Black Holiday (The Black Chronicles Book 2)

by J. M. Anjewierden

“I’ll do everything I can. Now, I have to go tell Mo… I have to tell the Old Lady that you were lying to us. She’ll probably be mad, and do a more thorough interrogation, but if you don’t lie anymore, you should be okay. We’re not monsters.”

  “Wait, please don’t go.” Morgan said, tentatively reaching out to him.

  “Why?”

  “I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

  “The Old Lady will appreciate that, I’m sure.”

  “No, I mean, I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

  “I’m not in charge of anything. They’re making me sit here all day to watch you, after all.”

  “But they don’t know, do they? No need to panic anyone, just yet. And I can’t trust any of them. They didn’t give me their word.”

  Lanky sighed.

  “Don’t make me regret this.”

  Morgan shrugged.

  “You promised not to hurt me; I’ll give you the truth. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  “Fine.”

  He pulled up the chair closer to the bed, so that his head was even with hers as she lay there.

  “Are you really a mechanic?”

  “Yes. I work for the Takiyama Merchant House”

  “Why are you on Albion?”

  “I wasn’t lying about the pirate attack. It shook up the whole crew pretty bad, at least, those of us who didn’t die. They gave the whole crew four weeks off to recover.”

  “And Albion?” Lanky said, stressing the question.

  He’s not going to be happy with short answers, is he? Morgan thought. Still, I like my chances with him better than the Old Lady, or Ms. Ice, for that matter.

  “That was my friend’s idea. She is from here. She wanted to show me her world.”

  He can tell I’m holding back, Morgan fretted. He’s going to go crazy when I tell him who my friend is.

  “Come on, you said you’d answer my questions. Who is your friend?”

  “You promised not to hurt me,” Morgan reminded him. Of course that only made him more obviously agitated.

  “Answer me.”

  “Her name is… Emily Davenport.”

  For a moment Lanky was confused, clearly recognizing the name, but not placing it. Morgan could pinpoint the exact moment it clicked, his face hardening in hatred.

  “The Butcher!” he roared, leaping to his feet, the chair clattering to the floor. “You came here with our sworn enemy, and you pretend our fight has nothing to do with you?”

  He balled his hands into fists, and then relaxed them. Kicking the chair out of the way he paced the small room, balling his hands up every few moments.

  “I wasn’t lying,” Morgan said. “I’m not from here. I’m not even from Zion. I have no idea what the politics are here. I only met Emily by chance, an acquaintance of an acquaintance. She was kind to me when I had no friends, when she didn’t have to be.”

  “Just shut up!” Lanky roared, whirling about and raising his fist over Morgan.

  She couldn’t even raise her hands to defend herself, turning her head away from him was the best she could do.

  At almost the last moment he stopped himself from punching Morgan, instead pulling his arm back and delivering a hard slap across the side of her head and face.

  Morgan, already injured and in pain, blacked out again.

  ***

  Morgan winced as she regained consciousness. The previous pains in her head were joined by a ringing in her ears and a stinging face, but nothing else seemed to be broken.

  “I really need to stop doing this,” she muttered to herself.

  “I… I am sorry,” Lanky said, his stuttering back in full force. He was back at the door, seated in his chair. His hands were hidden in the pockets of his pants, his posture slouched, non-threatening.

  “So much for your word,” Morgan said, wincing again as the words made her lip sting. She tried bringing up her hand to check before remembering she was still handcuffed to the bed, so she probed it with her tongue. “It feels like you split my lip.”

  “I… well, I did. And no, that is not what my word is worth. I mean, normally. The Old Lady always talks about how, well, how important trust is. That without the rulers to pit us against each other we would be able to just all work together, taking each other at our word. I let my anger get the better of me. I feel just terrible, but the damage is done.”

  “So what are you going to do now? Go tell the Old Lady that I happen to know your enemy?”

  “No. At least… not yet. I know I have no right to ask, but I would like to talk some more.”

