by Colby R Rice
Sutures. At the girl's eyes and mouth. They ran from ear to ear, as though someone had completely separated the girl's lower jaw from the upper and then had sewn it back on.
What the...
The customer was screaming for help. His plea was muted on the video, but by the way the man slumped to his knees, Caleb knew it had been shrill and desperate.
The girl's throes became more violent, and he thought he could see her body begin to expand. Her fingers and joints bent weirdly, contorting in jerky snaps as something bubbled up from beneath her flesh, swelling her limbs, tearing the skin. Her hood was now thrown back, and her cheeks were filling up, the flesh of them ripping away from their stitches.
Static filled the screen. The video had cut off at 11:41 pm... the exact moment of the bombing.
No. No way.
He felt himself go numb. Pieces were beginning to fit together, and still, his mind couldn't accept it. He went back through the tapes, still shaking off the chill that had just laid itself on his bones. He needed to go back through more video, to see what had lead up to that day.
Something clicked.
That girl from Lot 3. He knew where he had seen that dark and placid gaze before. She was a waitress at the Lakeside Diner.
In the first week's footage, she had been on the security camera one day and had looked directly into it. While she couldn't have known it was there, the camera had caught her face at a clear three-quarter profile. Same jawline, same hair, and those eyes. The fire in her gaze could melt rocks; it couldn't be replicated anywhere else. But then, why hadn't she shown up in the Civic Order's face recognition databases? Weren't all Civilians required to be registered?
Caleb got up, grabbed his coat, and headed out the door. Registered or not, it was her. And she was the only witness, that he knew of, who was still alive.
"We're moving, Zeika. Today. To the Island. You and Manja need to get down here now, okay? Run. Don't walk."
Only four days had passed since Baba had told Zeika to clean out the Forge; Mama's call was early and unexpected. Furthermore, the details were different. She'd thought they'd be meeting Baba on the mainland of the Sixth, but now the Island? Before the Collapse, the Island had gotten zero respect as a borough, but now, it was a cosmopolitan mecca, Azure-occupied, and one of the most stable areas of the Sixth. Even so, it was the last place she expected Baba to pick as a safe haven. They didn't have much money, but more importantly, Koa hated Azures. Living among them, especially amongst the richest and bluest, was like painting a target on their foreheads.
Still, Mama's voice had sounded so urgent that it put movement into Zeika, and she was already rolling out of the hammock to gather her and Manja's stuff.
"Manja? Come on, baby, we've gotta go see Mama."
"Mm?" The little one rubbed her eyes, looking as though she were about to cry.
"We're leaving to a new place, remember? We're moving today."
Zeika put on a big smile, one that she had been saving ever since the raid attack nearly a week ago. She knew that once Baba had made up his mind to leave, no border control in the whole world was going to keep him from moving his family. He had found a way, and they were finally going to get out of this hell hole.
Manja seemed to understand that too because she brightened and shot up in her hammock, sleep sliding off her face. Without a single word of complaint, she hopped out and got moving. She took her tutu'd teddy bear, which Zeika had gutted and re-sewn into a new backpack, and she began to pack up her "Manja stuff", including her machine books and her last dose of medicine. They had packed their things days ago, just in case something like this happened.
Zeika did one last look over the nearly bare Forge, stuffing a little over a thousand dollars into different parts of her clothing as she did. She hadn't sold all the inventory, but she'd been working non-stop for four days straight, flipping every and anything she could. At first, customers had been nervous about stockpiling food and supplies. They were afraid it would attract Koa. So in order to move a lot of the smaller things more quickly, Zeika had slashed prices and put on a fire sale that had cost them most of their inventory, including most of their food supply. The hardware had moved the quickest.
Now, the nearly bare shelves and hammocks held mixed feelings, a sense of freedom and a sense of loss for the life she had lived until now. Her purpose had always been to 'get out' of the Fifth Demesne, but she never would have thought it would end like this.
Things will get better, eventually. Right?
