by Greg Hanks
Just like Divask, towering screens hung from the tallest buildings, depicting propaganda from Sanction. One screen was showing a promenade of Zealots moving slowly down a great open road in what V’delle guessed was Sanction’s main district. The streets in the video were clean, covered in black marble, and stocked to the hilt with banners, statues, cheering Preen’ch, Khor’Zon, and subjugated inhabitants. Another screen showed a wide aerial shot of a huge trapezoidal structure in the heart of Sanction, ominous and malevolent.
Balien nudged V’delle back to the first screen. “Look. He is finally out.”
The screen showed the Lo’Zon walking by himself after the Zealot procession, no line of guards, no drone protection. He wore his traditional white armor and mask, but had a thin, white scarf that billowed behind him a good ten feet. V’delle heard his voice against her ear. His touch, his breath.
“He would walk in the open like that?” Balien asked.
“A show of power, maybe,” V’delle wondered. “What an ass. That scarf thing looks so stupid.”
“Not to Khor’Zon. Everything the Lo’Zon touches is sacred, a miracle. To believing Khor’Zon this is yet another fulfillment of prophecy.”
“You like the stupid scarf.”
“I did not say that.”
“I want to speak with him someday,” V’delle said. “I mean, does he shit? Does the all-powerful, foretold Lo’Zon sit on a toilet with his pants around his ankles?”
Balien cracked a smile.
“What does this mean for the Chalis?” he asked.
“Why would you care about that?”
“Thought you might be thinking of it.”
V’delle shrugged. “I mean . . . maybe a little. I guess he can still run it from outside. Besides, there are plenty of Chault to keep it going.”
They watched the Lo’Zon approach the marble steps to the trapezoid building, waving to the crowds. He was escorted up the stairs by two Khor’Zon in black armor. The image panned back, revealing at least a hundred more steps. The steps rose to behemoth doors set into the building behind a row of pillars.
“Did you ever meet him?” V’delle asked.
“Two times. I thought I made a good impression on him, too.”
“Before he sent you and your people to Confinement?”
“Mm.”
“Have you ever seen him?”
“Underneath?”
“Yeah.”
He shook his head. “No one but his Mouth may see the face of the Seer, or the Prophet. Or whatever they are calling him nowadays.”
“Why only Ghare?”
He gestured to the church. “Why do we build huge monuments to invisible beings?”
“I didn’t build anything.”
Balien smirked. “But you must believe in something?”
“I believe in blood.”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m serious.”
“So am I. I believe in what I can see. What I can hold. What I can breathe.” She turned back to the screen. “I’m not saying what people believe in is wrong—I couldn’t really care less—I mean, depends what they believe in, but I think we’re all trying to do something while we’re alive. Everyone needs something to do. Even the Lo’Zon. So if belief gives you that feeling of purpose, then I guess it’s concrete enough.”
Balien looked at the symbol of Orothaea on the church. “I guess this is not the best time to have such a conversation.”
“It’s never a good time to enjoy anything in this goddamn world,” V’delle said and began moving.
They said their goodbyes and separated—Balien to the Central Hub and V’delle to Vondelleg Avenue. She walked with swiftness toward the southwestern quadrant of the city. Every moment spent mesmerized by the buildings and the culture was another moment away from the people she cared about. Some of the alleys and streets she walked were quiet, hard to blaze through without noticing the peaceful attitude the city engendered. She walked over a cobblestone bridge that allowed a grimy brown canal river to pass underneath. Leaves acted as lily pads, floating on the water’s surface as if they’d just fallen moments ago. She heard the distant sounds of work; machinery clanking against itself, hydraulic presses pushing and pulling, hammers hitting wood, Zealots crunching, metalworkers torching, and shouts coming from all kinds of people. At the end of the bridge, two children dangled their legs off the edge, throwing pieces of bread into the water. One had curly red hair, freckles, and holes in his boots. The other was a black-haired mess, filthy, worn, but extremely loud and toothless.
“It’s down there, Emmond, I promise!” said the black-haired kid.
“That’s why I’m throwing bread, beef-knocker.”
They heard V’delle’s boots, turned and saw her uniform, and quickly got off the bannister to scamper off.
“Am I that terrifying?” she asked them before they cleared the bridge.
The redhead slowly turned, unsure what V’delle might do to them. “We’re sorry. We just wanted to feed the fish. It’s our lunch break.”
“I don’t care if you feed the fish. Sounded like you were looking for a big one.” V’delle peered over the side of the bridge.
The black-haired boy lit up. “Oh yeah, he’s a monster! He’s huge! Like, this big.” He made an impossible size with his hands. “And it’s cool because it’s almost invisible down there. It’s hard to see. But I’ve seen it. It’s huge!”
The redhead hit his friend, then looked at V’delle. “You . . . don’t care if we sit here?”
“Why would I care?” V’delle asked.
“Um,” he started, looking at his friend. “I don’t know.”
“Enjoy your fish finding,” she said, walking off.
“Thanks lady!” said the black-haired kid. He jumped back into position and started throwing bread.
The redhead watched V’delle leave.
