The God Eaters

by Jesse Hajicek

  Kieran put up his hands, palms out. "Start where we left off yesterday. Right straight, right cross, left straight, left cross. We're working on accuracy again."

  Weakly, he knuckled Kieran's left palm, then missed the right one entirely. Took a moment to remember how to use his own left hand. Pathetic. I'm pathetic. He kept missing the straights with his left, missing the crosses with both hands, until a short segment of a small-child whine escaped him and he broke stance. "I can't do it today. I'm so stupid today."

  Kieran's hand darted out and smacked Ash's forehead. He put his hands up again. "Start over."

  Ash made one weak swing, forgetting his form entirely, then turned away. "It's useless."

  A hand on his shoulder spun him around, a slap stung his face. "That's useless," Kieran growled.

  Another slap; Ash reeled back, tears threatening. "That's useless." Showing teeth, Kieran darted slaps at Ash's cheeks and forehead, shoves at his chest and arms. "You going to let me win? You going to let me do this to you?"

  "Ow! Kieran!" Ash flailed instinctively at the next hand that came near him. The blows were coming too fast, he couldn't block them all, Kieran had turned against him, his shelter had become his enemy and it was all over -- fear sparked in his chest and everything went bright. He slapped away what seemed like a hundred hands at once, and in his panic followed this flurry with a blow of his own.

  Everything went still. His fist was wrapped in Kieran's, and the tall Iavaian was smiling.

  "Feel better now?" Kieran asked gently, and Ash realized that despite the alarming speed of the blows, Kieran hadn't hurt him. He couldn't even feel where Kieran's hands had landed.

  "Define better." But in his own grumbling, Ash heard that his hopelessness was gone, at least for now. "You're a mean bastard, Kieran. You didn't have to hit me."

  "Okay." Kieran released his fist. "Square stance."

  Gritting his teeth, Ash lined up his feet, bent his knees, and smacked a fist into Kieran's palm.

  Right, right, left, left. His form was sloppy, but he didn't care. He was supposed to be working on accuracy, not force, but he was throwing his shoulder behind each punch, and it felt good.

  Kieran's palms were reddened by the time they were done, and Ash's knuckles swollen, and his despair had vanished. And, somehow, he hadn't missed once.

  --==*==--

  "What are you doing?"

  Kieran turned from the washbasin, water running off his elbows, the muscles of his back shifting deliciously. "Conducting the Gevarne Philharmonic. What's it look like? I'm washing my shirt."

  "Why?"

  "It smells. How many sit-ups was that?"

  "Thirty."

  "You did thirty-five yesterday."

  "I'm just resting." Ash settled his chin on his knuckles and watched the movement of Kieran's shoulders. It came to him that he was more resilient than he'd thought. Just yesterday he'd been half mad with fear and hopelessness, but already his libido was back. He wasn't yet sure he forgave Kieran for hitting him, however little physical damage he'd done, but if the point had been to awaken Ash's urge to survive the ploy had succeeded. His mind still felt bruised, though.

  He hadn't slept particularly well, had woken before the bell today; it still hadn't rung. The sky was just starting to go gray. He'd been a little surprised to find Kieran up before him, but no explanation had been offered and he didn't feel like asking for one. He waited until the ache in his gut subsided and did ten more sit-ups before looking at his cellmate again.

  "You going to wear it wet? Or go to breakfast without?"

  "Without." Kieran wrung out the wad of blue cotton, then turned with a grin to snap it at Ash, spattering him. "You look better today. How're you feeling?"

  "Peaceful."

  "Peaceful! And you think I'm a nut job." He made a shrug into shaking out his shirt. "Whatever works for you, I guess."

  "And you? How are you?"

  "Same old. Bored. Whiffy. Wish they'd let us in the bath more than once a week. Clean water would be nice, while I'm wishing."

  "When we get out, let's go somewhere there's a lake, and swim until we get all pruney. And burn our clothes."

  "I thought you didn't believe I can get us out of here."

  "I trust you."

  That put something into Kieran's eyes that was halfway between anger and worry, and only lasted half a second. "Good," was all he said.

  The bell rang. Kieran spread his wet shirt over the rim of the washbasin, then tugged at the string of his trousers, with a jerk of his chin toward the door. Ash obediently looked away. Having to share a toilet was no longer embarrassing; there was a certain etiquette to it, that was all. When Kieran muttered something in Iavaian, Ash pretended not to hear. That was how you made your own privacy, in a place like this. Still, he wondered what it had been -- Kieran had never talked to himself before.

  All the doors opened. Ash stood, yawning. He was too sleep-deprived to be hungry, but it wasn't as if there was a choice. "It better not be sausage today," he began to say, but lost his train of thought as Kieran walked out past him.

  The difference was subtle, but shockingly effective. Pants hanging an inch too low, stride fractionally shorter, leading with the hips just a little, tilt of the chin somehow saucy instead of arrogant today -- What the hell is he up to? He looks like a slut.

