by DJ Molles
Their answers seemed to come in the form of how close they stood next to the people they were with. Stuber, shoulder to shoulder with Petra. Teran and Lucky standing at a slightly less intimate distance, but obviously a pair.
Stuber was the first to speak. “I already told you, Perry, everything I’ve done I’ve done to get back to her. I’m not leaving Petra’s side. If she wants to come to Junction City, then that’s fine. But I’m not leaving her alone again.”
Perry shot a pleading look at Petra, but she was already shaking her head.
“I’m a doctor, Perry. I go where I’m needed. And right now the people of Karapalida need me.”
“The people of Junction City might need you too!”
“Maybe. But I don’t know that. It makes no sense to trade one group of wounded for another. I’ve already begun working here, and I need to finish that work.”
Desperately, Perry looked to Teran. She seemed to take a step away from him.
“Perry, look…”
“Oh, gods in the skies. Are you serious?”
“I’ve been talking with Lucky.”
Perry glared at Lucky, briefly considering disintegrating him and only then realizing that what he felt was…jealousy? The realization of that shocked him so much that he snapped his mouth shut, discomfited with his own epiphany.
“Just like Stuber, I’ve been working towards trying to save my people. That’s what this has been about for me. And now they need me.”
“Guys.” Perry squeezed his eyes shut, unable to look at them. He held up his hands as though to keep them from walking away from him. “I still need you. This isn’t done. Our work isn’t done. You can’t all just pack up and go your separate ways—not when we’re this close!”
“You don’t need us, Shortstack,” Stuber sighed. “Trust me, admitting that you can survive without me wounds my heart, but it’s true nonetheless. I’m confident in you.”
Perry opened his eyes, seeing little hazy pinpoints from how hard he’d squeezed them shut. “Two days ago, you all got on my ass about being a team player and all that shit. Now, when I need you, you’re going to abandon me?”
“But you don’t need us,” Teran asserted. “At least, you don’t need us any more than my people need me, and Stuber’s wife needs him.”
Petra cast a sidelong glance at Teran. “I’ve survived many years while Stuber was a fugitive. I don’t need him.” She patted Stuber’s hand. “But it’s still nice to have you.”
“There!” Perry seized on it desperately. “She doesn’t need you, Stuber.”
“I know she doesn’t,” he said, not in the least bit argumentative. Completely calm, which irritated the hell out of Perry. “That’s never been the issue. But if I leave, and I lose her again?” he shook his head. “I couldn’t do it, Perry.”
“Perry,” Teran said, taking a half step forward. “There’s something else.”
Perry looked to the ceiling. “Of course.”
“I need the skiff.”
He snapped his head back down. “No, I need the skiff. To get to Junction City.”
Teran’s jaw muscles bunched, a little of that familiar fire coming back to her otherwise supplicating expression. “I need the skiff to get back to the Outsiders. It’s the only way I’ll be able to find them. You at least know where you’re going.” She raised a triumphant finger. “And…you can do that flying thing.”
“I can’t,” Perry snapped. “I haven’t figured out how.”
“I can teach you,” Mala said.
“Not helping my argument, Mala.”
“Perhaps your argument is invalid.”
Perry slumped into silence. The others seemed not to know what to say in that moment. Perhaps they felt a little guilty. But not guilty enough to change course. He sensed that in the air between them, in the way they let that silence stretch, let the finality of it settle on their runty little friend.
There was a part of him that wanted to get furious and tell them all to go fuck themselves, he’d handle it on his own. As though it was still an option not to handle it on his own. But there is something about living at the cusp of what might be the end of everything. It creates a sort of forced perspective where you constantly see things in the light of who you might lose next.
He did not want anger to be the last words that passed between any of them.
So he squared his shoulders and put on a confident face, though he felt anything but. “You guys are right. I can handle this. And you both need to do what you think is the right thing. I get that.”
Both Teran and Stuber, well-accustomed by this point to Perry’s verbal sallies, squinted at him, waiting for another statement designed to right-hook them.
“And?” Stuber pressed.
Perry forced a smile. “And nothing. I’m done talking. That’s all I wanted to say. That and…” a brief moment where they almost seemed glad that he was about to right-hook them. “…be safe. Both of you. Teran, you’re going out to who-knows where. Keep your head on a swivel. Stuber, I know you don’t need any tactical advice. Just stay alive. You and Petra.”
“That is my intention,” Stuber said, after a moment’s surprised pause.
Any further intimations were cut off by the sound of the temple doors slamming open.
All eyes immediately went to the bright square of daylight pouring in. And the legionnaire charging through, yelling: “Legatus! There’s a few hundred peons at our lines, demanding you turn over a paladin! I tried to tell them there was no paladin, but—”
The rest of his words caught in his throat as his eyes fell on Mala.
Mordicus turned languidly to him. “Centurion.”
“Sir.” The legionnaire seemed unable to rip his eyes from Mala. “Is that…? Is she…?”
“A paladin? It would seem so.”
“Oh. Well.” The legionnaire blinked rapidly, his anger towards the demigods clashing visibly with his loyalty to Mordicus. Loyalty won out. “What would you have me do, sir?”