As if to answer, Manja's warm hand slid into hers. Zeika smiled at her, at the hope in the little girl's eyes, knowing that this was the right thing to do. Even if they were afraid of what lay ahead, Manja needed this. And Manja always came first.
"Come on, kiddo. Let's go see Mama and Baba. They're missin' you a whole lot."
Manja's smile widened, and Zeika led her out of the Forge, leaving it behind for the last time.
Five in the morning. Burke had just woken up, and he'd barely been able to scratch his crotch before his doorbell rang. Stalkers from Satan's tea shop wasn't enough, apparently. Now, he was getting house calls at the crack of dawn. What the hell.
"What?!" He snarled as he yanked open his door. "And in God's name, why?"
"Councilman. I bring great tidings, friend."
Burke scowled. It was a great tide, all right. A tsunami of snake oil and bullshit had just spilled onto his mahogany floor, and in the middle of it stood Sal Morgan. He leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, grinning like a sideways ass crack.
"No, goddamnit," Burke snapped. "I already told Billings 'no' once, and I don't want to discuss it again— HEY!" He stumbled back as Morgan slithered his way through the door. Burke slammed the door closed and followed Sal down the hallway.
"Lovely morning for a visit with an old friend, yes?" Sal barely looked over his shoulder as he made his way in.
"What in blazes did I just tell you?" Burke trailed Sal's clicking heels into the kitchen. He frowned, surprised that the tax collector even needed to walk. As greasy as Sal was, Burke half-expected him to just glide over the wood. "I already powwowed with the rest of the Council on this. The motion's too radical."
Sal didn't respond. Instead, he opened Burke's cabinets, took out a pair of coffee mugs, and began to peruse the large pantry.
"We don't have nearly enough evidence to warrant it," Burke continued, eyeing Sal. "And even if we did—"
"Dark or light?"
Burke frowned. "Excuse me?"
"Your roast. Do you like it dark or light?" Sal lifted two cans of Burke's most expensive beans.
"Roast my fucking ass, Sal. Don't make coffee, because you're not a guest. You're leaving. Now."
Sal shrugged and chose the dark roast. "I will do nothing of the sort, my friend. You made a mess. It's time to clean it."
"Bullshit it is."
"The ghosts of war, the Articles39 were your ideas. Ideas upon which Koa has capitalized—"
"You have no right to roll those stipulations back. The Civilians will have nothing left!"
"—ideas that the Order have not yet forgiven. You and your little poodle, Luke, are walking on some very shaky ground before the Halls of Deis. And before the eyes of your precious Civilians as well, if rumor be true."
"An honor I owe to you," Burke muttered darkly.
"Such honors are my pleasure to bestow, Councilman, to those who forget their lineage. It's a strange thing, lineage. While it is long forgotten by fallen, rotting apples like yourself, it is never forgotten by the tree or its roots."
Sal's back was still turned to him. He was grinding Burke's beans. His goddamn 300-hundred-dollar-a-pound coffee beans.
Burke tore his eyes away from the coffee grains before more homicidal thoughts set in. "Right. Nasty apples. And?"
"My point is that the Order's memory is long and unyielding. The only question is whether its memory of you will be fond, to burn eternal and glorious... or if it w
ill be foul, to be spurned and purged from the pages of its great history."
Sal finally turned to face him, the coffee pot behind bubbling softly. His grease was gone, replaced by a face that was now flatline. Games were over, apparently. Now it was time for the real meeting.
"I want your signature, Micah," Sal continued. "I want you to support the repeals of the Articles39."
Burke crossed his arms. "You'll have better luck finding support for Billings' man-boobs than getting me to sign that piece of shit legislation. Not after last spring."
Sal sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "This again, Micah?"
"Last spring, Sal."
"Yes, yes, April showers and May flowers, it was beautiful—"
"You sonofabitch!" Burke seethed. "I had to watch shop owners beg as their livelihoods were stripped away from them without warning. Civilian lawyers, up my ass about the violation of Civilian rights to bear arms. Threats filling my voicemail box to the brim. 'Death to the Besieger', nailed to my goddamned door! And now you would have me serve them yet another injustice?"
