by Lee Bond
Only that day had never come. That hope had never been fulfilled.
Marcus rarely left the apartment anymore. His mother, blessed woman that she was, sent food and other things over on a regular basis; dear old Meredith Tizhen was too busy herself to come visit, hosting as she was socialite party after socialite party to which he was most distinctly not invited, though he would’ve loved to network with those people.
So he sat, and watched, and waited and secretly prayed for another disaster to hit close to home so he could rush out and volunteer his services once more, even though now the dream of catching his father’s eye with an act of valiance was less possible than ever.
Aurick Vasily Tizhen was no longer OverCommander. He held no physical power in the world. He’d either been stripped of or had voluntarily terminated his status as ultimate commander of the God Army, leaving the dark horse Fenris and his equally dark brethren in charge. And little wonder. When soldiers from the hoary dawn of Latelyspace’s murky past showed up on your doorstep sporting the powers of literal gods, there was very little an ordinary human –even one as impressive as OverCommander Vasily- could do.
Marcus was ashamed to admit, even to himself, that he’d been happy at his father’s fall from grace, though strictly speaking, he supposed it was no fall at all, more of a gentle stepping back. It’d meant –to him- a chance to connect, perhaps, with a man who’d been terrifically absent his entire life.
His brothers and sister, Tiberius, Holmes and Holly, well, they’d never really cared at all one way or the other what their father got up to, if he spoke to them at all, if the man even knew they were still alive; sired later in life, just before he’d shacked up with Alyssa, in fact, they’d been raised to despise the man.
Had he looked at him crosswise, there was every chance they’d’ve launched themselves at him, forks raised.
Marcus groaned and turned his eyes to the windows once more. Still raining. Still, bright flashes of rain crashing into the ground forty floors below. He wished he didn’t care, but he did. And when his father had stopped being OverCommander, well, to say his heart hadn’t exploded with joy at a possible reunion, at the chance to say ‘see, I’m more than a failed actor, I did good with these hands, I did it so you could see I am your son’ was a lie. His heart had blossomed and bloomed in ways he hadn’t thought possible.
But then his father had disappeared for a while, resurfacing a month or so later, only to stay hidden, out of sight, refusing to return any calls, everything.
And then, one day, out of the blue, his father had shown back up on the Screens, calling himself ‘Father Vasily’. Something had happened. Something had changed in the world, some big, monumental shift, and at the center, his father, who was now apparently father to every single God soldier in existence. He was on the Screens all the time, every day, on each of the Big Five, talking about the wonder of the God soldiers, how amazing they were, how grateful he was to be a part of their lives, how humbling it was that these ancient beings looked to him for support, for hope, for … value.
It wasn’t fair. His own father had never made time for him, but he’d made time for them. All of them. All the time.
Marcus stifled his tears for a few seconds, then grinned as the tears poured down. He’d held on there for a solid five seconds this time.
It wasn’t fair. Was he so terrible a son, so awful a person that his own father didn’t want anything to do with him? How was that right? His own mother was a terrible bitch and one of the shallowest people in all of Latelyspace, a trophy wife clinging to the coattails of power that the office of OverCommander had proffered, and even she took time out of her daily schmoozing to ask after him, even it was through one of her assistants.
But his own father? It’d taken months to arrange a meeting, and the message on his prote said that there was only going to be a window of five, perhaps six minutes, during which time they could talk about anything in the world at all.
Five minutes. Six minutes.
How was that fair? Those lumbering giants got to see him all day, every day. Why couldn’t he get an hour? Two hours?
It wasn’t fair.
Not at all.
Something …. Something had to be done.
7. When Two Tribes Go To War
As Garth moved along the rooftop, eyes perpetually scanning his surroundings, Garth was finding it very difficult to forgive himself for missing the fact that he’d been traveling with the King since he’d almost literally stepped into Arcade City.
In retrospect –with hindsight being your typical 20/20- it should’ve been fucking obvious from the beginning; prior to running afoul of Specter, Nicked Jimmy had been a fountain of information, willing to divulge everything and anything he could think of to Fishy-Fish the soon-to-be Gearheaded Blacksmith.