Mordicus waved a dismissive hand. “They’re in no position to make demands of me. Fire on them until they disperse.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
VALUABLE LESSONS
Perry shot forward. “Hey, whoa, wait a minute!”
The legionnaire, who had partially turned away to carry out his order, stopped and turned back, confused. Mordicus looked at Perry, piqued. “What is it now?”
“You can’t fire on a crowd of civilians,” Perry grated out.
“I can do that which I see fit to maintain the security of my headquarters. Unless you would like to turn Mala over to them.”
“Mala,” Mala said loudly, hefting her longstaff defiantly. “Will not be turned over to anyone, and I challenge you to force the issue.”
“There, you see?” Mordicus smiled. “She doesn’t want to be turned over to the rabble. Centurion, you may carry out my orders.”
Perry pressed himself closer to the legatus, holding one hand out and trying not to be threatening with his longstaff. “We can’t keep killing each other. We’re on the brink of being wiped out by the Guardians—let’s not make it any easier for them! And besides, these are the people you’re trying to enlist to scavenge up enough material for bullets! Firing into a crowd of them is not going to help things.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. A little fear goes a long way in keeping people neat and orderly.”
Perry had to summon a lot of control to keep himself neat and orderly at that moment. “Legatus Mordicus, I am trying to keep people alive and working together. That is the most important thing right now. At least give them a chance. At least talk to them. If they continue to act out, then…then…” he couldn’t quiet bring himself to say it.
“Then I’ll fire into them until they disperse,” Mordicus sighed. “Very well. Paladin Mala, Perry, please come with me. Best to have it all out in the open, I suppose.”
***
They strode out into the harsh daylight. After the se
pulchral torchlight of the temple, it took a moment for Perry’s eyes to adjust and for things to clarify. The noise hit him before any visuals did.
The sound of lots of angry people.
The second they stepped out, led by Mordicus, the crowd’s volume seemed to double.
It made absolutely no impact on Mordicus. He stomped his way down the steps, glowering into the vibration of hundreds of voices, and Perry had the impression that he gave hailstorms of incoming bullets about as much concern. A few peons shouting meant little to him.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Mala called over the clamor. “Putting me on display like this?”
Mordicus didn’t pause, nor did he turn around. When he spoke, his voice wasn’t a shout, but it was projected, as Perry expected it was during the din of battle. “I will not be beholden to ungrateful peons.”
They approached the rear of the lines of legionnaires, holding steady with their shields in a wall, their rifles ported behind the barrier. The centurion hustled around Perry and Mala and took up a spot at his commander’s shoulder.
Perry couldn’t hear what Mordicus said this time—only the flippant wave of his arms as he marched forward.
The centurion looked surprised, but turned and bellowed: “Split the line! Legatus Mordicus is coming through!”
Perry’s eyebrows went up and he exchanged a glance with Mala. So, Mordicus wasn’t even going to stand behind the barrier of his legionnaires. And, apparently, neither was Perry or Mala. Of course, they had their own shields, but Perry still didn’t relish the idea of being face to face with an angry mob.
The line of legionnaires split, directly in front of Mordicus. He strode briskly through, followed by Perry and Mala, just a step or two back from him.
Just as Mordicus was coming to a halt in front of the crowd, Perry spotted a rock arcing through the air. He thought a curse but didn’t have time to say it. He jolted forward, thinking he would extend his shield—but he didn’t think he could do it without clipping Mordicus in the process…
Mordicus snatched the stone out of midair.
Perry winced at the dull thwack of flesh, audible even over the crowd, and knew that it must have hurt, through Mordicus didn’t even twitch. The front of the crowd that was only a few paces from him drew back in shock, going silent, and that silence swept backwards in a wave until an unearthly calm had settled on the temple square.
Perry stopped at Mordicus’s right shoulder, Mala beside him.
Mordicus still held the stone in the air, right where he’d caught it. Then he let it fall. As his palm opened, Perry spied a deep gash in the skin, already flowing red. Mordicus said nothing as the stone clattered to the ground. He kept his hand upraised and slowly clenched his fist. The blood began to drip out in a steady trickle, dribbling on the street.
Mordicus watched the blood dripping, flashing crimson in the sunlight. His expression was that of an angry father dealing with petulant children. Daddy Mordicus indeed.
“Legatus Mordicus,” he said, projecting his voice again, still watching the blood as the drips slowed in his balled fist. “Come into our city and restore order, you said. Legatus Mordicus, protect us from the machines, you said. Legatus Mordicus, free us from the tyranny of the flamens and their false gods. You said these things. Begged them of me.”
Silence.
Perry could hear each drop of blood as it hit the pavement.
Mordicus stepped forward, his fist unclenching. A man at the front of the crowd stared at him in something like reverence, and something like terror. The man took a half step back, but Mordicus was undeterred. He placed his bloody palm upon the man’s chest and smeared red across it with a sneer of disgust.
