The Blood Service

by Allen Ivers

  Aaron straightened up. “What’s the play?”

  Eden hooked his arm and brought him back closer to the cruiser, "Riley's not going to stand down. No way, no how. So we gotta make him."

  Aaron nodded along with the thought, "Sure, anybody got one of them wrist phones? We'll give just give him a call."

  Bray smiled, “We have a fortress between us and Vanguard. No way through. Entire regiment of soldiers. Howlers, Repeaters, Thumpers… not to mention Riley and his Oskies. And we got the seven of us. Thoughts?”

  “Seven people can’t take and hold a city,” Aaron said, stating the obvious.

  “We won’t have to,” Eden said, gaining confidence. Maybe the fact that no horror had sucked her into the ground yet had tempered her faith. She straightened her shoulders, “Riley has more enemies than just us. The city’s been boiling for months. We just gotta turn up the heat.”

  “Incite open revolt,” Aaron murmured, piecing together the implication, “Overthrow the militia and turn the city back over to the people?”

  “Is there anybody even left in there?” Jensen asked, hopeful and bright for the first time before human eyes. It was almost unsettling. “Riley has been thorough with his little coup. There may not be any resistance left.”

  Talania -- the governor’s daughter, no friend to Riley, and instigator extraordinaire. This might just work. After all, she pulled on two bloodthirsty Army Regulars; a little revolution won't douse her fire.

  “That still leaves the Wall between us and Vanguard,” Solomon cautioned. “S’all bullshit unless we can get through that.”

  “Maybe your new friends could lend a hand?” Nora grumped from her corner, pointedly. Every right to be.

  Whether it was snark or good point, the group murmured their agreement, turning to see what Aaron thought of that theatrical proposal. Perhaps they just wanted to see what minor miracles Aaron had tucked away.

  The ability to summon swarms of angry blade-monsters would be a hell of a parlor trick. And it would prove his story twice over.

  They were in this mess because of him; it was on him to get them out of it.

  Aaron shook his head, “They’re kinda banged up and the Wall’s been repelling them for years. We need to change up the game. What are they not ready for?”

  Jensen started to smile: that big, toothy, stupid smirk. "They built that thing for war.” He raised one big eyebrow. “They didn't build it… for industry."

  Aaron had a feeling he was going to hate whatever very good idea he had.

  19

  Riley

  He never thought that such an open plaza could give off an echo, but some combination of the steel buildings overhead and the vast open air created a kind of drum for their voices, chants and stomps vibrating the air and feeding upon itself. It made for an eerie atmosphere, like there were thousands more than there actually were.

  Riley stood his post, rifle slung and arms at parade. The presence of Oskies amongst the Regular MPs was a show of force, to be sure, but an arm need not be flexed to show its strength. By their mere presence, they could keep the peace in Dodge.

  They stood at the edge of a stage, erected by the lovely Talania Dedria so the voiceless could have their precious moment to speak. Little did she know that there was a lot of stupid and entitled in the assemblage of man.

  They had their turn as they demanded unicorns from thin air. The crowd that assembled to cheer on the demands grew unruly.

  Riley shook his head at them: eating more now meant eating none later, but there was no explaining that to them. They coordinated their noise, chanting as one massive horde at Riley and his peace officers. The handful of Riley's men stood quietly, absorbing the abuse like a harsh rain.

  Conservative counts had the protest at over a hundred, at least in the Pro-Starvation side of the aisle. Riley had eight men. If they decided to storm the stage… Riley's implants would cook before he could exhaust their numbers.

  Talania stood to one side of the stage, 'in charge' of the event. What lunacy – no one was in charge here. This was a loosely choreographed shitstorm looking for a fan to glide into.

  She consulted her papers, eying Riley ever so often – unable to ignore his presence, unable to act like it was normal. She didn’t trust him to be harmless.

  He should never have come. The people were incensed at the sight of him. It was her dream come true, and his presence had only made it better for her. The author of all their pain had stepped into the streets, just a common man – come tell him how you feel.

