Not so, replied the Commissar. An example would have to be made, to root out the lurking tendrils of ruinous corruption.
At sunrise of the following morning the boy was dragged from the stockade to the parade ground, his face black and yellow, broken jaw hanging slack. He was flogged bloody as they watched; the Commissar’s eyes were bright, lips parted. Then, when the boy lay mewling on the ground, the hunched little man put a bullet through his head.
Complaints to the General’s staff and the Ministry were rebuffed. The Commissar’s was the discretion to mete out justice, his authority inviolable. They all felt it then: the slow creep of fear. They were in the hands of a madman.
Soon, bodies began to turn up every few days on the new gibbet at the parade ground. None saw them die: men would disappear from their barracks in the dead of night only to be found with the dawn, their corpses mangled, the life cut from them, some with ragged words burned into what skin remained.
Propagandist. Insurgent. Traitor.
The eyes of the soldiers turned to him, their colonel. Their gazes pleaded and accused all at once. How long can this carry on, sir?
The end came in a small village, a nowhere place swallowed by another shifting line on a map. The enemy had withdrawn behind their lines and left the hamlet undefended. The inhabitants had submitted peacefully – resigned gazes said that they’d known more than one invader. The mayor, a ruddy-faced farmer with an old copper pocket-watch and a red waistcoat, said they only wanted to be left in peace. Surrender was accepted with minimal formality, a platoon left as a nominal picket.
Later, when they were able to speak of what had happened, most men said the place reminded them of home. Local men sat outside the shop, indolently playing some tile game and smoking their fat black cheroots. Streets were worn but lovingly swept. Children played in the open grass field with old craters from another war.
‘Burn it. Burn it to the ground’, said the Commissar, newly arrived with his gang of lickspittles.
The picket had unconditionally refused, so the order had rung out to execute the ‘malcontents’ and ‘mutineers’.
‘Kill them, then burn the village’, he said.
The men fought for their lives with rifle, bayonet, teeth and nails. An ugly skirmish that stretched into a running battle as the Commissar’s enforcers realised their miscalculation: these were not lone men snatched in the night, but armed, angry soldiers in battle trim and with nothing to lose. The fight became a rout and the men could not be held back from their revenge for every scar, bruise, every toothless skull that had adorned that unholy gibbet. When the Colonel arrived and managed to establish some order only the Commissar was left alive, badly wounded but unbowed.
He screeched from frothing, blood-flecked lips. They would all pay. He tottered on unsteady legs as he described how their children would be transported to mines to live short, back-breaking lives in the darkness. Their wives would be given to the lowest, filthiest brothels to be used as playthings by criminals. Their names, their relatives’ names, would be burned from the records. He turned his gaze, alight with madness, on the Colonel and screamed bile at him. This and more would be laid at his door, he howled. The pools of his house would run red.
A pistol shot, bell-clear in the crisp air.
* * *
Had he even fired the weapon before? The retort that echoed off the nearby houses for a lifetime still hums somewhere behind his eyes, perhaps there for ever. The body that thumped onto the ground hugs the little grassy crater with dread finality.
The men are silent for a long while. He stands steady, eyes locked on the corpse. The awful moment stretches into infinity. They see then that he, their Colonel, has taken their sins onto his own broad shoulders.
iii. Stakes
The Grand Arena was packed, the roof closed to keep out the heat of the day. Despite the cold air being pumped into their glassed-off box – high up on the third tier – a bead of sweat formed and began its slow journey down Kelbee’s spine.
Her new formal dress was long and heavy and felt like a tent. The medal sash only made it worse. As was proper for her first outing as a senior officer’s wife she’d caked her face with powders and oils – the stuff was thick as a mask and she felt like a doll. Even her hair was trapped in a pinned, conservative style.
The load of tradition had only become greater, in the amount of metal clinking on her sash as well as the attention. How she looked and behaved was under more scrutiny than ever before. As she shifted her shoulders to stop the heavy cloth from rubbing, she thought of those bent, hollow creatures from the women’s enclosure at the parade and saw with perfect clarity how they’d been smothered and sucked dry by this life. And now it was hers.