“I have done all of the things that you begged of me,” he said, standing toe-to-toe with the motionless crowd. “And now this?” Rage flashed across his features like lightning in a storm cloud. “This is how you repay me and my legionnaires? Stones and insults and demands?” He turned his back on the crowd, stepped over to his small puddle of blood and then turned back to them, pointing down at it. “That is my blood. Take a good look at it. You will not draw another drop from me, but that I give you for free. The next time you see blood on these stones it will be your own. You think because I was kind to you that I’m incapable of slaughtering every man, woman, and child in this place? What is it that you think I have been doing the past fifty years of my life? Drinking wine and pushing pieces around a gameboard?” He shook his head at them. “No. I’ve been killing.”
Mordicus swept his wrathful gaze across those gathered, and Perry noted that many of them refused to look him in the eyes. Mordicus took a big breath, and his tone became more conversational. “Now, I was of a mind to slaughter those of you who are gathered here in the temple square, but I was asked to grant you mercy. Do you know who pled with me for your lives?”
Mordicus pointed at Perry and Mala. “A halfbreed demigod, and a paladin. The very same paladin you thought you wanted dead. Now, I understand your anger towards the paladins. It is justified, and I share it. However, I am a reasonable man, and it has been shown to me that these two have not acted like the other paladins, and have in fact risked their lives to fight back against the machines. And so I have decided to let them stay, and I have decided that they are going to help us. My judgment in this matter is final. If any of you bear a grievance towards me on this matter, then make yourself known.”
One brave—or idiotic—man stepped out of the crowd, his face all screwed up with consternation. He pointed to Mala. “She’s still a paladin! She’s one of them! She can’t be trusted!”
Mordicus pointed to the man and the next thing that Perry knew he was spinning backwards, blood ribboning out of three bullet holes to the chest. The rapid-fire report echoed off the buildings.
Perry’s stomach sank and he snapped his eyes up to the crowd, wondering if this was what was going to restart the riot. But instead, the crowd stepped back again with a breathy murmur of dismay.
Mordicus lowered his chin, looking at the crowd like he was fully capable of charging into them at that very moment, swinging a sword through their bodies. “My judgment. On this matter. Is final.” A tilt of the head. “Are there any other grievances that need to be brought to my attention?”
The back of the crowd was already breaking apart, some of the people sauntering away as though they had just remembered something more important to do, while others put a little bit more speed into their steps, trying to get out of the temple square before more bullets started flying.
“Good.” Mordicus relaxed again. “Since you are already here, I am in need of a work detail to scavenge some important materials to aid us in the fight against the machines. Since you all seem to have an excess of energy to spend, I think you will all make fine workers. Centurion Procella will give you the details.”
He spun around with no further ado, stopped, and politely gestured towards the gap in the line. “Paladin Mala. Perry. If you please.”
***
Of the nine houses that populated The Clouds, there were nearly two thousand paladins.
In the beginning, when they had first separated themselves from humanity and gone to live on their floating city over the ocean, there had been less. But every one of them had possessed Confluence.
Now, five hundred years later, nearly a third of the population was un-Gifted. With each generation, more and more offspring were born in The Clouds that did not possess Confluence. It was an ability, it seemed, that was slowly being bred out of them, their bloodlines now so far removed from their forefathers that sat in the auditorium.
Senex of House Batu stood at the entrance of the auditorium, looking out at those gathered. There were over six hundred of them there. The official number was unknown to him. He had simply spread the word that the Nine Sons of Primus expected all of the houses to send their un-Gifted to the auditorium. To be shown the way.
Senex’s mind was rife with concerns, but so many of them
were centered upon his own survival. Had he conducted himself as the Nine had expected? Would they be enraged by the large number of un-Gifted? Would they take that out on Senex? Or would they be pleased that he had so quickly coordinated what they had requested?
White-robed paladins, that were not truly paladins at all, but just shadows of what they were supposed to be. Tall and long-living, but without abilities. They had spent their entire lives here on The Clouds, because they could not be sent down to the humans—only the Confluent were sent down as demigods.
So they had lived in luxury, never having to lift a finger to support the structure of mythology that granted them their position of power on this earth. They’d grown happy, and complacent, and weak.
Mala was always going on about it. Now he wondered how right she’d been to fear their growing weakness. They were now facing beings that possessed Confluence in ways that they could only imagine. And it was obvious to Senex—though he had not related this to anyone else—that the Nine were not pleased with this weakness.
There was a palpable air of uncertainty to the entire gathering. All of these un-Gifted, that knew they were the weakest of their bloodlines, many of their expressions bore anxiety for what would come next. Others looked hopeful. The Nine had, after all, said that they would show them the ways of the gods.
A squire from House Rennok approached Senex, flipping away a projection that floated along with him. “All are gathered, Paladin Senex. Would you like for me to notify the Nine?”
“No,” Senex said, a little quickly. Then, after a breath, more calmly: “No. I’ll go in and speak with them first. You may come with me if you would like.”
The squire looked briefly terrified, but nodded.
Senex turned and strode through the gates of the auditorium, down the long, vaulting tunnel into the main arena that the Nine Sons of Primus had made into their throne room.
He remembered acutely their disdain for his simpering behavior last time. He was determined not to repeat that mistake.