by Martin Kee
“You know my father?”
“He’s right here.” Again that figure propped itself up beside her, a puppet of her father’s skin. “Hello Lovebug,” it said, its head flopping around as it spoke.
“What’s his name?” she asked. “My father’s name.”
Another pause, that smile faded again. Frustration. She thought she saw the man turn, ask someone. Whispers began to spread across the sand.
“You don’t know,” she said. “You are the man from the picture. Who are you?”
“Give yourself to him,” voices hissed from around her. “Surrender to him and he can make the pain go away.”
Through the glass they were lifting her body. Gil watched her head flop to the side as they lowered her into a wide glass tank. Viscous liquid began to fill the glass casket and Gil wondered if she might drown.
“Looks like we are both in glass prisons,” said the man in white.
She felt real fear then, fear of not knowing, fear of making the wrong decision, fear of being trapped forever with that horrible man. Gil began to pound on the glass.
The man in white laughed. “Oh dear, look at you.” His glass case pressed up against her back, pinning her against the glass in front, crushing her. The skin puppet began to stretch under the pressure, growing long and grotesque.
“Let’s go find your father, shall we? Turn around and we’ll go find him together.”
“No.”
“No?”
She pounded with a fist and a bloody stump on the glass, staring at the girl in the tank, staring at the raven man and Harold. She wanted to be there more than anything, damn the pain.
Don’t look! Don’t look! Don’t look!
She fixed her eyes on her body, ignoring the glass coffin pressing against her back. She watched her body breathe, watched her eyes flutter. She was alive, broken but alive. She pounded, kicked, and felt the glass give, a cobweb racing along its surface.
“We all die sometime,” said the man behind her. She could smell cigarettes on his breath. “When you decide it’s time, I’ll be waiting.”
Through the reflection in the glass she saw faces behind her, an army of skin puppets with empty sockets for eyes. Hands reached out to her, the wrists slit from palm to elbow, the tendons moving like snakes.
Gil screamed, lunging against the glass, throwing her weight into the barrier. The crack widened. Cobwebs formed around her hands as the wall shattered. She fell among a rain of shards as the pain of living engulfed her again. She tumbled downward—
Down into the table—
Down into her body—pain embraced her, but she didn’t care anymore.
“I think she’ll be okay,” she heard Felton say, his voice close, coming through a different kind of glass now. “Let’s give her some rest.”
The lights dimmed and Gil surrendered herself to darkness, the sounds of clicking, and mechanical breathing. Her limbs still throbbed in time with her heart, but it was distant now, comforting. It was real.
Exhausted, Gil slipped into a dreamless sleep.
Chapter 35
Rhinewall
HAROLD SAT IN the chair, his eyes wandering across the vast library in Felton’s study. Through the door behind him he could hear the machinery that suspended the girl one rung above death. Felton stood at the liquor cabinet, his sleeves rolled up, his arms still stained red from the elbow down. He pulled a watch out of his vest pocket and looked at it.
“Let’s check on her in another hour,” he said, filling a pair of glasses with whiskey. He turned and handed one to Harold before settling into a chair. “At least she’s no longer screaming.”
Harold took a sip. “If I woke up to a Physician’s face I’d scream as well. I can see why they banned them.”
“They have their uses,” said Felton. “Some very good uses. You saw that yourself. I’ve known Quentin for ages, and he never ceases to amaze me.”
“They aren’t human, are they?”
“That misconception has only been perpetuated by The Church, I’m afraid. They were… more human at one time. They just chose a higher calling.”
“Like a priest.”
Felton smirked and took a drink. “Physicians are perhaps the only connection we have to the past anymore. They carry within them medical knowledge that not even our grandfathers possessed.” He gestured a toast with his glass and drank.
“My grandfather was a banker,” said Harold, emptying his glass in one gulp. He cringed as it burned his throat. He held out his glass. “Another.”
Felton took the glass, refilled it. “And now you are a watchmaker. An interesting career path in itself, from counting coins to counting the teeth in cogs.”
Harold studied the man. “And you? Something tells me you aren’t a watchmaker by trade.”
Felton handed him a new drink with a sardonic expression. “Sadly watchmakers don’t earn this sort of income.”
“And adopting washed up drunks to work in your curio shop? Is this your hobby?”
The comment made Felton laugh. “Perhaps.” He threw the drink back. “The art of clockwork mechanics fascinates me, as I know it has you. But the shop gives me a good feel for the pulse of the city, what direction the residents are leaning. The mayor tends to listen to what I have to say because of it. The curio was my best investment since moving here.”
“And a good position to intercept parts from the shipping docks, the salvage movers.”
“Yes.”
Harold studied the man. “And you’ve made how many of those soldierboys so far?”
The older man smiled without meeting Harold’s eyes. “We are the same in a lot of ways,” Felton said. “I too want the world to work as the well tuned machine it should be. I want to see the right people rise, and the evil fall. I want what’s best for humanity. Isn’t that what we all want?”