One of those things had been the nature of Arcade City outside Estates and the market zones, which –according to Agnethea- weren’t nearly as grand or as popular or as well-traveled as everyone seemed to think.
In Arcade City, no matter which ‘level’ you traveled through, there were more dangers than other gearheads. More dangers than just the King you summoned. All the other beasts Garth had heard Dark Iron gearheads whisper about as he’d worked on their weapons, from Shaggy Men to Bolt-Necks to Widows’ Peaks, they all traveled as well. Most of them had aeries or dens or castles from which they operated, but there wasn’t a single monster out there in the wilds that didn’t move around Arcade City just as frequently as the gearheads themselves.
In the beginning, all he’d had was Nicked Jimmy’s word and Barnabas had always –always- gotten a bee in his bonnet when things like that came round in conversation, so it’d been easy enough to discount the lack of midnight raids by a ravening horde of ‘Shaggy Men’ as the maunderings of a man so addled with Dark Iron his brain was probably more gear work than crevices and ridges.
Garth cursed, shaking his head as angry swear words trickled from his lips. If he’d been paying more attention, he would’ve noticed. He would’ve. But the mysteries –not to mention fear- of being surrounded by infinitely more stable Cloud particulate, his particular loathing of the very gearheads he serviced … all of that, not to mention his growing hatred of all things Barnabas … well, it was damned lucky he hadn’t been killed by the King.
Obviously the King wouldn’t be harassed by werewolves or a fucking cadre of vampires. The man was King. Why would he waste his time fooling around with monsters summoned up out of the dirt and stone by King’s Will, when all he really wanted was to harvest gearheads for the prize they toted around beneath their skin?
“Fucking King Barnabas Blake the One and Only.” Garth hopped quickly over to another rooftop, tracking his quarry with ease; though it’d been a long time since he’d actually assassinated someone, the sorts of skills he’d picked up, first against the Kith and Kin and then in Special Services, weren’t the sorts that faded over time.
Too many questions percolated through Garth for him to focus properly. How could someone remain awake for thirty thousand years? Where did all those memories go? How and where had Barnabas come across the original designs for Cloud particulate? What was his endgame, really? Did it even involve the Heshii?
From what he’d seen so far, Barnie hadn’t been in any kind of hurry to do anything except wander around like some kind of fucking crusty hobo who spent much of his days harvesting the corpses of dead gearheads. So … less hobo and more psychotic murder-smith.
On and on and on the list of questions blossomed, pushing and pulling their way across the landscape of his mind.
Garth shook his head. He couldn’t believe he’d been traveling with the King the whole time. A reasonable explanation above and beyond all the horrors that’d kept him preoccupied was the specifically perverted form of particulate used in Arcade City; it wasn’t unreasonable to assume that the nanotech trapped in his flesh had –at least partially- hooked into his brain, artfully manipulating him into missing t
he fucking obvious status of his cantankerous travel buddy.
It was an acceptable possibility. Unwanted, for certain, because he liked the idea of being so skillfully manipulated by anyone other than himself about as much as a world without proper potatoes, but it was a good one all the same.
Garth N’Chalez, unwilling sniper, unhappy to be on a damned side quest and even more unhappy that he had to move further inward, where, according to Agnethea, things got more complicated and more devilish every step of the way, sighed miserably and continued following his target.
DarkEye spat endless reams of information against the HUD, flickering out only when his gaze crossed paths with the first of the Obsidian Golems fair Agnethea had –more or less- conned him into killing for her.
At least that was one mystery solved.
The moment Bertram crossed the small square in front of the bread shop he visited every third day, Garth took one long, steady breath, held it for a three count, watched the Obsidian Golem’s head hover into view.
Wait for it… wait for it…
Bertram’s curiously colored eyes, two nearly clear marbles stricken with weirdness, flashed in the artificial sunlight.
Garth pulled the trigger and was up and moving before the last of the Obsidian Golem’s brains hit the cobblestone walkway.