  Riley quashed his knowing smile. He had made arrangements to counter her, and his team brought the big guns. A projector and a speaker system miraculously appeared when the Pro-Living side of the protest -- or as Riley termed them, 'the Pragmatists' – arrived.

  They were wrapping up what he could only describe as the most boring and visceral slideshow he'd ever seen.

  Some elder Statesman who probably had nascent dreams of being Governor was at the podium, pounding his fist on the veneer. He was a wiry man, hunched. He'd have seemed weird with his no chin, but his jowls – nay, giblets – gave him three chins, like he had a food pouch he stored his day's collection in.

  It quivered as he spoke. It was made extra awkward by the giant golden projection of him that lorded over him and aped his movements in unison.

  Giant, golden giblets quivering over the crowd.

  The unfortunate man pointed at still images of Jergad slaughters, fields of blood from Rimpau and Cassock. These were not creatures that could be trusted and their archon, Aaron, argued for insanity. The Capital’s criminal record streamed past the display of gore, and all the while those giant golden giblets shook.

  It was not the prescription for calm, but for ridicule.

  He was getting to his greatest hits, too. He raised one frail fist. "We will weather this difficult time because we are strong; we are peaceful, and; we are… a family!"

  "God," Riley muttered, "are we really?" He glanced over at Holmst, too exhausted to mock further.

  Holmst smirked, "I've got a few uncles I wouldn't mind punching."

  "I've got Ministry contacts."

  "You'd do that for me?"

  Riley chuckled, "Do it? Ilern, I can get you art commissioned of the before and after."

  Some nearby Regulars had a good laugh, their amusement rippling just under the surface but Ilern's smile faded a bit.

  "I'm kidding," Riley huffed, raising an eyebrow at his aide, "You don't take pictures of the crime."

  Giblets stepped down, prompting a minor mixture of applause and less-than-fond farewells. Another Statesman took his spot at the podium, a youthful face chiseled from stone, with perfect hair and perfect teeth.

  He was a politician someone grew in a vat, but there was something uncanny about him, in the glassy look to his eyes – like the home-pond was probably in someone's bathroom and had previously housed an illegal vodka still. That plastic veneer looked even worse on the projection, like a featureless golem.

  "I call on you, my friends and my countrymen…" he began, his voice exactly what some algorithm said would stir hearts and minds, but ultimately just made everyone cringe. "That's all I can call you, because I can no longer call you patriots."

  Ah. Now we were on to the fate-taunting portion of tonight's show.

  The crowd's reaction was immediate. Epithets were thrown, cursing, shouts, threats. What was worse… the crowd was no longer in unison. Any one dramatic pull and the whole horde would follow in unison toward disaster. Any single rogue actor could set it all off.

  Yes. Anyone could. This wasn't dangerous; it was an opportunity.

  "Ilern…"

  "Sir, this is a bad idea." His mind had gotten there just as fast. So how bad of an idea was it really?

  "It's not an idea; it's an order."

  Holmst sighed -- awfully theatrical of him – before abandoning his post on the stage. Ilern was a ghost, slipping off his jacket and snagging a cap to cove
r his head.

  Talania saw him go, “Lieutenant!” She called out, but he didn’t even break stride. “Lieu-tenant!”

  Her calling out to him drew attention, but it was fruitless. The crowd initially parted to avoid the advancing officer, but he seemed to vanish into them, and they just as quickly forgot about him.

  Talania scanned the crowd, searching for where he must’ve gone. Shoving her paperwork off to a random set of hands, she dove in after him. Riley watched as she waded in, half-starting in one direction before darting off in another, trawling an open sea for a single man.

  It stirred the blood to watch an Oskie work.

  The political Golem was growing more agitated and animated, clearly enjoying whipping the hostile crowd with his controversial statements. He pounded on the podium hard enough to stutter the projection, "Where is your faith, your solidarity!? This Empire that has given you so much – it angers you?"

  Riley recognized the tone of this man's diatribe. He wasn't proud of his Empire; he was afraid of it, and what it might do to him if his patriotism wasn't clocked at an 11.

