Tearing Down The Statues

by Brian Bennudriti

  7 THE TRUTH ABOUT TATHLUM

  “We’re out of money again, lovey.” An unattractive woman with a limp and a nose only a little twisted to one side accosted Revin beside the lobby statuary. ‘Written on the Water’ was a glamorous diplomat’s hotel in better times, and one whose lobby side rooms and private dinner halls decided the course of nations over wine. In these days, it was only one of many obscure places to stay in Alson’s glutted hotel district and so stood as a good place for meetings beyond public attention.

  “When are you going to find out something?” Her teeth were stained and her manner familiar and common. Revin hugged her wide body, kissing her lightly. His personal Recorder stepped further to the side, a respectful distance.

  “Don’t you start again. I thought you were meeting with Rhelsea?”

  “She changed her mind. I’m a little too posh for her now, I think.”

  “And Mendine?”

  “Her too.” He gauged her expression, clearly trying to read the depth of her disappointment in the failed plans. At last, he broke eye contact and glanced toward the glass doorway beyond a bed of smooth river rocks enshrouding dancing flames.

  “I have a breakfast meeting right now. Where are you going to be?”

  “You’re boring. Maybe I’ll go find me a man.” She grinned awfully, purring, and twisted her hip to bump it against his.

  “I’ll come join you when I’m done.” Revin looked at the woman expectantly, almost awkwardly so, attempting a communication which was lost on her. His bumpy forehead ridged like a sand dune.

  “Is your idiot boss coming?” She asked this in a comfortable manner as she straightened some curls in her frilly blouse, betraying the commonality of such references toward Judge Wentic. Revin glanced urgently at his Recorder, then to the olive knotted carpet at his feet.

  “I need you to go…you know…find something to do, right now.” He raised his voice, driving her crooked smile to fade. She locked eyes with him and watched his face for a reaction.

  “Maybe I’ll have breakfast with you and your big visitor.”

  “I just need you to leave. Don’t talk to me if he comes in. And he’s coming any time now. Just go find something to do.” The woman’s smile was entirely gone, a hurt look filling its absence. She watched him, waiting on him to soften or apologize. He only glanced nervously at the door, suddenly inhaling sharply as someone entered.

  The new arrival was in uniform, a sunset-red jacket studded with military ribbons and a gold braided aiguillette encircling one shoulder. He walked loosely, uncomfortably. Revin started to scurry toward him by instinct.

  “You talk to me like that and walk away?” The woman called after him, louder than was comfortable for Revin; and he sped up. The uniformed man noticed; but only gestured a greeting.

  “Joy and health. Rhodomontane?” Revin held his forearms forward, palms upward as if he were catching someone falling, in a salute that hadn’t been used in a generation but which still appeared in fiction.

  “Yeah. You too.” Rhodomontane’s rough voice and uncouth demeanor were oddly out of place coming from their well-groomed and sterile source. He paid too much attention to the awkward salute: a true gentleman wouldn’t comment on it.

  “We uhh…we don’t do that anymore. You’re Revin?”

  “Armaments Chief and Judge’s Counselor, Revin, yes.”

  “Yeah.”

  Revin eyed the aristocrat, jostling a bit for some sort of societal status. He took the lead with a wave of his hand toward the café. Rhodomontane seemed uneasy with the personal Recorder’s attendance, but didn’t request an abeyance.

  “Into the sana shop for some conversation?”

  Rhodomontane fluffed the back of his jacket before sitting, then ordered a hot sana. He asked that some of the algae be left in the glass and didn’t remove his riding gloves. Revin had water. They chatted idly for a short time, mostly harmless observations on retail sales and welfare policies and that somewhat one way from Revin. It came quite suddenly when the tone of the conversation shifted.

  “So, Judge’s Counselor Revin, maybe you can tell me why you’re so stupid.” Rhodomontane’s expression was dry and emotionless. Revin breathed in some of his water and coughed uncomfortably while awaiting his voice to dry out.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Don’t be a pansy. Own your actions. You’ve been play acting at alliance-building in Sullion and Rangel. Cassian’s been watching that. You’ve got to be just awful at this to not know that.”

  “I routinely run…you know…diplomacy missions for Wentic, extending financial aid to some of the provinces. Your Marshal’s information is bad. Please pass that along.”

  “You’ll recall the fellow Dunsinore you met at Sullion? The one you extended financial aid to?” Revin nodded, pasty and watching too long the ripples in his water.

  “I beat in his left cheek with a piece of steel. He remembers your visit differently.” Rhodomontane’s pallid face was solemn, menacing in his crisp and pressed uniform. His medals clinked softly as he shifted in his seat. Revin had no answer right away.

  “It’s an act of war, idiot. Does the Judge even know what you’re up to…scooting about promising like a kid and playing mind games with heads of state?”

  “You are entirely out of line, sir! You come from an enemy nation, presumably on a peace discussion, and make baseless accusations and blatant threats against me. In the presence of my Recorder. You will doubtless hear again from me and see the fallout from your recklessness!” Revin made to leave, but stopped short when he heard the Salt Flatsman’s response.