Screams of fright, terror and disgust reached his ears.
Assassination was a fucking dirty game, one he didn’t relish, but his distinct need to get the fuck into the middle of Arcade City, to figure out what the hell was going on, what the King intended on doing with regards to the oncoming Darkness Falling … all of that was of the utmost importance.
Besides, as Agnethea herself had put it …
***
“No one in this place is going to cry over the deaths, sorry,” Agnethea held up a hand by way of mock apology, "assassinations of a handful of Obsidian Golems. Come, do try the fish. I have it brought all the way up from the South. From the River Bendings.”
Garth picked morosely at the fish. He’d murder for a burger. Thinking on the great American meal, the Kin’kithal found himself wondering how Charbo was doing with that whole thing. Had Latelians embraced all things deep-fried as he’d believed, or had the hyper-curious, absurdly healthy-minded race strung the poor galaxy-class chef up by his feet? He genuinely hoped it was the former. Charbo was a good guy. A little too Gordon Ramsay at times, but well, Garth guessed he had the same attitude when it came to all things related to war … so maybe he wasn’t the best judge.
Agnethea frowned, her delicate bee-stung lips puckering cutely. She cursed herself a fool. She was trying to seduce a man who would obviously rather kill her than sleep with her, and not fifteen minutes ago, he’d gone a long rambling story about this woman, Naoko someone or other, that he was absolutely in love with. When she’d pressed for intimate details –she was ancient, she could use or abuse social boundaries as and when they suited her- the burly, arrogant, angry man had just glared at her with quiet fury, brilliant blue eye saturated with inexplicable sorrow, the black glass lens reflecting her own visage.
“I’m not a fan of killing people.” Garth took a sip of water to disguise his own reaction to the ridiculous statement; on the surface, with everything he’d done since coming to Arcade City, anyone looking at his track record would automatically label him ‘homicidal maniac’ and promptly set about looking for the nearest Death Star. “Especially assassinating them. One on one, sure, okay.”
Agnethea snapped her fingers and a liveried butler hurried in, sweeping away Garth’s untouched fish. Another servant ushered in the next course, a steaming plate of meat and vegetables. A faint quirk of triumph stirred at one corner of her mouth as the delicious aroma reached her guest’s nostrils. “Steak and potatoes. From a farm far to the East. Very difficult to come by, Master Nickels. As I explained a short time ago, before your, ah … explanation on the nature of your complex love arrangement, the roads are less safe than you can imagine. There is no easy way to come from the East, save going over the ‘top’ of Arcade City, or rounding out through her bottom.”
Garth flashed Agnethea a look of exasperation over her choice of words, but didn’t say anything. To anyone not him, his ‘relationship’ with Naoko Kamagana was just that. A ‘relationship’. A fiction. The half-EuroJapanese hacker queen had been on her way out-system before the fight with Sa Gurant had gotten underway, and two more years had passed since then. He’d been so busy trying to discover information about Arcade City, Mad Goth King Blake, and a whole host of other things that he hadn’t been able to spare a nanosecond to hunt her down.
And the worst part of it was, he couldn’t trust himself to say anything contrary to Agnethea’s assumptions; she knew he was attracted to her, and she was making absolutely zero attempts in disguising her ardor.
Thus, he dug into the steak and potatoes, reveling in the taste. Around a mouthful of meat the outside world hadn’t seen properly in over thirty thousand years, Garth spoke, “Did you know that your proper cow isn’t even a thing anymore? On the Outside, I mean.”
“Oh?” Agnethea herself wasn’t a fan of steak. She picked at the edges of her vegetables, though.
Garth nodded. “True story. Trinity Itself is a big believer in adopting alien species into the human diet when and if It can. Same with potatoes. They were replaced forever ago with a thing that everyone calls ‘tates’. It’s not even a real potato. It’s a weird ass kind of tuber. Obviously, potatoes are tubers too, but, like, tates are … weird.”