Burke could tell from Sal's patient smile that he wasn't moved. In fact the only thing that moved on Sal's body at all were his hands and arms as he poured the steaming black coffee atop a thick layer of cold condensed milk.
"Act 948 was a necessary measure," Sal said finally, topping off his coffee. "An unfortunate measure, from which not one of us at the Halls of Deis derived a single pleasurable moment."
Burke sneered. "You're so full of it. Talking so much crap you could open a shit farm, easy."
"I regret putting the task of 948 upon you, dear friend. That's why I'm here, to offer you recompense. Councilman Billings and I are more than prepared to support you in the restoration of your alchemic titles, if you would but choose wisdom over passion."
Burke narrowed his eyes. Passions his finely-dimpled ass. Cowering before child demons was one thing, but there was no way he'd let this scummy low-level tax jerker come in and throw his meager influence around. Sal Morgan didn't call shots. He was a lap dog at best, but he— Micah Pencham Burke— was a Vassal. No matter what Billings or anyone at the Halls of Deis said, he'd earned his titles. He'd never beg or sell out to get them back.
So he squared his shoulders. "No."
"Will you sit on it, at least?"
Burke paused for a minute, rubbing his jaw with a thumb. "Yeah, sure. I'll sit on it," he said, finally. "I think I'll wipe my ass with it a couple times too, for good measure."
Sal put his empty mug down and regarded him for a minute— impatience finally creeping around the edges of his gaze— until he let it go. The man never lost his cool, it seemed, not even when he was losing a battle. Finally, he shrugged.
"You've always had a knack for poetry, dear friend. Despite your reservations, I believe that you'll want to meditate on this for a bit. You should watch how the world around you turns before you put in your final word. Keep an eye on your little garden, perhaps?"
Burke felt the color drain from his face as he watched Sal's mouth tighten with that cocksure smile. What the hell did he know about the garden? Unless...
"It was you. It's been you all along."
"Me?" Sal said, feigning innocence. "What, pray tell, have I been doing?"
"At best? Prying into business that isn't yours." Burke stepped towards him, feeling vicious. "And at worst—"
"Please, Micah, your proverbial muscles are outgrowing your tiny T-shirt." Sal waved off his advance as though he were a fly. "I haven't done a thing except ask the right questions of the right people. I mean, really. You didn't think that you— demoted and on the brink of disownment— could go to an Azure psychiatrist and still maintain any sort of privacy, could you? It's no small secret that one of the Order's former finest is cracking up."
"I am not cracking up!" Burke snapped. In spite of himself, though, he began to relax. So it wasn't Sal who had raised the dead in his garden. But someone— likely Dr. Jacobs or one of his assistants— was flapping his gums about it.
"So, then?" Sal poured himself another cup of coffee. "If you aren't losing your mind, then tell me. Are the rumors true?"
"You seem so informed lately. You tell me."
"Well, one can only speculate as to the goings-on of the great House of Burke, now can we? But if I were to speculate, I'd say that your recent experiences are more than just a clash of PTSD and delicate faculties. Someone of import seems to be quite interested in making a point."
"If you know who's doing this, I'd appreciate a straight answer rather than all your damned riddles."
"Truth be told, I haven't the slightest idea. But I'm sure you do, Councilman. I'm sure you know exactly where these 'telegrams' are coming from."
Burke set his jaw.
"If you would only divulge your suspicions, perhaps we can help you. It would come at a cost, of course, and we have already named our price."
Burke raised an eyebrow. We? Since when was Sal Morgan a part of the fold?
"Oh. You haven't heard," Sal said. He looked pleased beyond words.
Burke eyed him warily. "And I'm not sure I want to."
"I'm afraid Councilman Clegg has tendered his resignation as of late. I will be representing the Fifth Demesne as its new Councilman."
"What the hell are you talking about? Elections aren't for another seven months."
"And yet recalls know no schedule, it seems."
Burke looked off, unbelieving. Recalls. Ones that no one had even heard about. Not even him. The Alchemic Order controlled a lot, but this level of treachery bit the artery. He thought at least the political system of the Civic Order was still insulated. He thought the Civilian officials still had procedures, protocol. Did the Alchemic Order's influence really reach this far?
