Shadow of the Colossus

by Nicole Grotepas

  Aeolionaias took the blade from her and studied it. It was a simple, straight knife with a plain black hilt, a round pommel and a sharp blade. “A combat boot knife. That should do for slashing and keeping someone at bay. The throwing knives won’t work well in combat. Their hilts are a liability. Good only for throwing.”

  “Yes, I know. I just think I need something else, still. My gun is overpowered. It kills easily, but that’s not always what I want. The collateral damage is a lot to ask anyone to be OK with.” Killing was easy. Easily accomplished with the Equalizer. But the aftermath was often not easy. Each death haunted her. They were so final. Even what she’d done to Graf, who had punished her physically in ways no human should be hurt by their partner, still made her question. Had there been a possibility for change? At the time, she was sure it was the right thing to do.

  No. I just need to trust that it was. She pushed thoughts of Graf from her. This wasn’t the time for it.

  “There are many options, Holly Drake.” Aeolionaias stroked his chin and studied her face as though he were considering.

  “Is there something that does more than just kill? Odeon has his staff that he can just carry around with him and sometimes he uses it to lean against like a tall cane.”

  “His modified Ousaba?”

  “Yes.” She laughed at how Yasoans were so literal about the Ousaba.

  Aeolionaias studied the wall. “Swords. Staffs. Weapons for bludgeoning like the mace. Axes and their counterparts from the ancient cultures from Yaso.”

  “All of those are really brutal, except for the staff.”

  Aeolionaias walked to the far end of the wall, looked over it, and then selected something that simply looked like an eight inch handle. He strolled back to Holly, holding the metallic item, his gaze focused more on it than on where he was walking. When he reached her, he smiled and held up the handle in both hands. There was no other word for it. A handle.

  “You want me to use a . . . handle?” she asked, baffled. “Very funny, Aeolionaias. I tell you I don’t want a brutal weapon, so you bring me a useless, bladeless hilt.”

  “Ask the right questions, Holly Drake.”

  She frowned at him. “Ok, is it, er a grenade? No. I don’t want to blow things up. Still too much.”

  “It is not an explosive device. That’s what your aether gun is for.”

  Holly let out a long sigh, putting her hands on her hips in defeat. “Well, just tell me what it is, please.”

  Aeolionaias smiled and turned away from her. He pointed the handle away from her, then pressed a button Holly had’t noticed on the metal handle. A strip of violet aether poured out of the blunt tip of the handle. The stream of light curled out, creating a rope of aether that hung down in a curlicue of light.

  Holly stepped back and gasped. “What is it?” She searched Aeolionaias’s face for a hint.

  He grinned. “An aether whip. Watch.” He straightened his arm hard against his side and the whip unwound itself, swirling around his feet. “Move away, Holly Drake.”

  She complied as he swirled the whip of light around his legs and the brought it over his head in an arc. Then he aimed at the head of an exercise dummy about ten feet away and cast the whip toward it. Holly’s eyes could barely register what happened. The movement of the whip was so quick that she only caught the aftermath. A loud, electric crack echoed around them and the head of the dummy fell to the floor.

  Holly had been thrilled before seeing that. “It’s still too much. I don’t want to cut people’s heads off.”

  “The whipmaster is in command of the lethality of the whip. You can change its strength. It does more.” He turned toward a stand holding swords lining a practice area. Then he swung the whip at them. The end caught a sword around the hilt. With a series of delicate almost imperceptible wrist flicks, the whip caused the sword to lift out of its cradle and then deposit it on the floor next to the stand before coming back to rest on the floor beside him. Holly nodded, intrigued. Aeolionaias explained further. “It doesn’t have to maim or kill. It requires some training. You will be rusty at first. But as you get the skills under your belt, the aether whip can be as delicate as a kitten’s tongue or as rough as a lion’s paw.”

  “How long will it take to master?” Holly asked.

  “Come in everyday for two hours for two weeks. I will teach you, as will my assistant. And then you’ll be passable.”