  “Why? Either you tell her, and she uses me as a ransom or something, or you don’t and you eventually let me go. What else is there to talk about?”

  “I… want to know more about you. I’ve met so few…”

  “Girls? I can tell,” Morgan knew she shouldn’t be taunting him, that, despite his angry outburst, he was likely her best bet at getting out of this in one piece. It was a good thing that he was so bashful, at least from Morgan’s perspective.

  “I meant people, in general.” Lanky shrugged. “I was born in the movement, I’ve never met anyone outside of it, before you. I guess I can’t understand how someone who has firsthand experience with the abuses of the nobility could be friends with one.”

  Morgan sighed, pursing her lips until the movement aggravated her injured lip.

  “People are complicated. There are good people and bad, sure, but even bad people have good things about them, and good people have flaws. Mistakes are also just part of life, we all make them. You hitting me in anger doesn’t mean you’re just a bad person.”

  “It… it was wrong.”

  “Yes. It was. Especially since I am chained up here and can’t defend myself. Even if you hadn’t promised not to hurt me, it was wrong.”

  “But what about the Butcher? How can you be a friend to someone who does so much wrong?”

  “Does she, though?” Morgan asked, continuing before he could actually answer. “You call her the Butcher because of some battle, right? Your side kills them, they kill yours. Not pretty, not nice, but that’s war. What makes one side killing the other evil, or good?”

  “She was fighting to uphold the corrupt oppression of the nobles,” Lanky answered, almost as if the sentiment was automatic.

  Maybe it is automatic, Morgan mused. If he’s never been outside this little group, all he knows is what they taught him.

  “So the cause is what makes it wrong or right?”

  Lanky nodded.

  “How do all the people not part of your revolution see it? You were rebelling, right? Trying to change things the majority of the people don’t have a problem with?”

  “But they… they don’t agree with it. They’re just held down. You said it yourself. You aren’t from here. You don’t know.”

  “Did they join you? How many people actually fought?”

  “I… I don’t know. They never told me that. They just say that, when we are ready, the people will join us.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe you’re just lying to yourselves. They didn’t join you last time, did they?”

  “What about… wherever it is you come from. Would you have joined in fighting the oppressors?”

  “Maybe. Probably not.”

  “So how can you say the people of Albion didn’t because they don’t want to?”

  “The people here, they’re crowded in cities, right?”

  “What does that have to do with it?”

  “I lived in a mining village, up in the mountains. Most of us did, across the planet. Do you think any of the leaders, the real leaders, lived anywhere near us?”

  “Is that where you got…” Lanky blushed a bit, and gestured towards Morgan’s uncovered arms.

  “My scars? Yes.”

  “You, ah, have quite a few of them.” Lanky blushed even deeper, clearly meaning more than just the ones visible on her arms and legs.

  Get knocked out for a few days,
guy takes advantage, Morgan thought, though she wasn’t really that angry with him, given the circumstances. Never mind the blood, her dress had been so filthy by the time she’d gotten out of the duct work that it probably was a lost cause even trying to clean it.

  “Yes, I do. All so the leaders could save a bit on medicine. Leaders I’ve never actually seen, just to be clear. We never rebelled because there was nothing to rebel against. Just some vague concept of leaders in a far off city, a farther off space station, and stories about the long dead Sam Hill.”

  “Sam Hill… you’re from Hillman?” Lanky said, quite shocked. “But that’s…”

  “The paradise you want? Maybe it was supposed to be, but that’s not what it is.”

  “I don’t believe you. You’re just trying to turn me against my brothers.”

  Morgan laughed, a bitter, harsh sound, tinged with the groan that came after as it pulled at her split lip.

  “Right, I let myself be kidnapped, just for that. I also went out and got myself all these scars, years and years ago, just to make it more convincing.

  “Look, I’m sure there are plenty nobles here who are just as evil and corrupt as the ones back home. But there are good ones, too. And, from what I’ve seen, you have a lot of freedom here.”