  Ash wasn't the only one staring. Several inmates, more likely woman-starved than fey, were gawking at the spice-colored spans of Kieran's skin. And one of the guards had his eyes fastened on the jut of Kieran's hipbones with an anticipatory, gloating look Ash didn't like at all. Ash tried desperately to marshall his thoughts, to understand this change, but he'd been walloped by the same hormonal sledgehammer. It made him feel simpleminded -- as well as too hot all over, so he was undoubtedly turning bright red.

  As they took their places in line, someone snickered. "Looks like somebody got some last night."

  "Shut it." The guard who'd been staring sauntered down the line until he reached Kieran. He raked his gaze up and down Kieran's body. "Where's your shirt, Trevarde?"

  "Washed it, sir." Kieran's voice was different too. The razor blades buried just a little deeper in the candy. It had a purr in it. Ash was beginning to be frightened.

  "Getting domestic, are we? Thinking of starting a business? Taking in these lads' washing?"

  "They don't have anything to pay me with." Kieran's smile was a challenge; the guard's was a threat.

  "Back in your cell, boy. No breakfast for you today."

  Kieran gave a liquid shrug. Though Ash tried desperately to catch his eyes, he only stared at the guard. The line moved out without him.

  Sick to his stomach, Ash picked at his breakfast. Halfway through the period, someone sidled up to his table as if to drop some smartass remark, but when Ash looked at him he went away without saying anything.

  In the yard, he punched the air three hundred and thirty-two times, and didn't think about anything but counting. He didn't dare. He didn't even try to tell himself that Kieran would explain, that it would be all right, because he knew it wasn't all right and there was nothing he could do about it.

  On the way back to the cell, he kept counting; steps, prisoners, skylights, anything. He felt light with fear, unreal and floating, moving by habit. He half expected the cell to be empty, but Kieran was there. Ash walked into the cell like a clockwork toy and sat down on the edge of his bunk, opposite where Kieran sprawled, and didn't let himself feel relieved that the tall boy was at least still alive. There were worse things than dead, in this place, and Kieran looked like he might have discovered one of them.

  Kieran was lying on his back with his eyes open. His color was bad, and he blinked too often, but there was no mark on him. Except for the blinking, he looked like a corpse. One arm trailed over the edge of the cot, the hand dangling limply. After a long time, Ash leaned out to touch that hand, to find out if it was clammy or fevered; it must be one of the two, the way Kieran looked.

&nb
sp; "No touching," Kieran murmured. His lips barely moved.

  "What happened?"

  "Ask me later."

  Moving carefully, so as not to startle, Ash knelt on the floor beside Kieran's bed. As he did, he noticed something under it. The tin cup they had to share, with a pellet of something brown and wet stuck to the bottom.

  "Put that back," Kieran said sharply, though he didn't move. "Don't touch it. Don't move it, don't look at it, don't talk about it. They find out I have that, we're fucked."

  "What is it?"

  "Poison."

  Ash slid the cup as far back under as he could reach. He stood, and looked down at Kieran for a long time before Kieran looked back. "What did you do, Kieran?" He was proud that his voice came out quiet and even.

  Kieran sighed, his eyes wandering away again. "Remember how I said I used to have a habit? It never really goes away, you know."

  "That's opium?"

  "Quiet! He wanted me to eat it while he watched. I had to put it under my tongue. I'm going to have to put it under my tongue every time."

  "Every time what? Kieran --"

  "It's costing me, to let it sit under the bed. You understand? Don't make it harder."

  "I see." Ash backed up until the edge of his bunk hit him behind the knees, and folded. "How many more times is this going to happen, Kieran? How much do you have to hoard before you can use it in your plan? How can you stand --"

  "Not that." Kieran blinked at the ceiling. "That one you don't get to ask. Your other question -- at least three more like that. More would be better. He gave me a fat dose. Guess he figured if I was lying about how big a tar habit I had, lying so I could share it out or something, a big wad like that would kill me."

  Ash hadn't thought his heart could shrink any further, but at this it squeezed down to pebble-size.

  "How much did you swallow?"

  "Don't panic. I didn't even fall asleep. Used to eat suicide doses like candy. That's not the problem. The problem is I can't think about anything but the cup under the bed."

  "Oh." Ash swallowed. "I could, I could --"

  "No you couldn't. There's no place to hide it and I could take it away from you any time I wanted. Leave it."

  "I could... distract you, I was going to say."

  "What?" Kieran gaped at him, with a rasp of incredulous laughter. "You have the worst timing I have ever fucking witnessed. I just sucked cock at gunpoint, you dumbass. I'm not exactly in a cuddly mood."

  "You --? But. That's not -- I didn't -- oh, god." Mortified, Ash buried his face in his hands. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

  "I told you you didn't want to know."

  "Oh god, Kieran, isn't there any other --"

  "Fucking drop it, Ash. I used to do it for a living, it's no big deal."

  He sounded calm, even jocular. But when Ash dared to look up, Kieran was staring at the ceiling again, blinking slowly and too often.

  Chapter Nine

  He'd been ready for two weeks.

