Tearing Down The Statues

by Brian Bennudriti

  Those who’d known Cassian would see he was drowning, having relinquished the flow of events and uncertain what other information he might be missing. They all quieted at that point and watched him; and it wasn’t lost on them that his eyes were starting to sparkle in the light, watering only slightly. They just watched him, fascinated like awaiting a fizzing bottle to explode…much like the two watchmen had observed Stendahl in the corridor beneath the palace. That was always the way with Talgos, one felt it best to prod them and step back, to be a spectator to their fires and their bluster.

  “Well I’m sorry to interrupt your plans for Armageddon; but we’re going to slow this down just a little bit.”

  “I’ll bet you are.” Thessany rolled his eyes, perhaps used to Cassian slowing things down.

  It was at that moment, when Cassian locked eyes with Thessany deciding whether to call out his disrespect, that Cyprian strolled into the room. He no longer wore his coat, but still had on a close-fitting polymer weave shirt with molded graphite armor plates sewn in. As it ever was, his carbine hung backwards over his shoulder. Those at the table watched him with interest, never sure whether he’d sit quietly or set something on fire. He glanced at a handful of them, though not all in the room, and shut the door behind himself. Then he pulled up a chair and sat blocking the door. He was carrying a canvas bag in one hand.

  “You’re late”, Cassian said.

  Without a reaction, “That’s right.” He tossed the bag onto the tabletop; and it slid a few inches before coming to a rest slightly off-center and closer to Thessany than anyone else. There were dark stains visible on one side. Cyprian folded his arms comfortably.

  “You can’t expect these people to respect you if you can’t…can’t show up on time.” Cassian was shaken, not just by the current of the discussion thus far and his son’s arrival, but by the bag. What was in the bag?

  “You were discussing slowing things down, I believe.”

  Some of them grinned at that, the implication that maybe here was a Talgo that didn’t approve of slowing down.

  Cassian took a breath, “The fact lost on this room is that the world has moved on. Having bigger bombs doesn’t mean what it used to. If we’re the aggressor; and we alienate the friendly states, we’ll have bigger issues than..expensive groceries.”

  Thessany leaned in without reaching forward, trying to eye the loose opening of the sack in front of him.

  “Boadshise, speak up. Where do your folks stand on this?”

  The provincial was observing Thessany’s face, glancing up to Cassian at the mention of his name, “Strangely, they’re ready to kill something. I’ve never seen it like this before...” He got the attention of the War Recorder, “…but for the Record, I disapprove.”

  Many of them had sidearms; but it was nonetheless unsettling to have Cyprian blocking the doorway. What was he doing there? Mandibo was particularly nervous at that and kept eyes on the young man, entirely dropping from the discussion.

  Rosgrove’s voice was raspy, unsettled, “Can you uhh…can you move so you’re not blocking that door.” He was of course ignored.

  On the other side of the table, Fantine was rested back in her chair with her fingers locked behind her head, “I’m getting really lost in this discussion. What are we supposed to be talking about right now? Are we trying to decide if we’re going to launch when it’s happening already? I just need to know who’s reporting to who. I’d just as soon not get divebombed by a bunch of Doniphan mogjacks when I roll into town, under friendly fire from Rangleward probably lost but along for the ride wondering whether some freaking Red Witch donk is going to show up. Can’t keep all of it straight. Pick a Warmaster and let’s get on with it.”

  Thessany turned his eyes from the sack to Cyprian, grimly seated in the doorway and armed, like an assassin coiling to scatter lightning into the assembly and turn them all into charcoal. He slid his hand to the railgun on his thigh and glanced back to the sack. Mandibo followed Thessany’s eyes and slumped in his seat as if clearing a way to slide beneath the table. Tellingly, Cyprian noticed all of this.

  Boadshise slid out from the table and uncrossed his legs, “I didn’t buy a ticket for this wreck.”

  “What’s in the bag?” Rosgrove at last said it.

  Cyprian watched him silently, waiting for someone else to ask, then when Cassian raised his eyebrows as if to do so, “Those are the testicles of the Red Witch man you sent to bring me here. Just letting you know I got your message.”

  A rumble of disgust and shock murmured in the room, though there was nothing else to say about that. Cyprian had said much by bringing that sack. Cassian relinquished his passion, his fire for combating the momentum of events; and they could actually see the decisions on his face to turn them loose. Thessany had been the harshest of them and was quiet now, only waiting on someone else to speak first. Cassian breathed out slowly, unwilling to give more attention to that which was beyond his control.

  Boadshise shifted uncomfortably, perhaps looking to cut the threatening mood, “Maybe we ought to ask our gift giver over here what he thinks about kicking off the end of the world. He seems to want to be in the mix. How do you feel about your dad alienating the Provinces and getting us surrounded by those who will feel we’re propping up the scenery for their genocide?”

  At that, Mandibo leaned forward, trying to gain Cyprian’s eyes past Admiral Phryne who was much closer to the doorway but with her head bowed to the table, “What do you think about a quick strike into the Spenecia Region now while Doniphan softens the City? That’s their weakest in-road; and it will give us a straight line into Alson.”

