to the ground, whispering some sort of prayer. Sylvaine walked up to the burnt bricks, inspected them with her nails, and sniffed.

  “Sangleum,” she said, and then gestured to some curved metal scrap on the ground. “Barrels of the stuff. Set off by a clockbomb, maybe two or three clockbombs.”

  “Clockbombs?” Marcel asked, climbing up the rubble to stare at Audric Avenue, the western edge of Huile. The battlefield extended here, and between the bodies, the blood, the smashed autocars, and burnt viscera Audric Avenue looked no different from its counterparts in Blackwood Row. It resembled how Marcel had imagined, during sweat-drenched nights, what the aftermath of the war had been, sleeping men and women awakening in confused panic, death rising without warning or explanation from the depths of Lazacorp. Except the corpses did not wear military uniforms, but civilian dress.

  Marcel staggered on the crumpling stones, leaning on the wall to keep himself up, each glance at the scene beyond hitting him with nausea and a vague ache in his metal leg. He had imagined coming back to the city as a sort of mini triumph, carrying forth the twin banners of justice and peace. Instead he faced a necropolis, lit by on both sides of the wall by flame and choked by smoke.

  “Damn it,” Sylvaine said, shaking her head. “I knew I had built more.”

  The exposed brickwork exploded a metre from Marcel’s head, and he jumped back. Three more gunshots went off, with the flash of gunfire originating from behind a police autocar. Marcel ducked down, pistol out.

  “Go fuck yourself, Lazacorp scum!” came a voice.

  Marcel squinted and could make out three horn-adorned figures around the autocar, one struggling to extract the engine, one with a dolly at the ready, and one aiming a rifle Marcel’s way, horn cracked and blood-caked.

  “We’re not Lazacorp!” Sylvaine shouted.

  Kayip ran up beside them, sword out. Marcel waved him back.

  “It’s me, Marcel!” he shouted to the mutants.

  The dolly-mutant and the gunman started muttering out some rapid debate, while the third tugged out the engine. Marcel peeked around the corner, then ducked back down as a bullet whizzed by his head.

  “You can go fuck yourself too, Marcel!” shouted the gunman. The other two hauled the engine onto the dolly and started to push. “This is ours.”

  “We’re not trying to take anything,” Marcel shouted. “Where’s Desct?”

  “That traitorous coward can go fuck himself most of all,” screamed the gunman, striking a match. Marcel watched the lit-rag of a bottle as it was tossed, landing a few feet short of the wall, spraying burning sangleum. The mutant fired off a few more rounds, and then ran after his two companions southways down the road.

  “Should we follow?” Kayip asked.

  Marcel shook his head. “We need to get to City Hall.” He started up the other direction.

  Desct had said he’d keep the fighting to Blackwood Row. Desct had said he’d bring peace. Marcel’s chest felt hollow as he stepped over the rubble of Huile. His anger was reaching for a target, but he knew in his gut that whatever happened here hadn’t been part of Desct’s plan. Desct was not some distant bureaucrat or self-aggrandizing businessman, he knew the pain of injustice first hand. Th
is bore Celina’s mark clear enough, her rage could not be contained, it seemed, to only those who had wronged her.

  The three kept low and moved carefully, quick dashes across city blocks after waiting still for Sylvaine’s ears to track every potential movement. There were fewer corpses per street corner here, but not by a significant amount, every block seemed to be decorated by at least one dead cop or dead mutant. Or dead civilian. Or many dead civilians. Huile folk lay out in their dozens, dressed in heavy coats, work clothing, but more often simply bedwear. Marcel recognize the face of Miss Dobis, pale and bloodless, body lying flat beneath a smashed windowpane.

  He closed his eyes and hurried his step, burning pain spreading up from his cogleg. It had been his job to negotiate. Instead he had stayed behind to save a friend. And now the streets of Huile resembled the wreckage of war.

  But then, would his words have even mattered? He wouldn’t have made it before the wall was blasted open, he’d have been running into the middle of a riot. Marcel hadn’t been able to convince even Lambert, and that was before corpses had been strewn like discarded clothing, in piles along the street.

  Occasionally they would be shot at from a shattered window. Most were mere warning shots, but a few bullets whizzed too close to be accidental. They ran past as fast as they could manage, as they did past the open doors to darkened rooms, where Marcel could make out horned figures rummaging through the shadows.

  A moan echoed out from around a corner. Marcel snuck forward, Sylvaine and Kayip following.

  “I’m back, I’m back,” came a woman’s halting voice. “We can be together again, Sophia, it‘ll be like it was. I’m back.”

  The small courtyard was surrounded with shuttered shops and decorated with blood-drained bodies. Mutants, police officers, civilians, intermingled and still. It looked like a small barricade had been built from café chairs and wide planters, and then demolished. Near the ruins squatted a woman mutant, clothes torn, grasping at a figure beneath her. As Marcel approached it was clear enough that the head the mutant held to her chest was not breathing.