The Major – no, Lance Colonel now! She had to get used to the change – sat by her side in a double-breasted tunic of the deepest black, a new rank bar gleaming on his shoulder. He chatted absently with their host, a colleague of his who’d invited them to share the box. It was mostly military matters and she maintained a polite look of attention while her mind wandered. Beyond the thick glass she could hear the muted hubbub of the crowd.
The arena, like everything else, was draped in the red and blue of the Quincentennial, now in full swing. High above the thousands, hanging from the centre of the closed roof, hung a giant mandala of yellow felsia blossoms. Every so often a stray eddy would catch the wheel, shaking a few blossoms loose; a slow-motion yellow rain that was gradually turning the grey floor the colour of butter. Some of the petals came to rest on the five prisoners kneeling in a line and the soldiers standing motionless behind them.
Her husband snorted at some quip and she dragged her eyes away from the condemned. He turned to her and rested his hand on her arm with a light touch. He was in a good mood today, better than she’d seen in a long time. Ever since that evening a week ago he’d acknowledged her more than ever before and his voice had lost most of its bark. His manner was still, on the whole, rigid, and his face still creased with occasional irritation, but it was as if more had become permissible, small faults turned forgivable. He made eye contact with her – which still unnerved her – and asked her about her day.
It was the child, and only the child, she had to remind herself. After six years, she was finally giving him what he wanted. Perhaps this was a marriage after all.
Outwardly, she smiled, reassuring him that she was all right.
He gave a satisfied grunt and turned to the small screen mounted in front of them on the floor, angled up so as not to impede the actual view of the arena. It showed a close-up image of the prisoners, two older men and three young women around Kelbee’s age. One of the men was particularly frail, his skin like parchment and blotched with discolorations. This one had been a general. Stripped of rank and decorations, he reminded her of her grandfather just before he’d died, as if time had drained him of bulk and vitality.
The prisoners’ ill-fitting uniforms hung ragged. Their heads were bowed, their hands tied behind their backs. On the screen, Kelbee saw one of the women was crying.
‘You were attached to that one’s staff at one time, weren’t you?’ This from the colleague, also an officer in black. His wife, cocooned inside her heavy robes, kept her eyes forward and made no attempt to interact with anyone beyond a vacant, fixed smile. Her husband repeated his question, indicating the other male prisoner, this one wide-shouldered and with a week’s stubble on his cheeks.
Kelbee felt the Lance Colonel hesitate. His reply was terse.
‘Briefly, a long time ago,’ he said. ‘I never answered to him directly.’
The other officer changed the subject. ‘That other one though, eh? Borunmer’s uncle. Quite the thing. They say the bastard was set to be no more than a captain for life until she came to power. Wheedled his way up the ranks using her name.’
‘That’s what this is about, it’s obvious,’ replied the Lance Colonel, his irritation forgotten. ‘It has to be public. She’s cleaning house.’ He pi
cked up his iced drink and took a sip. ‘So damned hot in here.’
‘Turn the sound up,’ said the other officer, gesturing at the screen. ‘It’s starting.’
A flick of the controls and the noise from the arena came rushing in. In the background, an announcement was playing over the loudspeakers; as the crowd became aware of it their shouts and cheers died away.
The message repeated: ‘Attention. The Seeker’s Venerated Guide, Fulvia arc Borunmer, will oversee the giving of justice.’
The message played twice more, echoing around the now hushed arena. Then the guards behind the prisoners snapped to attention and a lone figure came striding from the stands.
Kelbee recognised her at once – tall, straight-backed and filled with supreme confidence. Every sure step, every precise swing of her arms spoke of authority. She seemed utterly disinterested in the thousands of murmurs that followed her as if they were nothing more than the chatter of birds. Her head was shaved close to the scalp and her neck was long and elegant. She was dressed in a soldier’s uniform, dark trousers and boots and a fitted tunic. At her waist was the sign of her office, a heavy golden chain.
