Tearing Down The Statues
Brian Bennudriti
Copyright © 2015 Brian Bennudriti
ISBN-13: 978-0-692-55855-3
All rights reserved.
DEDICATION
This is for my dad, who probably still has stuffed away in a box somewhere the mystery story I wrote him in pencil, for when I got famous. Thanks for the long chats – it means everything.
CONTENTS
Prologue
Ch 1 There is no self, only the Record
Ch 2 Let them rage
Ch 3 Five visitations
Ch 4 A cannon off the wheels
Ch 5 The Rauchka Sniper
Ch 6 Interlude: Hammers
Ch 7 The truth about tathlum
Ch 8 There’s no hope for it now, son
Ch 9 To question is a fearful thing
Ch 10 Nothing in the sky
Ch 11 Screaming
Ch 12 Eaten alive by ideas
Ch 13 Strange companions in the morning mist
Ch 14 From the terrace
Ch 15 Interlude: The pain seller
Ch 16 While you sit munching grass…
Ch 17 As always with treason
Ch 18 Siege
Ch 19 Loss
Ch 20 The battle of Alson
Ch 21 A new Warmaster
Ch 22 The bell tower
Ch 23 You can’t choose your family
Ch 24 Clash of the fleets part 1
Ch 25 Mystique
Ch 26 Clash of the fleets part 2
Ch 27 He gave me a name
Epilogue
“When a story is old, it is powerful. If I write your myths simply and speak for your generation with things that seem new…if I tickle what you want to believe, and give you something to be, then when false details blossom and my myths live in the words of your politicians and artists, you will know I am flowering like a lily in spring. And I will seize your heart – not by your throne, but by your theater.”
-The Salt Mystic, when asked if she could die
PROLOGUE
“Just bring me two so I don’t have to wait. Right, big guy?” A flatrunner sailor slung his face mask onto the zinc bartop, smelling of chlorine. The regulars called him Munchy because he loved the dried fruit from the cinnabar bowls kept about in the resthouse. Two enlisted sailors and a young wide-eyed officer quickly slid next to him smiling and asking after his latest mission. Although all flatrunner sailors were considered a bit mad in those days, feverishly riding electrostatic charges ripped from the very salt of the cotton-white flats, scouts like Munchy would be the first to tell of furious smoking skirmishes in the shimmering borderlands of his patrol.
Munchy grinned and made up a stirring fancy about being separated from his squadron and coming across a war engine, only approaching the truth as the bartender pushed over his usual: buttered white ale, lightly sweetened as they take it in Mevin or Tobin, the twin cities of the salt flats. Afterwards, he was still smiling as he looked around at the faces in the resthouse.
“Ghost Dogs ooh rah!!.” At this, those beside Munchy echoed his cry, smiling and holding up their cups in salute. It was only an ironic moment later when the chatter died off crisply as a stranger stepped into the doorframe shadows.
Tall and intense, in the old style military uniform only with the jacket open and the collar loose, he stood threateningly silent at the entrance scanning the room. It was commonly known there were wandering Rauchka generals left over from the last hot war, who never traveled alone and who were watched for controlling hand signals by still-loyal snipers and hidden troops. Several of those in the room fired up their weapons aiming directly at the stranger.
“Watch his hands. It’s how he calls them”, the young cinnamon-haired officer whispered to Munchy.
No one fired; and no one moved apart from the general as he walked slowly across the room towards the bar.
The young officer leaned more closely in, his face smelling of blueberry genever, “You never know how many there are. If he’s really a Brigadier, then we’ve been infiltrated. He’s got guys in this room.”
Munchy scratched his nose as he looked at the familiar faces in the resthouse; and he wasn’t the only one doing this.
“I know everyone here.”
“You think you do.” The young officer leaned back to an upright position as Munchy looked again at his face for a sign of how to take what he’d just said. It was only then, from the edge of his vision that he realized the Brigadier was walking directly to him.
The nation nestled in the mountains past the Yagrada river had been a smoking threat to the Salt Flat nation for a generation, since the days following the death of the last Warmaster, Old Man Talgo. As with the harassment and reconnaissance missions these sailors conducted every day, it was given that the Mountain and Salt peoples were in an irreconcilable and simmering cold war. The Rauchka were wild cards because their loyalty was, and always had been, unclear, particularly at this point as they no longer even constituted a coherent people. A wandering Rauchka general walking into a crowd of flatrunner sailors was unprecedented.
Ginger and timid, Munchy watched as the Brigadier strode to two paces in front of him, boots sliding and thudding on the barfloor’s grit, and looked directly in his eyes. No one had left their seats; and it was softly quiet in the resthouse.
“Tell Cassian what I’ve done here today.” It was a gravelly voice, breaking subtly but commanding even in its softness. His sun-leathered face was scarred and tired.