  “What is tathlum?” Rhodomontane was yet as calm as he’d been, although Revin was livid. Revin’s fascination with the turn of topic was clear. Possibly, he saw leverage therein.

  “What have you heard?”

  “The woman you were speaking with when I entered is staring at us from behind that column. Can you please deal with that so we can get something done here?”

  Revin turned bird-like and stood at once. He incautiously left the table without asking leave and stepped beyond the column to speak harshly to the woman. Their voices were uncomfortably loud; and the woman smacked Revin’s face across the chin.

  During the interchange, Rhodomontane turned to the Recorder, grinning thinly. He looked back to his glass to swirl the remnant sana against the curled algae coils, “I’ve got just a crazy surprise for him. You’ll love it.”

  The shameless couple continued in their bleatings, Revin only occasionally glancing behind himself becoming increasingly impatient with the duration. At last, he pulled his right arm back and punched her in the stomach, causing her to double over and take a step back. She was crying and out of breath, looking up at him horrified. He glanced back again and returned to the table. She wouldn’t break her stare for a moment, then took a deeper breath and straightened her hair a bit. She rubbed her dark-ringed eyes and arched her plump back straight before at last leaving the hotel for the bustling sidewalk outside.

  “Hard core, Revvie.” Rhodomontane’s hands were locked idly behind his head as he leaned back comfortably watching Revin.

  “You asked about tathlum. What have you heard?” He was still catching his breath from the adrenalin, making his voice quiver like he was frightened.

  “What is it?”

  “Tell me the…you know…details of what’s made it to you. It’s very important. Be as specific as you can.”

  “Right. Mindgames.” Rhodomontane leaned strategically forward for emphasis and impact. “I’ve heard, Armaments Chief and Judge’s Counselor, that tathlum is a caricature and farcical piece of rubbish that you’re using to retain your position. I’ve heard it’s entirely fiction with no basis in reality. I’ve heard that it’s a hammer.”

  “More details, less opinion. Recount the actual conversations please. Stick to the original words as much as you can. The details matter with this sort of thing.”

  “Start talking, fruitcake. Expla
in yourself.”

  Revin’s slotted eyes squinted threateningly, “This isn’t a…you know…palace intrigue. You’re playing with someone of fierce authority and merciless reach. I asked you a question.”

  “I don’t care what you asked. You’re the one popping around with a bagful of stupid.”

  Revin let his voice take on an edge through gritted teeth yet still at a soft volume, “You’ve arranged your future with your disrespect.” It came off as forced and false, however, like something from the theater which he was mimicking. Certainly, it didn’t impact as had been hoped.

  “Tathlum’s a fairy tale, isn’t it?” Rhodomontane watched Revin cautiously. “You’re futzing with something on a bigger scale, something audacious…the kind of thing the Salt Mystic babbled about when she was withered and ridiculous…an event bomb, huh? Slow burning…dissolve a nation? You little creep, you wouldn’t know what to do if it worked.”

  Revin grinned purposefully – whether betraying pride at a curtain drop before his masterpiece or a false lead seizing advantage, it was difficult to see.

  Rhodomontane continued, “You’re an idiot and a child. What does your little sissy heir apparent think about your dabbling? Does he even know?”

  “I see our time together is…you know…without gain. You offer me no data; and your posturing is misguided.”

  “Posturing.” At that, Rhodomontane slowly nodded, thought for a moment, then slid his right hand up to pinch his earlobe. Very suddenly, his face cracked clean through on his forehead, cheeks, and nose and peeled downwards into a spongy gray ProMat sphere, dropping off the grizzly mocha chin beneath like a raindrop. It plinked on the tabletop softly as he slipped off the riding gloves and tossed them into Revin’s face.

  “Grebel.”

  “Yeah, baby.” For his part, Revin was clearly taken by surprise and fear, without a clear direction for where to take the conversation from here. Grebel had for a generation been right-hand to Cassian Talgo of the Salt Flats and had largely raised Cassian’s impulsive son. His presence here, discussing acts of war with a Judge’s Counselor was an era-shattering event that would shake two nations if it was publicly known.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “I don’t get the glitzy Salt Mystic mumbo jumbo; but I can tell a loser in over his head; and he smells like you. Now, you’re going to explain in high detail what you’ve been up to and why you’re so anxious to know my mind about tathlum, in freaking writing with smiley faces on it if I say so…using words that make sense. And I swear, you sickening little polyp, if you give me any crap or start making up stories, I will smash in the side of your face.”

  “No.” Revin watched clear ripples bounce against the glass in his hand. Grebel smiled widely, no doubt pleased at the prospect of pushback providing him an excuse for coercion.

  “I’m not sure what restraint you feel is in place on me right now, little man.”

  “I didn’t…anticipate. I don’t understand why you would be in disguise. It doesn’t fit your…I mean, isn’t there really a Rhodomontane?” Revin had entirely lost his poise.

  At that moment, the unmistakable rattlesnake sizzle of a ball lightning carbine charging up sounded and vibrated the cherry tabletop. Grebel’s expression didn’t change; and it was entirely unclear how he’d kept the weapon hidden.