  The Golem slicked his hair back in a choreographed display of dismay, "This man—"

  Uh oh.

  "This man—" Golem pointed right at Riley, standing post a dozen feet from the podium. "This man put himself at incredible risk, and he is the only reason you draw breath today. You'd have your peace, all right – you'd all be dead."

  Great, now the epithets were being thrown at him now. He could use this, however.

  Riley caught Ilern's eye in the crowd – Ilern stared him down. His icy eyes narrowed in a single plea: don’t make me do this.

  Behind him, Talania picked her way through the crowd. Maybe it was his implant scars, or the pleat of his pants, but she finally identified the back of Ilern’s head and lunged for him.

  Riley blinked.

  And Talania’s futile swipe appeared downright lazy in comparison.

  Ilern hefted a brick, picking his way around Talania’s reaching fingers, and hurled it toward the stage.

  Ilern's throw was perfect, the brick coming right for Riley's head. Riley let it sail on in, studied the beveling on it -- a concrete chunk, loosened and leavened from the aging streets. It would weigh about four pounds, enough to crush Riley's skull upon direct hit.

  He let it graze him. He slid just enough out of the way that it might scrape his forehead.

  Had to make it look real. Show them blood and they will boil.

  And did they ever. The crowd was immediately in a frenzy and projectiles came hurtling in from everywhere. There was nothing the bureaucrats at the podium could do, no urgings they could give. They had awoken the beast.

  Riley slipped back behind the stage, ushered by the waiting staff. He could hear the batons snap out and the crackle of electricity. But the crowd wasn’t attacking the stage; they were attacking each other; loyalists versus rebels, locked in a scuffle for ‘who’ started it.

  Dabbing his fingers to his head, he felt the warmth of the blood and the rough bits of stone that had seated in the skin.

  Perfect.

  Riley would’ve wanted to be present when they pressed those irons onto Talania’s wrists and ankles. He would’ve relished the chance to lord over the hundred meter march to her cell. And the clang of closing steel doors would have been the lullaby that sung him to sleep.

  The Regulars responded to the attack by detaining threats – largely at random -- and her crowd rallied to respond. The riot was put down and dispersed in under an hour. Seventeen people were injured, including two officers.

  Dozens were arrested, Talania included. She was being charged with fomenting rebellion under the ‘Fighting Words’ statute, assault with a deadly weapon, and -- Riley’s favorite -- treason.

  He wanted to see her face when they read her the charges, but he had to have his 'wound' dressed. He had a part to play in this opera. And because of that, he missed a truly glorious moment.

  They sent him a video package to commemorate the arrest and her arraignment, but it wasn’t the same.

  He'd have to pay her a visit. She wouldn't take to the canteen, but maybe a fresh meal and a sip of fine whiskey? Better yet, he could wallpaper her cell with all the fabricated evidence, until even she believed it. She’d testify in open court, swearing to tell the truth about things that couldn’t have happened.

  He could warm her right up – and tear her down.

  One of his assistants announced an unscheduled arrival, a very predictable one. It appears the former Governor had swung by to make a direct appeal. How adorable.

  Riley beckoned the broken man across the threshold. If he owned one, the fatuous Christopher Dedria would’ve been clutching a crumpled cloth cap between his hands, his head bowed as if to offer itself for abuse. He shuffled forward, some combination of deference and age taxing him of his strength. He looked pale, pallid, like a soft sweat brought on by fever.

  “She assaulted a peace officer,” Riley said without looking up, feigning absorption in more material matters. He had to hide his self-satisfied smirk as he read the witness statements that had been properly massaged for public dispensation.

  "So you claim," the Governor snarled.

  Riley pointed at his bandage, “I didn’t trip getting out of the shower, Chris.”

  “Were you asleep at the time?”

  “Excuse me?

  Christopher ground his jaw, “I seem to remember you types dodging bullets. You missed a rock coming at you?”

  Riley lifted his head, trying to avoid gloating, “Implication being…?”