There was a moment where it seemed the Brigadier was waiting on acknowledgement from Munchy, an acknowledgement he only received as a confused furrow. Not everyone in the resthouse could hear what the general had said. He broke the trance and looked around once again at the array of flatrunner sailors, some staring in anxiety and some still pointlessly aiming carbines. Munchy surveyed the faces again with a slowly dawning understanding of what was about to happen…what the Brigadier had meant.
The general suddenly spun to walk towards the doorway, more deliberate and methodical than hurried, holding up his right hand with fingers bent like a stretched claw. At that, slaughter exploded the crowded barroom in a madhouse of thunder and confusion. Munchy dove under the zinc bartop and looked quickly at the young officer just in time to see his left eye and cheek opened up by a railgun slug. The carnage was quick and merciless, conducted by two men and a lady from within the room, familiar faces who’d drunk and laughed there for months. There were likely others firing from windows, it would have been difficult to say.
Some sailors tried to run for the back into the gaming parlor or to hide under tables. Some started firing their carbines madly, hardly aiming at all, their carbon breakers clicking and snapping as the room lit up with lightning. There was a man blubbering on the floor holding his jaw in place. Munchy had just closed his eyes and bent to the floor when the fury abated. It was silent again when he cautiously opened his eyes.
1 THERE IS NO SELF, ONLY THE RECORD
Although thinner than in previous years, crowds of onlookers still formed to watch the zeppelin shuttles glide softly to dock with the airpark tower, framed beautifully against the jutting mountains. Many of these were sightseers in to see the blooming algae gardens terraced on the gneiss cliffs and which speckled the majestic mountain city. A mildly hallucinogenic algae wine, sana drove the local economy on many levels, but particularly drew speculation investment in the hustling days before a holiday such as this.
A young Recorder stood waiting near the cargo bins, his forehead carrying the lava red and ash black tattoo of his calling. Stepping into place beside him was an awkward and gangly fellow who’d come perhaps not to obtain packages or to greet a trav
eler, but rather just to see the dirigible up close. His voice was squeaky; and his stomach pouched tightly in a sharp pear shape peeking out from beneath his shirt. A girl who was perhaps his sister, younger than him but attractive and clearly not sharing the young man’s interests, was tagging along reluctantly.
“Daelin, do we really have to do this again? You’re driving me crazy.”
“Won’t take long.”
“You absolutely said that yesterday. I am not spending the rest of the morning staring at balloons again.” She smiled at the Recorder when he glanced at her tan face. He liked that but wasn’t supposed to.
“That’s one of the Corsair class coming in. You can tell by the shape of the nose. This one has some really nice enginework.” He hesitated and hadn’t yet looked at the Recorder’s face, though his tone and volume were certainly intended to solicit agreement or reciprocated enthusiasm. Instead, his eyes lingered on the mooring lines being thrown over black capstans ringing the heights of the docking tower like he was looking at ice cream.
“They used them for evacuations during the war…”
“Big toys, Daelin. Like you’ve got scattered all over your room. Let’s gooooooo.”
The Recorder glanced again at Daelin’s sister, to which she responded by smiling again and rolling her eyes, shaking her head to signal how unfashionable she felt was this conversation.
“You wouldn’t believe the lift capacity this thing has. Look at that on the tail there…” Daelin at that point glanced over as he pointed to ensure the Recorder’s eyes were following him, but at last noticed the Recorder’s forehead, recognizing him for his nature and charge.
“Oh…”
The Recorder still hadn’t as yet said anything and remained as quiet while Daelin began to fumble a bit, “I didn’t know you were…”
Daelin still pointed upwards toward the dirigible, but loosely and awkwardly, “It’s got a uhh..it’s got a hook to connect to others like it. They can make a train. Look, we need to go.”
“That’s it?” The young man’s sister raised her eyebrows at her brother’s discomfort. It wasn’t uncommon, the fear of the Record.
“Yeah, we need to go do some things. Come on. Sorry, okay?” In a fit of escape, Daelin just turned and started lightly jogging away, glancing around himself trying to appear as if he’d intended to exercise all along and was hard at it now. He called again for his sister when she didn’t leave straight away; and she lingered an apologetic grin and waved as she at last followed her brother. The Recorder watched her leave and then watched the place in the crowd where she had left. He squinted against the morning sun and scratched the back of his head before stepping around the tower to idly watch the stevedores slough packages.
A short line of awaiting passengers stood at the base of another tower, shuffling in position or scanning the top of the stairs for a signal they could board. Colorfully, there was a tiny twig of a boy in a uniform that was yet too big for him with a stuffed duffel bag at his feet and an anxious stare on his face. He was looking into the eyes of someone who might have been his father, leather faced and tattooed on his arms, skinny and traveled, who was giving him guidance on how to behave wherever the boy was going. The Recorder hesitated to absorb the moment.