  “Not really planning to spend a lot more time jawing with you here, Revvie. What does Stendahl know about what you’re doing?”

  “He doesn’t care.” Revin’s forehead had gone shiny; and he continued to watch his water. It was here that a dull and muffled boom sounded from outside. It was such a soft sound and so out of place that neither of them came off their discussion, though Grebel glanced for just a moment toward the glass doorway.

  “Doesn’t care or doesn’t know?”

  “You just wouldn’t hide yourself, it isn’t you. Why were you in disguise?”

  “Momentum was against me. How much of tathlum buckshot is real?” Grebel immediately recognized his tactical mistake upon asking, reflected in Revin’s eyes the old soldier’s betrayal of how little knowledge he’d previously held. Some motion outside the glass caught his eye.

  “You know less than you had let on”, Revin said.

  “What was Sullion about...” Grebel glanced again out the front doorway, which was misted over suddenly. His voice trailed a bit following his attention.

  “What’s happening out there?” Revin turned in his seat and followed Grebel’s line of sight.

  “Stand up.” Grebel seized Revin’s hair and jerked upwards, driving the counselor in the direction of the lobby’s entrance. Ghost silhouettes of people were walking quickly and looking behind them, shrouded in the shadows of adjacent buildings. At some point, he charged down the carbine and slipped it around a shoulder holster, though continuing to grip Revin by the crown of his head. There were screams in the distance, audible even through the glass.

  The Recorder slipped behind them as both men eased curiously outside, greeted by the char smell of smoke and dust and tiny shreds of singed paper. A cloud of smoke rose upward like a devil from the east.

  “What’s happened?” Someone in the hotel’s colors had joined them. More city folk were herding by, some running in a stop-start fashion, all looking behind themselves as if the smoke were licking at their ankles and hungry. Grebel shoved Revin to let him go and stepped to a one-man wheeled vehicle.

  “Balcister.” Grebel said this, unlocking something on the cage at the base of his vehicle and pulling slender steel pins. With a dull metallic ping, the rounded cage tires parted and fell to the side, freeing the familiar curved paddles of a mog. These were light craft housing vortex generators for clinging to mountain faces designed for navigating crevices and outcroppings of the mountain ranges upon which Alson lay. He was preparing to leave.

  “It’s gone. It’s just gone. Who would do this?” The hotel desk clerk was mumbling to no one, in absolute shock, as Revin looked with horror to Grebel for some sign of his involvement or of prior knowledge, some intimation that he’d at least prepared the way for such an abomination. It was oddly even more frightening a realization to find the same angry searching gaze looking back. Grebel had no idea who was responsible.

  “My sister works in the bank…” The hotel man’s voice was fading, his face drained of color.

  The old soldier slid roughly into the swivelseat of his ride; and the vehicle jerked to life, snapping to the hotel’s masonry wall like a spider. He shouted to Revin.

  “Go find your Talgo, pansy! This wasn’t an accident!” Once Grebel had turned his head, nearly vertical as the swivelseat had spun loose in its bearings, the mog ascended quickly out of sight over the cluttered gables and rooftops of the crowded hotel district. The counselor looked for just a moment at his Recorder.

  “Stay away from the palace.” Revin sprinted wildly in the direction of the Judge’s cliffside palace, leaving the old Recorder in a massing crowd under the swelling blue dust and smoke of what was once mighty Balcister.

  8 THERE’S NO HOPE FOR IT NOW, SON

  Chalky and barren, the wide and blinding salt flats rippled in the heat. Nestled within, in a miracle of engineering and defiance, stood the twin cities of Mevin and Tobin which were collectively the nation of Tanith. This was the near empire of Cassian Talgo, Marshal of Tanith and brother to Judge Wentic Talgo. Native flats tribesmen even in those days still slung primitive hunting kites and housed themselves in the caustic wilds as they had for centuries. Yet the twin cities thrusted upwards like fists, shining in azure and aquamarine computronium which hummed and pulsed with data.

  On this day, in the shadow of a mighty industrial craneyard and rising before a mass of seated and formally dressed spectators fanning themselves and whispering, stood a massive arsenal tank the size of a small town. It was at this moment dark and silent as a crew totaling a thousand souls stood at parade rest in gleaming and crisp uniforms behind the audience. The commissioning ceremonies were a pro
ud and honored tradition common to what remained of navies which survived the War of the Rupture; and at this moment, Cassian was seated in a front row surrounded by his ministers and heads of state watching the rites.

  “Alson has been attacked…brutally. Balcister is destroyed.” A pink and fat, almost pig-faced fellow leaned closely into Cassian’s ear and whispered. “We’re not sure who is responsible.”

  The Marshal quickly gauged the expressions of his ministers while several of them rearranged their seats quietly to form a semi-circle. They clearly didn’t wish to disrupt the ceremony, which right then consisted of an event reader spelling out the vessel’s place in the order of the era…a formality that had outlasted its time.

  “How was it done?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Have you heard from Grebel?” Cassian clearly wanted some clarity of purpose and advice from a trusted advisor; but no one was aware of Grebel’s whereabouts. In fact, the pig-faced man looked at him with near anger at such an irrelevant question.