The Guide reached the centre of the arena and lifted her chin to address the people. Kelbee repressed a shudder as she saw those eyes on the screen, the irises acid green and pupils that flashed crimson as they caught the light. She had the same feeling she’d had at the parade: that those deep wells that swallowed the light somehow knew the things about her she dared not say aloud. Cheekbones high and proud, the only signs of age were a few lines at the corners of her mouth. It was a terrifying kind of beauty, like a glint of Ras on an axe blade.
‘The Seeker sees all. His wisdom guides us.’ Picked up by microphones, her voice was as deep as a man’s and boomed across the arena.
The crowd held its breath as the Guide continued. ‘He has brought us His love and guidance for half a millennium. We thank Him from our hearts’ hearts. We honour Him with humility and praise.’ She turned to face the line of prisoners.
‘She’s going to do it herself. Stone cold,’ said the other officer.
The Lance Colonel quieted him with a curt flick of his fingers.
The Guide motioned at the soldiers, who in perfect unison brought their rifles to bear, the snub barrels aimed at the backs of the prisoners’ heads. On the screen, Kelbee saw the crying woman’s shoulders trembling, tears streaming down her face. The others stared down with blank expressions.
Undeterred by the weapons pointing in her direction, the Guide approached the old man in the centre of the line. His face was peaceful, as if he was somewhere else entirely; he seemed more interested in the pattern of blossoms before him. At a gesture from the Guide, the soldier behind him withdrew.
The Guide paused, watching the old man watching the petals. She arched an eyebrow, then stamped down on them, grinding the blossoms under her boot. The old man closed his eyes. Kelbee thought he looked sad.
The Guide spoke, addressing the arena again. Her deep voice became chant-like. ‘Celmis-rey, former General of the Righteous Army of the Seeker. You have been found guilty of treason against the People and the State. You and your co-conspirators have undertaken and perpetrated thrice-cursed acts of betrayal. You have spat upon the profound trust and warmest paternal love of the Seeker. You have desperately worked to subvert the harmony of our Hegemony, the Seeker’s greatest gift to the world. You did this out of selfish lust for personal gain and power, using the most cunning and sinister of means.’ She paused and looked down at her uncle. ‘With His grace, I condemn you and your affiliates to death.’
The crowd erupted.
The Guide looked up at the throng and silenced them with a sweep of her arm. ‘You are all witnesses to this justice. See it done in your name. May the Seeker’s light be with you.’ Then, in one smooth motion, she drew a pistol from her belt and shot the old man in the face.
The crack reverberated around the arena and the body flopped onto the floor. Blood seeped out from the ruined skull in a slick pool; some of it had spattered the Guide’s face and she wiped it away with the back of her hand. Then, a nod, and the soldiers leaned into their rifles. Kelbee looked away as the volley rang out.
The Lance Colonel’s face was flushed, his eyes bright. She saw the tip of his tongue dart out and trace a wet line around his lips. Something about this horrified her even more, and she turned back. The Venerated Guide was already striding away towards the doors, her business concluded, while the whole arena was caught up in an ecstatic howl of bloodlust.
The Lance Colonel slapped the side of his chair with his palm. ‘That’ll do for traitors!’ He turned to Kelbee, his eyes wide, and she forced a smile to keep her revulsion from showing.
A chime sounded, and the other officer pulled a black comm unit from his pocket. He listened for a few seconds, nodded twice, then gave an affirmative and put it away.
‘I need to go,’ he said. ‘They’ve found more of the families in hiding and I’m to lead the collection.’ He stood and put on his hat, tipping it at the Lance Colonel, then, trailed by his mute wife, swept out of the box through the rear door.
Her husband flicked the controls for the speakers, silencing the roar. He took Kelbee’s hand, the contact of his palm on hers an alien thing. Down on the arena floor, the bodies were being loaded onto a trailer, thick black puddles oozing away into a drain.