Sal smiled, seeming to enjoy Burke's reactions. "It's a lot to take in, I know. I can barely believe it myself. But when one is called to serve, he must do his duty. Who was I to say no? I am but a humble civil servant."
Burke looked back up, the anger simmering. "How?"
"Quite a messy business it was," Sal said. "And yet, recalls of men in power can crop up so suddenly, especially when Koan terrorists slip in under guarded walls and slaughter nine Civilian lots all at once."
"Eight," Burke snarled.
"Sorry?"
"Eight lots. Nine were attacked, but one survived. As new Councilman of the Fifth, you should commit that to memory. Maybe even do something charitable for the ousted people of your Demesne. Celebrate the resilience of Lot Three to give your people hope. Civic duty, and all."
Sal put down his coffee cup. "Ah yes, the valiant Lot Three. Spared by all manner of luck and pluck. How fortunate for your precious gunsmith Merconius Anon and his two little girls... what were their names again, I can't quite remember..."
"I'm sure you remember well enough."
"You pick the strangest allies, my friend. The weakest allies."
"Yeah? Is that why you stole the Fifth Demesne? Is that why the Anons' shop was the first on your list to shut down? Because they're weak?"
"No. Because you are."
Burke huffed and turned away.
"I ask a favor of you in the Fifth, and you handled it with the barest of Azure confidence. You dropped to your knees before the Civilians, before the Anons, begging for forgiveness like some scarlet woman. I've always wondered at the strange indebtedness you bore towards Merconious and his ilk. As painful as it was for you, however, I'm glad to have helped relieve you of that debt. In coming here, I had hoped you would allow me to relieve you of yet another."
"I owe no debts to you or to the Order."
"Debts are my speciality, my friend. From my count, you are very much in arrears. Very much alone."
"You don't scare me, Sal. I have people on my side. Real friendships extend beyond the Alchemic Order—"
"Nothing extends beyond the Alchemic Order. Whoever your allies may be, they can't be of much import. As I said. You are the rotting apple, and on
ly maggots make homes with the dead." Still calm, Sal reached inside his inner jacket pocket and took out a long silver pen with a matching writing stone. "The repeals of the Articles39. You have a month from today to reconsider my offer. Your titles in exchange for your signature and public support. It's an important decision, Burke. Meditate on it." Sal placed the writing stone on the countertop, and Burke glared at it, seeing that his name had been carved into it in beautiful cursive.
"You remember how to use these, yes? I trust you haven't forgotten everything that makes you an Azure Alchemist."
"Only as much as you've forgotten what makes you human, Sally."
"You serve your justice, I'll serve mine. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to the Guild of Almaut."
"Auditing?"
"Adopting, actually. Two orphans in need of a home. Civic duty to my Demesne, and all that."
Burke raised an eyebrow. "Didn't peg you for the fatherly type."
"Well, I'm not a total monster." Sal smiled. "Good day, Councilman. Thank you kindly for the coffee. It was... refreshing."
He left, and as soon as the front door closed behind him, Burke hurled the writing stone and pen off the counter. The stone cracked, the jagged and toothed bits of it scattering like a crushed headstone, his name scrawled across the pieces.
When Zeika jogged up to the Guild, pulling Manja behind her, she slowed, her eyes stuck on the bustle in front.
What the...
Buses were lined up, but the path to them was blocked off by thick police tape. A massive crowd, teeming and angry, was being held back by a line of APs with assault rifles.
"This is bullshit!" One crowd member near her roared. "We're all citizens of the Civic Order! You can't leave us here!"
In the distance, Zeika could see that a line of people, many of them wolf-moons, filing out of the Guild and boarding each bus. From the murmurs of the crowd, she picked up that the buses were going to take the members to the edge of Demesne Six, where they would then grab the ferry to the Island. To the side, Mama standing on her tip-toes, wrapped in a shawl. Her eyes darted back and forth, searching the crowd.