Something white appeared in V’delle’s peripherals. She turned to find something painted in the base of the bridge’s righthand bannister post. She crouched to get a better look. It was the letter M. It was still dripping from a recent application. She heard the patter of boots against brick and looked up, realizing the boys’ voices had disappeared. They were gone, glimpses of their shirts turning a corner down an alley that opened to the canal bank.
She twirled in place, trying to locate a reason for their quick departure apart from her discovery. Nothing. The canal’s quiet mumbling was her only companion. Perhaps they had just vandalized and got scared when a Preen’ch found out. She walked into the next part of the city with a slight itch in her brain.
The barracks were only a few blocks away, nestled in a deep cul-de-sac near the presidio wall. An old courthouse with front columns covered in black, shimmering plates. She walked up the steps, pushed past the wooden doors, and tapped across the recently mopped tile. They had tried their best to cover up the fact that the entire lobby was cracked like dried mud. At the end of the lobby were two doors, one of them was open. She walked into the open threshold and saw a Preen’ch sitting at a desk flinging holographic sheets out of the desk’s surface area and pulling new screens into his view.
“What?” he asked without looking up.
“Medrot Despain,” V’delle said. “Here for processing.”
He looked up. A large nose covered his upper lip. Short blonde hair, cut like most male Preen’ch. Sparse eyebrows, as if he’d tried to trim them, but massively failed. “Meh-who? Oh, Medrot! Despain, Despain, yes. Okay, give me a second to get your profile up. Ye’lix is next door chewing out some poor idiot who thought it was a good idea to have sex with one of the slobs. I mean, it happens a lot, but his situation is . . . ah, here we are. Medrot.” He eyes made sure the picture matched the face. “As ravishing as ever.”
“Ravishing?” V’delle said disappointedly. “What a stupid thing to say.”
He was dumbstruck. “What? I didn’t . . . my mistake. Anyways, horrible to hear about what happened in Nilles. I hear things are gettin
g better, though.”
She gave him a dead stare. “Can I ask you some questions about Urholm? I want to get situated as fast as I can.”
“Okay.”
“Six months ago we sent Urholm a ton of supplies. Like double what we send Sanction. I tried asking around, but no one would give me an answer.”
He leaned back in his chair. “Oh, you wanna talk about that kind of stuff.” He sighed, and pet his little goatee. “It was nothing, really. There was an infestation of Calcitra. They came . . . almost in the night. Hundreds of them, all spread out, some of them on their own. They went on a massive raiding spree, pillaging, stealing, killing of course.”
“How’d they get in the walls?”
He shook his head slowly. “We’re still trying to figure that out. These slobs are clever sometimes.”
“So you killed them all?”
There was a long pause. His chair creaked. “No. Not all of them. Just as they had come, they vanished. We did manage to kill quite a few, but not nearly the amount equal to the food and supplies that were stolen. I mean, how can a group like that just take our stuff without any sign of an exit? There were no trace of them in our sewer systems, there were no tunnels, nothing.”
V’delle was thinking. She almost forgot to act upset. “When will it ever stop?”
“Well, the Lo’Zon’s in Sanction now. So I really hope things start to settle down.”
The door to the Overseer’s office opened and a Preen’ch walked down the hallway. V’delle saw the hulking shadow of Ye’lix in the threshold before he stepped out into the hall. He was seven-feet-tall, dressed in the same thing Balien had been wearing. His skin had a bluish tint. He was impure, his skull shelves crooked and a little deformed. A dormant face with not one emotion lurking anywhere. Black pupils combined with his black sclera made him look demonic and constantly annoyed.
“Medrot Despain,” he said automatically. His voice was gravelly and uncompromising, as if he were both fed up and exhausted.
“Yes.”
“Come in,” he said brusquely, reentering his office.
The Preen’ch at the desk wasn’t looking when V’delle glanced at him. She stepped into the office and took a seat across from the Overseer’s desk.
“I have already secured your transfer from Nilles. Pity it was hit. Lanerick outside will get you your room and building number. As for this meeting, I am assigning you to the Tor’sha Tavern near the city square. Edge of our quadrant. You will be security and help with whatever Ameiux needs—he runs things there. Fact is, we do not have room for more soldiers at the moment. We already have reinforcements from Fruenkwen and Cassel. You are welcome here, but I do not want to see or hear from you. I have too much to deal with. Is everything clear?”
V’delle nodded.
“Good. Get out.”
She got her information from Lanerick and walked back outside. A quiet courtyard. Its fountain devoid of water, full of dead brown leaves and debris. A civilian picked at the contents, shoving year-old sludge into a black sack. Down the northern street, one of the giant screens overshadowed the district. More of the Lo’Zon’s arrival replayed. Somehow, as she stood on the steps to the cul-de-sac, a peaceful aura enveloped her. Breeze kicked up some dust in the cobbled street. Pack of citizens walked on the other side of the cul-de-sac, their soft voices echoing.
A whole City, hers. Thousands of rooms, windows, alleys, basements. Ready for investigation. Her cover intact.