  “Passable?” she asked, outraged. “I have an entire organization to wipe out. I don’t know. I need something that requires less commitment.”

  “Then this isn’t the weapon for you. Keep the gun.”

  “Ok. You’re right. You’re right. Learning something new requires commitment.” She took a breath, pushing the irritation away. He was right. She was being spoiled. “I’ll do it. Can I take it with me?”

  “You can take it after the training. While it doesn’t have to be lethal, an aether whip isn’t a toy. I don’t want you to attempt to train with it in your home or somewhere else and leave a path of destruction behind you. I’d feel responsible for that, Holly Drake.”

  Damn. It was hard to argue with that sort of logic. And admirable responsibility. It was so annoying.

  “What time tomorrow?”

  “Late afternoon, Holly Drake. We begin at 3:30 in the afternoon. Wear clothes you don’t mind getting singed a bit.” He grinned and bowed.

  * * *

  From Aeolionaias’ training center it only took thirty minutes to walk to Analogue Alley. It was late in the afternoon. The snow had stopped but a chill had replaced it. With the humidity, the cold penetrated Holly to the bones. The numbness had worn off and the cold irritated the scar that the mostly healed wound had left from the knife fight.

  As she strolled through the crowds, Holly fell deep into thought about the whip, the knives, and just what the hell she was doing. It was a moment when, if she considered it too much, she realized she might wake up and wonder whose life she’d started living.

  Her current position was so far from what she’d fantasized for herself as a little girl. This wasn’t what she’d imagined.

  There were worse places to end up, of course. Things were currently much better than what they’d been when she was still in the City of Jade Spires Minimum Security Prison.

  And that was when she knew the thoughts weren’t heading to a healthy place.

  “Holly Drake.” The low, gravelly voice said.

  She stopped and looked around. Houses with steep roofs nestled in an alley between sky-scrapers. Passersby dressed in vintage outfits from various cultures. Yasoan wearing wings and monocles. Centau wearing feather boas and tiny dresses with fringe. And nearby, a bamboo sign with the words All Things Analogue etched into it.

  Without realizing it, Holly had made it to Analogue Alley and Iain Grant was standing in front of her, his head cocked to one side, his arms crossed over his chest. Rather than an outfit meant to convey strength and authority—which was how he’d dressed when he was in command of the tanker—he wore loose black trousers and a navy blue jacket over a white shirt. It was as though he’d never depart from some shade of naval attire.

  “Scotch, hey,” Holly said, suddenly coming back to herself.

  “Grant. I prefer Grant. Did I never tell you that? Scotch is for Gabe and maybe the drinking buddies I pretend to hate, though I do sort of hate the bastards,” Grant said, falling into step beside her. He carried a dark bottle of wine in one hand.

  “And you’ve just been allowing me to introduce you as Scotch?” she asked, mortified. Why didn’t you say something sooner?” She continued on her path toward Angelo’s.

  He shrugged and laughed softly. “I agree. It was terrible of me. But to be honest, it’s never been a good time. Either I’d have to tell you that in front of Gabe, or your crew. If I said it in front of Gabe, then he’d know how much I really despise the name, and due to the longer history, it would be an even more awkward situation. If I said it to you in front of your
crew, well, that would just be mean.” He paused as though thinking. “Have we been alone where you addressed me as Scotch? I don’t think so. Anyway, I apologize for that. It is one of those things that becomes increasingly awkward over time, isn’t it?” He smiled at her. “Now, it seems that I remember that you have other reasons to come so near my shop. Or is it my lucky day and you’ve found a purpose to come see me? Other than your standard requests to command tankers that are bound to be hijacked?”

  The air between them seemed to crackle and turn electric. Holly glanced sidelong at him and saw a spark in his eyes. The gray at his temples had never seemed so . . . something. Something other than indication of how much older he may be than her. She turned her head to glance at the bottle of wine again. “That depends. Who do you intend to drink that bottle of wine with?”

  “Oh, this. I was going to drink it alone, until I saw you. Yes, well, I have a long night of inventory ahead of me. I sneaked out to grab the wine before my sole helper leaves for the night. He has a gala. Some costumed affair at some posh Centau residence.”