  “And what have you seen?”

  “I’ve seen people coming and going. Some look happy, others stressed, some sad. Normal people, not at all like the worn out bone deep weariness I saw in my village. I saw a man scream and yell at Emily, calling her horrible things, and nothing happened to him beyond some dirty looks.”

  “That doesn’t… that doesn’t mean anything,” Lanky said, but he didn’t sound convinced.

  “Doesn’t it? There is a mineshaft, in my village. Oldest one on the planet. It was also the most dangerous. We all knew, say the wrong thing, step out of line, and it was down that shaft, worked until you died. My own father was exiled to the village, for wanting to use his new technology to make life safer for the miners.”

  “What is she like?” Lanky said, abruptly changing the subject.

  “Who? Emily?” Morgan asked.

  “The Bu… the baroness, yes. Why do you call her Emily? Doesn’t she get mad?”

  Morgan approximated a shrug.

  “Not that I’ve ever seen. All the bowing and such seems tiresome, really. Besides, I’m not from here, remember? She’s not my baroness.”

  “So tell me about her.”

  “I’ll make you a deal. Take the handcuffs off, and the tubes, and get me some food, and I’ll tell you whatever you want to know about her. Assuming I know it.”

  “You’ll just wait till I’m gone getting food and try and escape again.”

  Morgan rolled her eyes.

  “Not in that order, then. Besides, I’m not sure I could sit up right now. Escaping this bed, let alone the room, is not going to happen.” Right now. I hate to admit it, but I really couldn’t escape anything, condition I’m in.

  Morgan’s stomach helpfully grumbled just then, giving credence to her request.

  “Fine. I’ll get some food. And some water. You’re going to need it. I have a lot of questions.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Morgan said, giving him a weak smile. Once he left, the door locking shut behind him, Morgan whispered, “Emily, I hope you’re having better luck than I am.”

  CHAPTER 8

  So omnipresent is the idea of the dangers of pissing off a mother that the saying ‘momma bear’ is still instantly recognized and understood on every planet in the known galaxy, or the equivalent on those planets that speak a language other than Galactic English. That this is the case, despite the fact that bears only exist on Earth, if they in fact still exist at all, is impressive.

  - Professor Charles Martin, linguistics department head, Keaton University, Zion

  GERTRUDE

  FOUR HOURS later, and Gertrude was still at the police station. They hadn’t found Morgan in any of the locations raided, but the news wasn’t all bad. They also hadn’t found any evidence that Morgan had ever been at those locations, which was a strong indication that they hadn’t found the right base, not that the terrorists had gotten rid of her.

  Gertrude shivered. Thousands of years of civilization, and people were still contemplating getting rid of each other, and referring to it in such cold terms. Despite the outer appearances, mankind was hardly more civilized than the people living in caves and clubbing each other with bits of bone and rock.

  And she couldn’t even delude herself that it was just ‘bad’ people that did it. If she could have shot the man who had taken Morgan, she would have done it without hesitation.

  Does an act being self-defense, or defense of my family, make it different? I suppose it must, but how different is it? I’m still willing to harm or kill others, after all.

  It doesn’t stop there, though, does it? Gertrude thought, turning to look through the one-way mirror separating the observation room from the interrogation room. She had no idea who the person on the other side was, beyond the tidbits that he was linked with the group that had tried to kill Lady Novan and had kidnapped Morgan, and that he was presumably one of the men in charge.

  Despite that, she felt a keen hatred of him. A smoldering fire that could easily have burst into a volcano of rage.

  Would I kill him, if given the chance? Gertrude asked herself. The brutally honest answer was, I just don’t know. Maybe?

  The police had been interrogating him for more than an hour now, but hadn’t seemed to get anywhere. Most of his replies were little more than denials, shouted slogans and propaganda of his group, and anatomically unlikely suggestions and insults.