If Ye’lix wasn’t going to be keeping tabs on her, the tavern could wait. She didn’t need to meet with Balien until dinner. Plenty of time to search for clues, information about the Calcitra raid. As she walked slowly down the cul-de-sac, her inner eye began setting a course. The most logical starting point would be people. There were others like Lanerick who knew more about the Calcitra’s presence here. Perhaps the tavern couldn’t wait.
Two civilians walked out of an alley between two homes on the western side of the cul-de-sac. They toted paint cans and long paint rollers. Curious, V’delle slowly walked toward the alley. One more painter rushed to catch up, carrying a metal ladder, overalls covered in dark gray splotches. He smiled and nodded curtly at V’delle.
When the painters crossed to the northern street, V’delle crept into the alley. A thin space of damp grass between pre-war homes trying to survive. Cracked brick and splintered siding. Windows covered by cardboard. A fire escape hung from the southern home’s second story. And on the flat edifice of the northern home, mismatched gray paint made long lines up and down the siding. She followed each line.
A giant letter M.
Though attempting to be concealed by the paint, the imperfect gray made the image pop. She wiped away some wet paint with her finger. Stark white underneath. Just like the first M she’d found on the bridge. Alone in the alley, V’delle concentrated. Two M’s couldn’t have been a coincidence. Those kids ran off when she discovered the first. An unruly gang of kids? Vandals that peppered the streets with their insignia?
She exited the alley and jogged down the northern street, looking for the painters. The long, kinked street met dozens of intersections on its route north. Miles of road that eventually rose to the hill hoisting the Central Hub windmill. Apartments and storefronts seemed to bend over the street. A Zealot was parked a few miles down. The painters walked together a block away. V’delle kept a good pace and tailed them to a white brick building on the corner of an intersection. They took their supplies into a shop garage. V’delle watched from the corner of the building across the street. The painters removed their overalls and stashed them into tall brown lockers. Back into lavender work clothes. They chatted in the garage for a few minutes, waiting for their third to rejoin them. When he returned, they left the garage open and walked back into the northern street. One of them lit a cigarette. Two seconds later, it was swiped out of his mouth by a Preen’ch. The armored soldier smoked the cigarette instead and nodded for the painters to move.
The Preen’ch and his partner continued down the road. The painters crossed the street.
V’delle followed. Down a cramped, dead end road, to a small pub. The painters piled into a table and ordered drinks. V’delle slipped into a nearby table and listened. Perhaps such discretion wasn’t necessary, but she didn’t want to give anyone suspicion about anything.
The painters were all scanned by the drone before telling their orders to the human server. One of the painters didn’t have enough “notes” on his record to claim a drink. His friend offered to use some excess notes and get two beers. The drone and the server acquiesced and left the three painters alone.
“What will you be having, Preen’ch?”
The voice startled V’delle.
The middle-aged server looked at her dully, a rag over his shoulder, a black apron around his waist.
“Some water?” V’delle asked.
“Right away,” he said, disappearing behind the bar.
The painters discussed their notes. The one who didn’t have enough revealed he had been caught sleeping in last week.
“It’s beyond habit now, Guillome!” one of them ribbed. “But of course you would find a way to oversleep.” They all chuckled.
“These shifts get too long,” Guillome said. “Myra’s always alone at night now. Why is this still going on?”
“It won’t last,” the other said. “For now, though, it’s keeping us busy and giving us notes.”
“Hear hear,” said the first.
The server brought their drinks and V’delle’s next. She took a sip. The water was lukewarm and slightly acidic.
“Wish these didn’t taste like the sewer,” the first painter said. He took a long drink anyway.
“Let’s be glad we don’t work down there,” Guillome said. They all hoisted their bottles and clinked them.
The door opened to a tall Khor’Zon and two Preen’ch in Khor armor. The Khor’Zon wore a high-necked chestpiece, arms exposed. His skin tan and freckled. The back of hi
s skull fanned down. Before sitting at the bar, he stopped and looked at the three painters with a smirk.
“I wonder what the slobs are working on today?” the Khor’Zon said loudly. He stepped to their table and placed his hands on the surface. He picked up one of their beer bottles and looked at the label. “Beer, is it? Is this what slobs call lunch these days?” He scanned the three of them.
“We’re about to get back to it,” said the first painter.
They all stood.
“Where’s my salute?” the Khor’Zon asked.
The painters quickly placed their palms to their chests and bowed their heads.
“Forgive us, we didn’t mean any offense,” Guillome said, head still bowed.
The Khor’Zon didn’t respond. After a moment, he burst into laughter, a disingenuous cackle that pricked V’delle’s neck.
“I do not give a shit about your stupid salutes,” he bellowed, turning back to the bar.
The painters shared dim looks before discarding their bottles and leaving.
The Khor’Zon stood against the bar, ordering with the same obnoxious volume.
V’delle scooted from her chair and walked past the bar as she left, swiping the Khor’Zon’s bar stool a few inches away with a stealth foot. When she exited, she heard a loud crash, and an even louder growl from the Khor’Zon. She smiled and left the alley.
The painters had resumed their work. V’delle followed them for almost twenty minutes into the heart of the City. Between two skyscrapers, a series of M’s speckled one of the facades, as high as the second story. The three painters stood below, looking up, scratching their heads.