  The Governor cleared his throat of phlegm and fear, hoping to cough cowardice back, “I am not here to defend or deny anything, Colonel. I just want you to let her out.”

  “Finally ready to break a rule?”

  “I don’t give a hot damn what the official line is, or what really happened. I just want you to let her out.”

  Riley glanced at the broken man from under raised eyebrows. “That woman has jeopardized the security of this colony and its people. They're hungry, they're tired -- and she just riles them up, again and again. And that’s ignoring criminal assault! When the crisis is over, I will review her case.”

  “When could that be?”

  Riley shrugged, “Imperial forces have quashed the Outlander resistance, and brought the rebels to heel. After retrofit and dry dock for the transports… we could see reinforcement as early as a year. Possibly longer.”

  “What happens to us then?” The Governor was panting now, as though he had just sprinted some great distance. Panic had taken hold of him, and he was prying its fingers off of his throat.

  Riley pursed his lips, “We may all be dead by then. If I’m being completely honest.”

  It wasn’t a lie. The Jergad forces had never been numbered, and the one location may be the first of many such nests throughout the planet’s crust. Any bleeding might very well be refreshed in a matter of hours.

  Of course, no intelligence supported that theory, but want they had was markedly scarce. Riley found himself engaged in long-term conflict with a question mark, and he refused to underestimate those variables.

  In a year’s time, he may also face a tribunal over his actions, his defiance. But the people would live to see it.

  Christopher finally raised his head, meeting Riley’s eyes. His pale gray eyes were striated with red, dried tears staining his cheeks, and his button nose had been rubbed raw, “So… no peace? We’re just… going to be under wartime rule… even without wartime conditions?”

  There was the rub. The Governor had come under no official capacity, arriving with the proverbial hat in hand to argue in favor of insanity. He wore the banner of Talania’s fanatics, towing a line suspended on nothing at all.

  Riley didn’t miss a beat, his lips tightening down to a line. “Lack of shooting doesn’t mean peace. You’ve lived here even longer than I have. Do you believe for a second that it’s possible?”

 
It was rhetorical, and he didn’t much like the answer. “I know that she believed in it.”

  “And she’ll patiently wait for it. Along with any co-conspirators,” Riley countered with a growl.

  The Governor’s brow furrowed as he considered that, “I was told they were all arrested at the rally.”

  “Many were,” Riley conceded, “But I have repeated reports that the dissent has broad support, and with the day’s violence, I have to prepare for similar attacks. Those that may have been… encouraged by her sedition.”

  “Sedition?” Christopher almost spat the word, “My daughter--”

  Riley cut him off, “The Empire just got through with a Civil War. Do you think their response will be lenient, just because our lives here are hard?”

  “The people are frightened, that’s all,” Christopher said, offering up his own hollow theory. “They will grasp at anything they think might stop their pains.”

  Riley couldn’t contain his scoff, but Christopher continued, “It’s been hard on them, Colonel. They’re tired and afraid. They need a warm hand, not more judgment.”

  “Christopher...” Riley cautioned, “Your daughter is a malcontent and a traitor. These are facts, not open to interpretation. She assaulted me." He let that sink in before softening, "She will await judgment, and due process demands a nonpartisan arbiter. Since I cannot provide one -- given that I’m literally a victim -- she will await a proper hearing. That is what’s fair.”

  Take it and leave, Riley begged from behind a clamped jaw.

  Riley had broad and sweeping authority in a war-time battlefield. Her agitation had clearly defined punishments under Imperial code. A lengthy stay at their local Bastille was generous, even magnanimous. Minister Caldwell would’ve devised a painful and theatrical rebuke to be performed in the town square for a maximum audience.

  Riley had simply defanged the viper. Riley didn’t want to do anything more. Unless he had to.

  A small part of him wanted the Governor to tease that line.

  The Governor worked his jaw, considering the consequences of the words tossing in his head. He debated the consequences, making a measured risk assessment. Each further challenge brought with it requisite uncertainty. His life might be easier and more comfortable if he simply bowed his head without further protestation.