Sometime later and of greater significance, as often happens in crowds an interesting face had caught his precise attention. With wide eyes and a mad open grin, a spiked shock of chestnut hair, a fellow bending down to leave the shuttle leaned against the black rails atop the airpark tower. It isn’t important to describe all the details of sunlight and time, noises and colors, words said in the buzzing crowds and all, of which the Recorder made note because that is what they do and it goes without saying. What was new was that the strange grinning fellow was looking pointedly at the Recorder’s face. He waved and started down the coal-black graphite stairway in a rush.
It is difficult to explain without describing the aggressive hypnotic and chemical training of a Recorder in their youth, their traditional role in the highest imperial and Warmaster courts, and the deepest integrity and dedication as was core to their collective identity why it was one didn’t simply saunter up to a Recorder and say hi.
“Hi, Jo Jo. I can help you carry something if you like. Say, who is that sculpted up there on the mountain?” The stranger was still grinning as he pointed his thumb to a majestic carved figure of a man on a mountain face overlooking the wide Yagrada valley, sculpted from the rock with an outstretched hand through the rock fingers of which a natural waterfall flowed.
The Recorder tapped his forehead tattoo, “Perhaps you did not notice…”
“Jo Jo, Skipdance, Habilu…whatever. What do you want to be called? My name is Ring. I certainly can’t just call you, ‘Recorder’ – what if another one walks by and I’m trying to talk to you? The carving, man, who is it?”
Stunned and moving his eyes from the cascade then back to this odd stranger, the Recorder started again.
“This Recorder is waiting on his package, then he is going to leave. It is not appropriate for you to directly address a Recorder in public nor is it seemly to suggest he bear a proper name.”
“Right. Right. So I’ll call you Misling, yes?” At this, the Recorder’s eyes locked for that was a word he knew well and it had been nuanced correctly. It was a Mast word, a meta-language charged with intricate layers of meaning and one which Recorders used to transfer highly detailed information among themselves such as when they preserved their pool of lives before dying. Ring looked casually down the broad avenue leading toward the awakening marketplace as if he wasn’t aware what he’d just said.
“Listen, I’m not exactly sure where I am; and you probably know lots of interesting things, so I’ll just go with you.” Ring nodded at the Recorder like he was doling advice on how to remove a stain. The Recorder examined this stranger again at full attention as he had been indoctrinated to do when something potentially of some significance occurred.
“You certainly will not.”
Ring creased his forehead, “You know, you’re a bit of a pain. I mean, you won’t tell me about the mountain face, you’re stuffy; and now you give me grief when I even offer to help you carry your thingie – is this it?”
He leaned into the package chute and lifted a small wooden box the color of barley, sealed with hemp twine, which the stevedores had slid from topside out of the dirigible’s cargo hold. With a final glance to the cascading mountain face, Ring started down the few stairs to the dusty market street leading to Alson’s oldest marketplace, mumbling along the way.
“…so you come across as really pretentious. I mean, I obviously don’t know anybody, you could at least be neighborly and say a few insightful things – maybe comment on my trip or ask where I’m from. Something. It’s obvious you’re getting all feathered up-“
The Recorder, following within earshot, interrupted passionately, “This Recorder is NOT feathered up-“
“Sure you are – and you’re stuffy too. Where are we going?”
The Recorder trotted quickly alongside Ring and seized the thin box for himself.
“This Recorder is not stuffy nor is he feathered up. You however are impudent and a troublesome busybody. Do you even understand what this means?” He tapped the tattoo on his forehead once again to make a point, the ancient wheels within wheels symbol of the Salt Mystic.
“I know it isn’t an advanced apology for being rude and stuffy.”
The Recorder huffed before pacing quickly toward the still silent market stalls. Resin automatons the color of thin milk twisted and bent fluidly, mutely arranging fresh vegetables, meats, breads and sana in terraces for display. There were vendors sweeping and talking to neighbors about the day’s prices as the orange sunrise stretched long shadows across the cobblestone courtyard’s masonry and ruined monuments.
The plaza traditionally exploded with noisy commerce once the market opened; but for the moment it was serene and pleasant with only the sounds of sweepi
ng and murmuring and the bubbling of a ledgestone courtyard fountain. Two small boys and a girl sported around a morbidly obese sculpture commonly called, ‘the market god’, beside which were lanterns and an oak coin box. One of them was whispering into the statue’s ear and giggling, ready to run clasping his own ears and await the first thing he heard said beyond the market’s walls for a fortune or answer.
At the stalls, there was an official of some kind wearing a golden insignia on his linen collar, who was slowly making his way around to each vendor and taking notes as he went. As Ring watched standing alongside the Recorder, he caught that none of the vendors to whom the official had spoken seemed pleased with whatever they’d been told. Two or three actually shouted at the official as he passed.
“Misling, what’s that guy saying?”
The Recorder cast an impatient look, then answered as was his obligation, “He is a market official and a representative of Judge Talgo charged with establishing Alson’s commission rates and the pricing range for the day. Once he has gauged the market, he will update the glass board there and communicate today’s rates and pricing, authorizing the vendors and customers to begin the traditional bidwars.”
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