“You are exceedingly attached to food, Master Nickels.” Agnethea gestured with her wine glass at Garth’s empty plate. “Would you like another?”
“Um.” The ex-Specter looked down at his plate. He’d eaten the whole damn thing in the blink of an eye. “Yeah. Ok. Sure.”
Rather than call the butler in to deliver another steak, Agnethea shoved the bottle of wine and the candelabra separating the two aside, pushing her plate across the table when Garth moved his own out of the way. Bemused, Agnethea continued. “What is your fascination with food? It’s obvious to me that it means a great deal to you. I don’t think I’ve ever met a man with your … martial capabilities … that has also gone on about potatoes with such … passion.”
Um.” Garth wanted to bash his head against the wall. He kept saying ‘um’. Sounding like an idiot was way more preferable to any of the other things that might come out of his mouth.
Unluckily for her, he had no intention whatsoever of telling the Queen of Ickford anything important about who he was, or what he was doing, or what he intended on doing. In point of fact, he was super unhappy she even knew he needed air to breath.
Hell, he’d only mentioned the whole thing about Naoko so she’d stop raping him with her mind.
The Dark Iron under his skin coiled and uncoiled, responding to the sincere lust he felt. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t. It wouldn’t. Garth reminded himself who was boss. Specter was contained. All was good.
“Tell me exactly why you want your brethren killed.” Garth laughed at himself. How in the hell had ever pulled off so many diplomatic missions? He was about as subtle as a Mack truck hurtling through a daycare these days. While he waited for Agnethea to collect her thoughts, he tore into the second steak.
Agnethea cleared her throat, dabbing at her lips with an embroidered silk napkin. “I presume that sometime during your travels with our wonderful King Blake, the topic of Obsidian Golems came up?” She continued when her guest nodded. “Then it is also safe to say that much of his … disgust … at what we are became apparent?”
Mouth full of more beef than any one human-sized mouth should ever attempt in one go without choking to death, Garth nodded.
“Obsidian Golems, Master Nickels, are little loved in Arcade City, as I’ve said, and as you’ve no doubt heard before now. I referred to my species as apex predators not too long ago. That is precisely what we are. Through some kink in King’s Will, perhaps one one-hundredth o
f one percent of those who imbibe Dark Iron become as we are, neatly –though in Blake’s opinion, unfairly- bypassing the gauntlet he has set up for his citizens.” It was strange, Agnethea realized, this act of talking freely to someone about who and what she was without seeing instant revulsion, or fear, or unholy outrage on their faces.
Certainly, a large part of that had to do with who and what Garth himself actually was, beneath that armor of his. Agnethea continued when Garth signaled he was paying attention. “At the end of the King’s Gauntlet, if a gearhead survives and makes his way to Arcadia, there is one final King to kill, a so-called Platinum King. The gearhead that does get there is very nearly a perfect vessel, Master Nickels, very nearly in perfect control of his or herself, and is full of almost one hundred percent refined Iron, but not quite. Killing the Platinum King gives the victor the smallest vial of Iron you could ever hope to imagine, holding less than a gram of Iron. Not Dark Iron. Not crudey-crude. Just purified, distilled Iron, and imbibing it transforms that ultimate Kingkiller into something perfect. No one knows what the King intends … intended … with those triumphant people.”
“What does this have to do with Golems?” Garth asked, looking around for something else to eat. He’d burned through that last steak in record time.
“Everything. Nothing.” Agnethea in truth had no idea where to go with her story. She sipped some wine, reflecting. “Where the gearheads who arrive at Arcadia have embraced and controlled their passions and are given power undreamed-of for their efforts, Obsidian Golems, from that final accursed sip become their equals. Instantly. With one notable exception.”
Garth made a noise with his lips. “You guys didn’t learn what these gearheads allegedly learn.”
“Precisely.” Agnethea nodded warmly. “Where our counterparts learn through trial and error, through judgment after judgment, my kind do not. Cannot. Where all save the most sociopathic of Platinum Brigadiers understood the value of patience and caution and the wise application of their newfound powers, Golems …”