“And dirty pictures and naughty theater are making us all sinners, yeah?”
“The madness every year over a new entertainer – each more outlandish than the last. Do you wonder whether they’ll ever tire of growing more vapid and uninterested in state affairs? ‘Distract the people’. The Mystic said a nation’s use of mercenaries signals its decline…what are you doing to our military?”
“Revin, I really don’t need to hear the rest of all this. I can’t even stage a parade without screwing something up – who could possibly plan at this scale and over this long of a time period? Certainly not my freakshow brother! I know you believe it; and I imagine you can make it sound plausible. Let’s drop it because it isn’t helping. I have dead people; and we need to do something about it.”
“I am doing something about it!”
“Besides pushing crackpot theories about boogie men!” Wentic twisted away from Revin and circled an area of a hand-drawn map he’d scrawled in an area on the wall, drawing a flurry of suggestions from the embedded intelligence.
“Who came up with those ideas? I’ve traced them and plotted them into the perfect eras, the perfect players to act as hammers. Not just anyone could have gotten the civil loan program off the ground. Lawmaker Po was a reluctant warrior embraced in-”
“Would you please stop talking junk to me! I don’t care if you’re right or wrong about this, Revin. It doesn’t help what we’re facing. Maybe you don’t know what the Red Witch will do to us here. Maybe you’ve never seen one up close eating someone’s face off them alive. We’re in trouble. They will have left behind an army of people who can sit right next to you on a park bench and talk about the rain that’s coming until they decide to rip out your eyes. You’re never going to know when you’ve cleaned it all up. How do you fight an army like that without turning into them?”
Revin’s voice cracked and squeaked just a moment as he answered, “You attack the vision. That vision is what matters. What the people think will serve their…you know…best interests.”
Wentic was at his end with it, “I don’t know what it will take to get you off this. You’re useless and you’ve probably caused this. Get out!”
“Tathlum is fake.”
The Judge’s eyes widened; and he turned back to face his counselor, “What’s that?”
“Fake. I made it up, nurtured it. Was a necessary concept.”
“I told you to calm down. Stop seeing gremlins and talking nonsense. I’ve heard that rot from Peri.” The Judge eyed him suspiciously.
“It’s impossible. Was just an idea injected into the system. A momentum breaker. And it’s worked and given us…you know…leverage we didn’t really have. Pseudo-science ideas dazzled your military thinkers and kept them from asking difficult questions. All the researchers were trying to get something published or gain status at their universities. It took on a…you know… life, quickly as it was intended. Novelty and uniqueness fired the project; and we all gained from it. Had to happen.”
A pause, an unearthly pause, “Traitor.” The Judge’s voice was cold. His eyes darkened like a rolling thundercloud.
“Traitor?! I can’t believe you’re calling me that! I’ve done more to keep us safe than you can imagine.”
“I’ve seen field tests.”
Revin nodded, “Theater effects. I can explain why the timing is perfect for something that-”
“Traitor. You’ve caused all of this!”
The Judge’s face showed the magnitude of his disappointment and abandonment, like a cornered man turning to face the wolves. Revin was surprised at the passion he’d engendered with this. Right then, he froze for that moment, clearly in a desire to pursue his argument but just staggered by what he was seeing on the man’s face: a Talgo coiling for a strike. It was a sight that had cowered hardened generals.
“You brought them here.” He stiffened and straightened his back, quickening, a rising fury like a stalking wildcat.
“You turned the provinces against us. You stole from me. You lied to me. You killed my people. You’ve ruined us; and you’re calling it a kindness.”
The Judge’s reaction not having gone Revin’s way, he had the look of someone who quickly wanted to explain his case with short shakes of his head. Wentic placed his two palms against the Counselor’s chest and shoved Revin sharply into the impact doors.
“I’d rather have lunatics in my house than a traitor beside me, smiling and lying. What were you really doing at Sullion?” Wentic placed his palms again on the Counselor’s chest and pushed him, almost knocking him over this time.
“What was it? Did you decide the timing? Collect your payment?”
Revin responded, “We’re under attack. I only did what would best protect us. It’s a new kind of war. This is what we have to do – the fleet can’t protect us from-”
The Judge shoved him again, this time slamming Revin’s head against a mounted wanoa head, drawing blood, “What?”
Revin’s voice was shaking again, in fear and panic and anxiety to make his argument clear, “You’re hoping that…ramships or something…are going to make a difference when your whole society is being eaten alive by ideas. It’s not a-”
The Judge’s fist drove into Revin’s throat, cutting short his shouting and causing him to choke and cough viciously. When he saw Wentic was coming at him again, he gripped the railgun hanging from his belt and pointed it at the Judge’s chest.
“Don’t-.”
“There it is, you disgusting thief. Show your colors!” Wentic did not slow his advance or his dampen his anger.