  The cup beneath the bed was half full now. He had a full-fledged low-grade habit again, from holding doses under his tongue, but so far he hadn't given in to the urge to swallow. Poor Ash was a wreck; the kid had been to Testing twice more, and on top of that he didn't seem to be able to handle what Kieran was doing. But he hadn't lost it again -- yet. He didn't talk much these days, but he still wrote in his book, which Kieran guessed was a sign of life. Kieran didn't bother reading it. The white boy's poetic agonies would seem like a sick joke, compared to reality; unless he'd given up feeling things that strongly, which was sensible, but sad; Kieran really didn't want to know.

  Every day that passed now, readiness deteriorated. Any minute, something could happen that would wreck their chances. Ash might crack. Kieran might talk himself into dipping into the tar stash. Either of them could get sick, or go to Testing and not come back. Or the little cabal of guards who supplied the opium could get tired of Kieran, as they'd tired of Hartnell; there was no way he could fake withdrawal well enough to fool someone who'd seen it firsthand. However much he groaned and griped, he couldn't pantomime vomiting and loose bowels and sweats.

  They'd know he'd been hoarding, and then the game would be up.

  The main consideration, though, was simply that he was tired of this place. Tired to death of it.

  The food and company, of course, the smells and grit and ill-fitting clothes, the physical confinement. More than that, the humiliations, threats and whoring. More even than that, the Colonel and his insectile persistence, his torturings and pryings, the constant fear that one of those Surveys would uncover the escape plan. But most of all, Kieran was tired of the wards that squashed his Talent. It was like never quite being able to stand up straight. He sometimes even looked forward to Testing, just so he could uncurl his cramped mind for a few hours. The Colonel's tedious tortures were almost worth the visions they brought.

  It was on those visions that his plan depended.

  The visions, the drug, and Ash's cooperation. The kid had put on muscle as spring wore toward summer, while the smoothness of youth melted out from under his skin. He was worn down fine, and the change was startling; though the sun had bleached orange and gold into his rusty hair, making it redder, and doubled his freckle density, he'd started to look dangerous. An odd beauty had emerged as well. More than the sharper lines of his face, the difference was due to the confidence that fighting lessons had put into his movements, and the haunted heat of his blue eyes, which seemed to see nothing but pain. The other inmates got out of Ash's way whether Kieran was near him or not.

  As his body strengthened, though, it seemed his mind eroded. If the opportunity to use the plan took too long to arrive, Kieran feared that Ash would be useless. Would just sit and stare, the way he was doing now.

  "Hey Ashes," Kieran tried, to see if this was one of the days when Ash was responding to stimuli. It wasn't. The redhead didn't even look up; he just kept picking at his cuticles. The beds of his nails were flayed to bleeding.

  Across the tier, someone's name was called in an official tone. Time for Testing. Ash didn't tense or flinch the way he used to, didn't react even when the guards stopped outside their cell.

  "Kieran Trevarde."

  They'd stopped bothering to say goodbye or good luck when one of them was taken out. It was pointless. Kieran thought he detected some relief in Ash's expression. He couldn't spare the energy to be annoyed; after all, Ash was more damaged by these sessions than Kieran was. He was right to be glad it wasn't his turn. Anyway, it took all Kieran's attention simply to go quietly and not wear himself out with useless worry about what might be waiting for him. The last few times, he'd been in the room with two chairs, doing the Watch's housecleaning for them. Every time, he'd refused to use his killing Talent until Warren had dragged his every nerve through the fire enough times to make his joints ache and his head throb for hours afterward. Warren seemed to think it was plain stubbornness, but the truth was that Kieran needed the dreams he had when he was knocked out of himself by agony.

  That being the case, he was both relieved and displeased when he wasn't taken to the usual room this time. Instead, the guards brought him to the first white room, the one with the desk.

  This time, the desk was clear of papers, and Warren was not the one behind it. The Colonel stood to one side as Kieran was brought in and made to sit. In the place of power behind the desk sat the most creepily perfect man Kieran had ever seen, looking at him with a clinical interest that somehow turned his guts to water as nothing and no one had done since he was a small child.

  Kieran had the impression that it had been a mistake to meet the man's eyes, because now he was caught. There was something eerily familiar about those eyes, paler than Ash's, something that reminded him of past defeats and errors, humiliations, made him feel acutely how dirty and bedraggled he was.

  The man behind the desk could have been anywhere between twenty and thirty-five. He was pale, everything about him pale as mist; his hair wa
s blond as cream, his eyes so light a gray they seemed made of silver foil. Those eyes speared Kieran like a pin through a specimen insect, and Kieran could not look away.

  Colonel Warren spoke to this man in a reverent tone. "Shall I put him through his paces, sir?"

  "That won't be necessary, Colonel." The man's voice was as cool as his eyes, without accent or emotion. "You may go."

  This seemed to startle Warren just a bit, but he collected himself with a sharp salute and a crisp

  "Yes, sir."

  After Warren had gone, the stranger simply sat and looked at Kieran for a time. Kieran had no choice but to stare back. Belatedly, he realized that this was probably the Director that Warren had mentioned. Though his uniform was the same cut as other Watchmen's, the braid at his shoulders was white instead of red. Where others' collars sported small squares of red enamel to show their seniority, this man had a series of what looked like diamonds. Other than the insignia of his rank, he had not a single ornament, no indication of anything personal around him.