* * *
An abandoned building near the edge of the industrial district was where they went to be together. It was just one of a dozen half-finished, medium-sized tower blocks, a concrete and steel skeleton behind a rusting fence. It backed on to some parkland, left untended and grown wild; a row of spiny bushes concealed a gap in the chain-link through which one person could squeeze at a time. Inside the fence the scaffolding rose like bones around the building’s concrete walls. Windows and doors lay frameless, whistling when the wind blew.
Kelbee picked her way over piles of cinderblock and corroding girders as she crossed the gravel apron and entered the shadows of the unfinished lobby. She made for the stairwell, passing a small partition guardroom that had long since sagged inwards from rot and damp. Somewhere above, tucked away in the heart of this empty place, he would be waiting for her.
Nebn had brought her here the first time and shown her the way in. Whenever they could they’d stolen time here: after work previously, now whenever Kelbee could spare a few precious moments from her duties as a wife. No matter how many times she came, the fear of being caught never went away. Of returning home and finding the Lance Colonel standing there, knowing what she’d done. But stronger still was the rush of blood, the pounding in her temples that made her feel more alive than she’d thought possible. Above all, there was what they had created here, the two of them. Together, they’d somehow breathed warmth into this harsh, unfeeling place.
She’d never felt more terrified or more awake, the new sensations surging through her veins. Being away from him for too long was almost too much to bear; she needed him now with a hunger that astonished her. This must be what addiction felt like.
Today, though, there was something else, something that tainted the sweet anticipation. A cold knot sat under her heart, making her short of breath when her thoughts overtook her. How would he take the news? How could she even begin to tell him? It terrified her that what she’d come to say might break everything.
Kelbee climbed the echoing stairs. The tower block was brutal in its emptiness; everything was hard, industrial, unfinished. Not one soft edge or smooth surface; a brush with the rough concrete walls could leave an angry scrape and the floor rasped with old, spilled grit. She came to the topmost floor, a large 8 stencilled on the wall in faded orange.
There was a cluster of unfinished offices, now just a collection of sagging board walls. The entrance to their hideaway was behind some cabinets and a veil of dirty plastic sheeting that crackled as she pushed it aside. The narrow crawlspace had to be entered at a crouch. Inside, light and h
eat. Him, waiting.
He was leaning against the far wall, reading. It was a book of old poetry he’d shown her, ancient and illegal. It was one of his most prized possessions and he’d shared it with her with a childlike enthusiasm. He’d told her it was from before the Ruin. She’d laughed, not believing anything so old could have survived, but his eyes had been serious.
He looked up as he heard her and smiled. She felt the usual rush of relief: that he was here, that none of their signs were out of place. They had a system: he always arrived first. If Kelbee found the old oil drum at the entrance of the park on its side, she was to turn around and walk away. The empty tool crate halfway up the stairs upended: the same. Little things, to keep themselves safe, he said, though for her it was only another reminder of the danger they faced. She felt a lurch in her stomach as she saw his smile, remembering the terrible truth she’d brought with her.
He came over and held her, laying a small kiss on the crown of her head. She could feel his heart on her cheek. He was also relieved, flushed with his usual excitement. Her own arousal flickered when she breathed in his scent and when he kissed her lips she almost forgot everything she had to say.
She saw them then, flitting across her mind. Bodies on a cold arena floor, an old man with his life dripping into a gutter. It had been just hours before. The shock of the memory was like cold water on her face; she pulled away but kept hold of his hands.
‘I need to talk to you,’ she said. ‘It’s important.’
‘What’s the matter?’ His eyes held hers, questioning.
‘I’m pregnant.’ She watched his face, feeling like she might split down the middle.
Nebn let go of her hands and took a step back, his eyes wide. His mouth formed a word, then another, but finally gave up. Then his face broke into the lopsided smile she loved so much. ‘That’s wonderful,’ he said.
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