“I’m a patriot.”
“I’m a Talgo!” The Judge reached forward again with his palms to shove his Counselor again and with a vicious sneer.
In a panic, Revin fired. A deep bass zip sounded and collapsed a small crater where the slug had bolted clear through Wentic’s face beneath his nose and to the left of his nostril, pieces of skin flaking off and smoking as they curled aflame. The crater distorted his face as his eyes widened, drawing an eye and the lips in as if they were falling down a hole. It was a nightmare vision there as everything quieted into a deathly hush but for the Judge’s labored breathing.
“I’m a Talgo.” That’s what it sounded like he said.
For a moment, Wentic tried to speak again as he staggered; but he was struggling to take a breath. It sounded like the air he drew in was leaving the gaping hole in his face. His awareness was drifting; and his twisted eyes were rolling. Revin could only watch it like a fascinating wreck as the Judge’s life drained out.
Revin looked at the impact doors, then back to the fallen Talgo. He was in a terror and hadn’t at all intended to do this. The only sound was his own breathing. What was left of the Judge’s mouth gaped; and blackened and charred blood and gel were bubbling out the wound. Just the history of this man laying here and what he represented were crippling for the Counselor.
“I needed you for this to work. You had a part.”
He kept his eyes on the Talgo’s immobile face, “I didn’t do anything wrong. We were under attack already; and I didn’t cause any of this.”
The Counselor knelt to be closer to the Judge’s dead ears, “It’s too late. They’ve worn us down too much to lose our faith now.”
He looked back at the impact doors, “I’m going to go out there and tell them something that will organize them, that will make you a martyr. I don’t know, I’ll figure it out. It’s just too late to let anything shake us…we can’t fall from within. It can’t happen here. Not on my watch.”
He stroked a finger across the Judge’s forehead, “I’m going to make this right.”
After a moment of reflection, the Counselor stood. He glanced at the tilted wanoa head on the wall without realizing its lens and mirrors led to the camera obscura pipeworks. He glanced at his fallen Judge without realizing what was coming for him. Revin may in his mind have seen himself poetically, a giant of history recounted in the Record and at a low point t
hat historians would view as his quality’s finest moment.
Then at last, in a voice surging now with determination and swelling confidence of being the right man for the right time, only moments before Peri and her watchmen burst through the impact doors to sieze and dismember him, Revin spoke to no one at all.
“I’m a patriot.”
13 STRANGE COMPANIONS IN THE MORNING MIST
The mossy green canals that lazily coarsed the city were washed in the pale lemon light of streetlamps; and Ring and his companions were still following them through the desolate late hours. A soft fog had descended, misting over the promenades and making a watercolor of things. Sylhauna’s hands were tucked into the thick wool coat; and Misling had coiled a rough woolen muffler around his neck.
“Vomit. This Recorder is going to vomit.” He perched suddenly beneath a nickel lamppost styled in the shape of a silver wanoa clutching a raised torch. Misling was holding his knees and staring at the water, exhausted. Ring and Sylhauna huddled around him.
“It’s not safe to hang out under the light. Let’s keep moving.”
When Misling didn’t respond, Ring leaned in, “Is it your lungs or your legs?”
“It is both. Everything hurts.”
Ring nodded, “Shake and stretch your leg muscles as you run. And breathe deeply but slowly…don’t let your breathing get out of control. You can run forever that way.” Sylhauna watched Ring with her head tilted to a side, curiously, perhaps wondering where he would have come up with advice on distance running and self control. The pace of Misling’s wheezing calmed eventually; and the Recorder at last looked up into the starless night sky like he was drinking rain. He seemed tired in so many ways.
“There is a café by the fountain where the event readers go. I’d like to hear about your visitation. If we’re not there, we’ll be in the tower at the bank. Just wait for us.” Misling’s tone was flat, entirely unlike Hastine’s when he’d spoken those words.
“Yeah, I know.” Ring notably declined to offer hope or speculation but rather only nodded. The three of them sat huddled together watching the shadows. Further down the wide boulevard was a massive victory arch rimmed high on its top with a handful of sculpted figures composed of programmable matter, silhouetted and silently exchanging heroic postures against the city’s light. The evening was chilling; and everyone’s breath was just starting to cloud.
“Four lives, right?” Sylhauna sat beside Misling resting her elbows on her knees. He nodded at her.
“Which of them thinks this is a good idea?”
Misling’s back tightened, understanding her meaning, “This responsibility is not yours; and your attendance to it, though appreciated, is unlikely to serve you well. The Record would bear you no shame were you to turn away and return to the Cave City to protect your own charge.”
He engaged Ring’s eyes as well, “Neither is it necessary nor prudent for you to continue. You have in mind great things and should be about them.”