  Oblave took note of Mandibo’s stated strategy and started sliding his fingers across his simulations rapidly, pivoting tables of numbers about like a harpist on strings and launching optimization viruses into the trickling current of data. Admiral Phryne lifted her head and sighed, somewhat relieved at the more tactile turn of the discussion.

  “A marshaling point at Spenecia would be huge for our supply lines. I can defend that.”

  Rosgrove bristled, “None of that is new. Spenecia’s been off-limits to us for years. Why are we willing to break their sovereignty now?”

  Cyprian’s demeanor was that of a lioness in the weeds, drawing as many of them out to engage him as possible, and making sustained eye contact. He settled on Fantine, whose eyes were shining in amusement. He’d spent long hours watching she and Grebel drink and punch each other, wargame and curse till early morning hours. Something passed between them at that point that none but the two of them would know, yet they understood one another. That much one could tell.

  Thessany sat upright, more settled, though with a finger still resting on his weapon beneath the shimmering tabletop, “Let’s hear it, Cyprian. You brought balls to the table. What do you say?”

  Oblave coughed as he often did – he was forever with a sniff or chest cold, “You’re showing up a lot in the datastream. Turning out to be a key variable. I actually need to know where you’re planning to be.”

  “He’ll be at a Black Fire cannon in my flag squadron.” Fantine was grinning loosely at Cyprian to see his reaction to this news. “He’ll love it. Lots of chaos and…big explosions.”

  Nothing rattled Cyprian; and he only acknowledged he’d been referenced with a tiny nod towards her. He was letting something build, maybe just an anxiety to hear from him…a significance to his opinion when he’d been so long viewed either as Cassian’s son forever shouting or disappearing or as an unwelcome celebrity, odd and bringing unwelcome attention. Whether he was pleased to hear of this gunner assignment would be difficult to tell.

  Admiral Phryne took note, “Is there some sort of kettle drum you’re waiting for, or can we hear your position on this? Black Fire is a technical job…requires coding and accuracy, obedience to commands, and is easily liable to turn on the fleet…we’ve got a right to know whether your heart is in this. Or if you’re being coddled.”

  He
turned his cold eyes on her, calling to mind the same look he’d given her as a small boy when she smacked him hard enough to turn his head away after his injudicious comments about her hips. She remembered that incident, no doubt.

  “I couldn’t care less what you do, any of you.”

  An offended murmur swept the room like a rolling thundercloud. Cassian watched his son with disgust, giving him room to make of himself an irritant.

  Mandibo’s face squished menacingly, his cheeks coloring like water with a freshly dropped teabag, “Come on!”

  Cyprian surveyed them, “You people are herd animals; and you’re not paying attention.” He turned to sections of them as he said three words slowly and emphatically, “Flaccid…stumbling…poufs.”

  Some of them looked to Cassian to see whether he’d put a stop to the tirade; but he was drained of vigor and possibly as curious as they to see how far this young man would go.

  “You’re babbling on about what to do now when you know that answer. Like you have a choice at this point. What should be stuck in your throat is why did you sleep and suck milk while it came to this? Your government can’t agree to the time of day. Your children are stupid. Your payroll is overdrawn. And your sailors are burning down in resthouses…without a squeak from you. Did you even notice that?”

  The faces around the table were irritated, shocked…silenced by his audacity. He looked like his eyes were flashing with sparks, burning with intensity. He sat forward, drawing a nervous twitch from Thessany.

  “Big boots track mud, don’t they?. Why let the same idiots that brought you to the end of the world lead you into it? Don’t ask me what I think if you don’t want to hear. You don’t come out well – any of you.”

  Fantine’s eyes were wide; and she was smiling like someone waiting for a playground scuffle. When she looked at Casssian though, there was nothing to him then but a young boy shifting a knife with quivering hands over a pregnant shenna. He wouldn’t respond; and Cyprian knew it. Cyprian stood and slid his chair from behind him to clear the doorway, then turned his eyes on several of them. Thessany sat tensioned like a spring. With a dark and challenging tone, the young man spoke the following words; and yet something bizarre occurred at the same time.

  “But sure, I’d love to be your new gunner. I’ll help clean up your turds and your vomit while your credit collapses and your banks fail and your people riot … while you fat ridiculous wads, you sit munching grass.”

  The War Recorder, silent till this point, spoke softly the last part of what he’d said at precisely the same time as he’d said them as if she’d already heard – the very same time, their voices exactly in unison in the manner which would be difficult even if practiced beforehand. Cyprian noticed; but in his temper and impatience only waved her off.

  With that, he slammed the door open and left in a storm as perhaps he always left a room. For those with the Recorder, the lingering question was what she thought she was doing. Only a handful of times in history, and then only in silly myths tied to blusterous overblown characters and melodrama, had the Record been said to catch up to events or even supersede them as prophecy. Although nonsensical and out of step with reason, it was in popular literature and theater often a banshee foretelling horrors.

  Cassian was pale, drained, “Recorder, why did you say that…just now? What were you doing?”