  Oh, and lots of denouncing the ‘illegal and immoral’ invasion of his home, as well as the ‘murders of my fellow man’ when the police defended themselves against return fire.

  That last bothered Gertrude a bit, though she tried not to dwell on it. Presumably the police had announced themselves, right after blowing the doors in, so they knew they were fighting the police.

  But what if they didn’t? They think they’re at war with the government. Both sides don’t really have to agree for it to be so. If that is the case, they were right to try and defend themselves. They would be if both sides were soldiers.

  And even in that case, that wouldn’t have changed the duty of the police, soldiers, whatever, on our side either. A whole bunch of people, trying to kill each other, and all of them ‘right’ to do so.

  Perhaps she’d talk with Lady Novan about it later. Surely the military had grappled with these questions long before they’d occurred to Gertrude?

  Right now it would have to wait, as would her internal debate. Lady Novan had just walked into the observation room, in full military uniform.

  Where did she get that from? Did she bring it with her from Novan Hall, or did she send for it? Gertrude just mentally shrugged. Doesn’t really matter, does it? I guess I’m just surprised, since I haven’t seen her in uniform since the funeral.

  “I don’t think they’re going to get anything out of this one, not for a long while, at any rate,” Lady Novan said, scowling at the man. “Would you come with me? There is another prisoner we might be able to get to talk.”

  “Of course, but what use will I be?” It was the second time Lady Novan had said something to that effect, but Gertrude had no idea what she could mean by it. She certainly was not a trained interrogator, or even a warrior like Lady Novan. She was just a mechanic and mother, and not in that order.

  “You think of Morgan as if she were your daughter.” Lady Novan said. It was not a question.

  “Of course I do.”

  “Then you will be useful. Just follow my lead, if you would.”

  As soon as they had left the observation room a pair of Lady Novan’s guards stepped into place around them, one to the front, and the other to the rear.

  I guess I can’t really blame them for being skittish, Gertrude thought. Though their presence made
her feel a bit claustrophobic.

  The walk to the other interrogation room was not long, not that Gertrude expected it to be. The doors for interrogation and observation were very clearly marked, the latter a bright blue, the former a bright red. Gertrude wondered who kept screwing up the doors for them to paint them both so garishly. But she didn’t have time to think about it. Lady Novan’s bodyguard opened the door and gestured for Gertrude to enter first

  For someone still clinging to a revolution more than a decade defeated, the man chained to the table in the room looked shockingly refined. Kind even. He had none of the bitter edge of the first man nor any of the hate in his eyes.

  His reaction to Gertrude was a quick appraisal, followed by a dismissal, his expression never wavering.

  Then Lady Novan walked in, and Gertrude saw the hatred she had expected, his eyes tightening and his mouth curling into a sneer.

  “I suppose reports of your demise were premature, Butcher. Normally I’m not one for violence, but I will say in this case more’s the pity.”

  “You keep strange friends for one who abhors violence, doctor,” Lady Novan responded, without anger.

  “Yes, well, ending tyranny and oppression will be to the benefit of all,” he said, glaring at Lady Novan again before adding, “Or nearly all, at any rate. Just as some healthy tissue must be sacrificed to remove a cancer, so it is with changing a world.”

  “And of course you are capable of deciding who it is that needs to die to attempt your version of utopia?” Lady Novan said, stepping more fully into the room to stand across the table from him. This time she did not try to disguise the contempt in her voice.

  “Is that any different than what you did, in the military? Decide who should live or die?”

  “I carried out orders, and gave recommendations. Civilian control over the military has been a hallmark of free society for more than a millennium. But you know that, even if you will not admit it.”

  “Ah, yes, well, what I know and what you think I know are of course one and the same, are they not?” he said, with a little laugh. “But I do not think you are here for such a discussion, Butcher, and I have more important things on my mind than whatever inanity it is you want, such as the welfare of all of my compatriots that were injured by your troops today.”