Ring rolled his eyes and shook his head no, “Don’t pretend to think that’s how this works. Although I’m dying to know what you plan to do when we get there.”
Sylhauna brightened, “If this were some sort of…like an adventure story…a mystery guy like you would turn out to be…I don’t know…special forces or something. And you’d say we were being watched because you could smell them…and pull out…like..a crazy gun out of nowhere that makes people disappear. And set traps.”
He frowned at her, “Again with that?”
“Maybe we should keep moving then, or hide or something? This doesn’t seem wise.”
Ring looked back to them from the corners and alleys he’d been scanning, “Did Misling just say he appreciated us?”
“You know, he did; but he was trying to get rid of you too.”
The Recorder shook his head and placed his face in his hands. They sat in silence shivering and watching the alleys and their breath. Across the street was a downward leading stairway framed by two lampposts whose halos reached out like prominences, blurring in the early morning mist. An odd feeling came about them all, like that of stepping into a dark and unfamiliar basement and hearing a breath; and it was Sylhauna who first noticed something new or perhaps previously unaccounted for on those stairs.
“What is that?”
“Steps to the canal.”
“I’m talking about right there..at the top of the steps.”
Ring and Misling followed her line of sight. It wasn’t moving and seemed to be a man, perhaps a statue. Yet it was in the center of the stairway where such a sculpture would have obstructed the entranceway. The vision had the feeling of an unexpected face in a window…out of place and threatening.
“Is that a person?”
Ring stood and squinted his eyes. The three of them watched for movement, though none was obvious. It would have been incredibly unnatural for a man to remain still that long.
“I’m pretty sure nothing was there when we stopped.”
“Guys, stand up.”
Misling and Sylhauna did so, very much unsure what it was they were seeing. The silhouette was definitely in the shape of a man, though the head was cocked strangely to a side. Strangely, the face lost in shadow looked stretched, elongated as if his mouth was being unnaturally forced open.
“He moved, I think. He’s looking at us. What’s the matter with him?”
“I don’t think it moved. Are you sure?”
“Something’s wrong. Let’s uhh…let’s get moving.” Ring touched their shoulders to shepherd them away from the silhouette. He was as still as a cathedral possibly looking in their direction. There in the desolate morning on an abandoned city street and entirely alone, a silent man stood wide mouthed and staring, unmoving.
“Perhaps he is afraid or injured.”
“It’s the middle of the night. How can anybody stay that still?” Sylhauna stepped behind both of them, watching from over the Recorder’s shoulder. Curiously, when Misling stole a glance to his side, Ring seemed as concerned about the area behind them and overhead as with the strange still man with the long face.
“Stay here.” Ring stepped to his own side, arcing around so as to be able to see down the limestone stairway but without getting any closer to the figure in the mist. He left the Recorder and Sylhauna clustered together beside the lamppost. The stranger’s face did not follow him, but was clearer now as everyone’s eyes adjusted to the pattern he made against the reflected streetlights.
“So sweet like jelly.” A raggedy and bowed man stood from the stairs, rising from the ledgestone wall behind which he’d been concealed as he’d sat on the steps at the feet of the silent and still man. The new arrival was short and unhealthy looking, wearing a torn hooded baja over a round belly and knit wool cap cocked to one side. Frayed red strings hung from an eyebrow piercing dipping over his left eye; and part of his nose seemed to be missing though that could have been a trick of the light. He had no obvious weapons but had the look of a hard life about him, of the sort that live along the canals or tucked under covered bridges. He was smiling.
“I’m not hiding from you, sweetsies. I heard your little voices, all chitty and chatty. We were just coming through and I heard you, I did. There’s nobody else out tonight, isn’t that right, you rascals.”
“What’s going on with your friend?” Ring stayed cautious and gestured toward the immobile man on the stairs, apparently failing to satisfy himself of something as he scanned the new arrival.
“He’s just a little darling, he is. That one there. He’s Bomar. He isn’t right; but he won’t hurt you. Not you, my sweetsies. I was listening to you, every dripping word…so sweet like jelly. I just had to see if you little rascals are plain regular folk, you know…that you aren’t crazies. Oh, I had to see, my little darlings.”
The stranger hesitated, glancing at each of them but mostly Sylhauna and suddenly dropped his smile watching her, “You hurt me, princess. So much. My princess thinks I wants to st
eal something or ask for money. I don’t wants anything from you, sweetsie. Keep your frilly princess junk. So much.”
“What’s your name?” Sylhauna brushed some hair from her eye; but she remained by the nickel lamppost. It’s possible she felt having a name would make him less frightening. Misling separated himself from her and straightened his shirt.
“Oh, I’m Kensi. That’s me, isn’t it? My mummy called me after her favorite uncle. Was a pet fish too, my darling rascals. An ugly little fish with bumps on its head, yes it did. Filthy little thing that stared.”
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