  “Does that mean I’m invited to come have a drink with you?” Her stomach leapt at the thought, much to her dismay and total confusion. What was happening? Grant?

  “Ah, I wouldn’t want to bore you with the process of counting supplies,” he laughed, softly, and suddenly seemed intent on the pathway in front of them, which was crowded with bodies adorned in what Holly had come to consider the standard styles of those who came to Analogue Alley.

  “Really? Invited and then turned down in a matter of seconds,” she said, gasping in mock surprise. “I do believe this is a record.”

  They’d reached the stairs for Angelo’s, which was about fifteen more steps past Grant’s art shop.

  “Angelo’s place. That’s right,” Grant said, watching her ascend the stairs from the bottom. “Come by for a glass, then, if you’re not daunted by the idea of seeing a man count tubes of oil paint. I somehow think nothing frightens you, however, Holly.”

  “You’d be surprised at the sort of non-threatening things that might scare me off.” She turned to look down at him. His gaze stirred the smoldering embers in her stomach.

  “Please come by,” Grant said.

  “No promises,” she laughed and ran up the remaining steps to enter Angelo’s.

  TEN

  She shut the door behind her, and took five deep breaths, hovering in the entryway, baffled by what had just happened.

  Baffled and intrigued as hell. And hungrier for a touch than she remembered being in ages.

  Am I becoming a massive player?

  “Holly, dear!” Angelo’s voice came from the back of his shop. “Come in, come in! Have a cup of kasé! Or tea. Do you take tea? I can’t remember.”

  She sauntered in, running her hands through her hair. She typically sported a ponytail, but it was loose today, draping over her shoulders and shielding her neck from the cold. “Normally kasé, but I’ve had enough for the day. So maybe tea?”

  “I have just the tea for you,” Angelo said. “I’ll bring it right out. Have a seat in one of your favorite chairs.”

  She looked around and then plopped down on her favorite wing-backed chair. No one would ever buy it if Holly kept sitting on it. The springs were already quite worn—but Angelo always encouraged her to use it. An electrical floor-lamp glowed down on the display area with a yellow light that accentuated the floral design of the crushed velvet. Her booted feet curled onto their sides, relaxed on a tattered patterned rug. Holly inhaled and leaned back into the embrace of the armchair. “This is more like it,” she said with a sigh. She could forget about the man who existed beyond the door. What was he doing now? Filling a glass of wine? He’d seemed nervous suddenly, once he’d invited her to his shop. Before that he’d been full of bravado, as though he was confident that she was just one of the guys. A buddy to kick back with.

  What was so strange about it, about him inviting her back to his shop for wine?

  She took a deep, exploratory breath, looking for that comforting scent of Angelo’s shop—the odors of a far away Earth. The homeworld. The must and mildew of ages. There was an old book on top of a small, wooden end table beside her. She picked it up and flipped through the pages, inhaling the dusty scent of paper.

  Angelo appeared in the aisle and handed her a saucer and cup of tea. “Here you are.”

  She accepted the cup and thanked him, setting it on the end table to allow the tea to steep.

  “It’s from a small region on Yaso. Grown here, of course. But the strain is minty yet calming.” Angelo sat in the empty gold velvet chair opposite her. “Winter, eh. Keeps us on our toes. Reminds us of the ingenuity of civilizations.”

  “Yes, and your shop is the warmest place in this city. It’s not just the actual heat. There’s something else warm about it. The lighting. The colors.” She looked around as she said it. “And you, of course.” She smiled at him.

  “Thank you, dear girl. Ah, did I ever tell you? I was successful in getting that machine to work and play the cassette. And Holly, I heard the muted strains of The Bee Gees.”

  Holly grinned at him. “You didn’t tell me. What was it like?”

  “Mind-blowing,” he said. “It tickled the neurons in my brain and I felt as though ancient ancestors were speaking just to me. Come, I’ll play it for you.” He rose and went to the back of his shop.