  The War Recorder only watched him in response, dully and as would someone staring beyond and lost in thought.

  Phryne watched the War Recorder with suspicion, as she would a dog on the side of road and needed a stick with which to poke it. She whistled and lightly shoved the Recorder’s shoulder, “Hey. He asked you a question.”

  “This Recorder is not aware she had spoken.”

  But for Fantine, who was gently lifting the sack’s opening to peer inside with the expression of smelling something foul, those around the table eyed the Recorder quietly. It was exhausting when Recorders got this way, useless. Fantine was in fact the next to speak.

  “Sounds like something the Old Man would say…”

  17 AS ALWAYS WITH TREASON

  The breaking dawn light colored the chilled mountain city in pastel oranges and pinks as the wide formation of watchmen stood in loose congregation in Wentic Talgo’s Alson courtyard, whispering and straining to see what was happening on the palace steps. Stendahl stood beside Peri on a dais backed and bookended by a handful of officers, an image carefully structured to display continuity and order no matter one’s loyalties. In a stark and brutal display of cruelty, Revin sat limbless and in anguish like a nightmare gargoyle clinging to a rooftile, propped and lashed against a marble column with his wife sobbing uncontrollably beside him. The short stubs where his arms and legs had been were roughly tied with knots at their ends; and black rivulets stained the remaining skin. He was flapping them madly and kept his face raised to the sky with clenched eyes. She was convulsing like a cat dying under a tire and held within her chubby arms something metallic and ill-shaped. She wouldn’t look at him. Behind them all and past the landing atop the grand staircase still shone after so many centuries the ancient translucent illusion-man strapped to the stone like a torch.

  Deep in the line of soldiers, out of earshot from the droning Procedures Master on the platform speaking of the Judge and what he’d done for the nation, chatter was inevitable and rampant. Here was a nation under mysterious siege, with its government hidden throughout the night and thousands dead. Many of them didn’t care at all that the Judge himself was gone, but only that now there was uncertainty in authority. They were told fighters were coming and to stand courageously and do calmly what they’d been trained to do – that their nation may perhaps ask of them to die for its defense. It is fact and was captured in the Record that many shuffling their feet in the courtyard that day broke out spontaneously in stirring patriotic songs.

  “Man, that’s really messed up.” A female watchman on the left of a small group was looking out at the platform whispering so as not to be widely heard. Her companion, a fellow with red hair whose uniform was heavily wrinkled in his haste to join the gathering, glanced to her quickly.

  “You always say that. You always say, ‘that’s really messed up’. What are you talking about now?”

  A third, beyond them and with earring holes and ornamental scarring on his neck interjected, “What’s messed up?”

  Her stare was unbroken from Revin’s wife, “What’s she holding there? Can you tell? Looks like some kind of messed up idol. Is that what they cut his stuff off with?”

  The third whispered back, “No, man. You don’t know what that is?”

  “Yeah, I know what that is. It’s why I’m standing here like a chump asking. You don’t know either.”

  “It’s gold.”

  The one in wrinkles chuckled, “You don’t know anything.”

  “It’s gold, I’m serious. The Old Man used to kill traitors by pouring molten gold down their throats like lemonade. Except when it cools, it turns solid again and takes the shape of all the guts inside; and they dig it out of the corpses to show it off. My pops told me Little Man Boneghost drank when the Old Man caught him stirring up mischief in Locust Watch…said you could see it pop out of his eyes like tears and his neck spilled open. They’re making her hold it. Later, he’ll be drinking that. Maybe her too.”

  The three of them quietly hesitated, then the girl watchman observed, “That’s disgusting.”

  “Yeah.” A fourth, a fellow named Eber who all of them knew as a clown, whispered back. “Yeah, it is. Also works.”

  The four of them stood in silence, eyeing Revin’s suffering with blended sympathy and gratification, perhaps a flavor of justice. The Counselor was broadly disliked among the Watchmen, yes; but here was a vicious strikeback not seen in Alson for a generation or more. They weren’t close enough to really see his face; but he was swaying and shaking with the fading life of a man in shock. He would drink when the time came, that much was certain.

>   “Who made that call – Stendahl or Peri? Have they said who’s in charge?”

  The girl grimaced, “What could possibly qualify that grinning idiot to be in charge? His last name? He’s a freak, everybody knows that. Peri’s got the ball – that’s obvious.”

  Wrinkles chuckled, “You’re stupid. As long as there’s a Talgo around, they’re in charge. Everybody knows that.”

  “Shut up. We’re about to get hit hard; and there are nutjobs all over the city and all you morons can do is jabber on about which talking head sleeps in the big room. There could be wackos in the formation right now, did you think of that?”

  Eber leaned forward, “I heard from my buddy the two of them were arguing this morning.”

  The scarred fellow grinned, “What was the freak’s opinion – curl up on a library shelf and rattle off poems?”

  “Hey guys,” an extremely tall, gangly fellow named, Cope whose mouth was always idly wide open broke in with a whisper. “Who is that bald guy up there? I’ve never seen him before.”