  She followed him, leaving the tea on the table. She’d come back for it. At his counter, she stopped and leaned on her forearms while he rummaged through old things and then produced the machine that would play the cassette. “I had to adapt certain things, but the beauty of it is that this machine produces the sound quite well.”

  He put the cassette into the device and then punched a button. Angelo twisted a knob on the front of it. A sound riddled with warbling tones emanated from the speakers. The music was tinny and unfleshed, but she could hear it. A smile crossed her face, as well as Angelo’s.

  “It’s catchy,” Holly said.

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Pretty amazing, Angelo,” Holly said.

  “It’s like being there. Back on Earth.”

  “I think you and I are the only ones in all of the Yol system who care about Earth. Well, and the people at the Earl’s Crown.”

  “We are kindred spirits like that, aren’t we.”

  The music continued in the background. Holly remembered her tea and went back to the armchair to take a sip. Angelo followed her, leaving the music playing. “How did your friend receive his gift? The watch?”

  Holly’s cheeks burned. “This tea is good. Hot,” she said, hoping Angelo blamed the blush on the tea. “Er, I haven’t given it to him yet.”

  “Ah, too bad. A watch like that needs to be in its home.”

  “That’s a strange thing to say, Angelo. What does it mean?”

  “Well, nothing much dear, except that it was made on Earth by a watch-maker of fame. Didn’t I tell you this?” He furrowed his brow at her, his white eyebrows nearly touching.

  “No, you didn’t.” She sipped the tea absently, sitting on the edge of her chair, leaning toward him as though to pull the story from him.

  “I meant to, I believe. Well, when you brought it to me, as I was fixing it, I saw a notation on it, but thought nothing of it. Later, I ran into the symbol again and that was when I discovered that the notation is a mark of a former world-renowned maker. Dead of course, lived on the Earth. But some collectors look for his stuff. They trade for it. Spend billions of novas on it.”

  “Then I need to make sure he gets it back. It had sentimental value. I didn’t know it also had actual real-world value.”

  “Ah, yes, yes. Indeed.” Angelo scratched a puff of white hair above his ear and glanced around uncomfortably.

  They chatted about other things as Holly finished her tea. She’d partially come to Angelo’s to get a gift for Elan and had intended to go to the school to see him afterward. But bumping into Grant,
then thinking about Shiro’s watch, well, Holly’s inner world suddenly felt a mess. So, when the tea was gone and the conversation dwindled, she said goodnight to Angelo with an embrace and two besos, and left the warmth of the shop behind, carrying the yellow glow of her second home back out into the cold.

  * * *

  Dusk was settling and the soft gas lamps of the alley were lighting up. Holly lingered at the foot of the stairs of Angelo’s Golden Age. She stared across the alley toward Iain Grant’s shop, indecisive.

  Her original plan was to head to Elan’s. She ought to stick to that.

  She began walking, still unsure of where her feet were carrying her.

  As she neared the art shop, she stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked up at the door. The crowds moved around her, scuttling away through the velvet glow of the lighting, drawing their cloaks and coats tighter around them. The sign creaked in the wind, blowing to and fro where it hung at the foot of the steps near her. She muttered to herself, reading it aloud and smiling. Create Like Your Life Depended On It. Now that she knew him a bit better, it wasn’t such an odd name.

  The joke when she ran into him earlier had been that she was afraid of nothing. That was certainly not true. Not going to Grant’s would stem from fear. And she was, admittedly, a bit afraid to go.

  But there was no reason to be afraid. He was simply a man, who she respected. Almost a crew-member, but not quite.

  She climbed the stairs and opened the door to his shop. Her heart thundered so loud in her ears that she almost didn’t hear him greet her from somewhere buried in the aisles of his shop. She still wasn’t sure what showing up was committing to. A relaxed gab session with drinks? That’s what she would bank on. And she pushed the other thoughts away.

  “You made it for a drink after all,” Grant said, striding up to her, rubbing his hands together. She’d been looking at the canvas supplies, curious about how a person made decisions about what they would use as their medium.