Harold looked at the bottom of his empty glass. “I find the world makes very little sense anymore. I’ve lost too much from wagers on the powers of order. Chaos rules my life now.”
Felton made a face. “So dramatic. Maybe theater was better suited to you.”
“Anything was better than banking.”
“Money never makes anyone happy, Harold. Take it from someone who has all the money they need.” Felton got up and took Harold’s glass, refilled both of them. “But it can buy things: power, influence, medical assistance, suitable living conditions… parts to make an army. It is how you use those things that might one day make you happy. Changing the world makes me happy.” He handed the refilled glass back to Harold.
“The things I want can’t be bought,” said Harold.
“That’s where you’re wrong.”
The men sat, lost in their own thoughts for a moment. Sparks from the fireplace crackled their staccato dance to the rhythm of the machinery in the next room. Felton finally broke the silence.
“I know about your loss, Harold. Both of them.” Harold looked up, surprised. Felton continued. “Don’t look so shocked. It isn’t hard to find out. You are on all the city records. The archbishop is keeping a close eye on you, my boy, as he should. I wouldn’t want you within ten miles of me if I had killed your little girl.”
Harold felt his cheeks flush, felt his hands tremble, sloshing the drink in the glass. “How do you… How does he know where I am?”
“The Church has eyes everywhere,” said Felton. “Don’t think that the destruction of that Confessional Laboratory and the murder of a few priests are going to keep information away from them.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Harold looked at his glass. “The people who did it were too high up...”
“Yes, yes,” Felton waved a hand. “Powerful men, leaders of a once great organization that has since lost its way.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Harold did everything he could to keep his voice steady.
Felton leaned forward. “Because, I want what you want, Harold.”
“And what is that?”
The man winked and leaned back in his chair. “I want to see evil men brought to justice. I want to grease the sticking cogs, oil the stubborn watches of the world. I want to see the universe work as it should, just as you do. I want to find that Reverend, punish him for what he’s done to the world.” He took another drink. “Hell, and the Pope too, if I can. I’m sure you’d love to get a swing at the archbishop, twist a blade in his side.”
Harold wanted to argue, wanted to say that Felton didn’t know him, couldn’t know that Harold had spoken to his daughter months after her death. Maybe Harold had been a man of science at one time, but now he wasn’t sure what he believed.
“You know this how?”
Felton winked. “The Church isn’t the only entity with money to buy eyes in other cities.” He looked down at his drink. “Not that I would blame you for being in the dark with everyone else.” He raised an eyebrow and looked at Harold.
“In the dark over what?”
“Did you not attend the rally?” Felton smiled over his glass. “You heard the proclamations about conscription, the army we must build.” He gestured at the door where the haunting sounds of mechanical breathing emanated. “You see the seriousness of this city’s situation now?”
“To defend against Bollingbrook?” Harold asked. “They don’t have the army. They had enough for that silly Lassimir operation… maybe. What makes you think they would travel all the way here? What would they have to gain?”
“I’m not talking about Bollingbrook, Montegut.”
“Who then? The Church? That’s ridiculous. Why would they resort to terrorist bombings?”
Felton leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, the drink held between two hands, his voice a hush. “After seeing their lab destroyed?” He raised his bushy gray eyebrows. “After seeing their priests mutilated and killed? Driven from the city wall to starve in the forest, die in the Wilds? My question to you would be why they haven’t moved in already.”
“So they planted the bomb?” Harold could no longer hide the skepticism in his voice. “The Vatican.”
Felton laughed. “Oh, let that go. Yes, it’s unfortunate, and it’s a pity your girl got hurt, but try to let emotion go for a moment, won’t you? Don’t forget there is a greater good to be served.”
“Like what?”
“Like waking this city up. People have grown complacent, Harold. They think that the worst is behind them. Well it isn’t. The worst is yet to come. The problem is that nobody in this city sees it.”
“Surrounded by hammers.”
“Yes!” Felton raised his glass. “A broken watch surrounded by hammers. Sometimes you have to force the cogs, Harold. Sometimes you have to unstick things by force.”
The man stood and poured himself another drink. Harold listened to the labored breathing, the ratcheting of the Physician’s mechanical arms. When the answer hit him, he had to force himself to stay seated.
“Your bomb,” he said. “That was you.”
Felton turned and sat back in his chair. He took his time answering, choosing his words carefully. After a long slow drink he leveled his gaze on Harold.
“She won’t be the last,” he said, gesturing to the closed door with his glass. “Others will be dragged from the streets as they are shot, stabbed, burned... We will repair them, heal them, make them whole again so that they can protect us. The soldierboys—”
Harold was on him before Felton could stand up. The glasses, once filled, now tumbled to the floor. Ice slid along the rug. Harold pressed his fingers on the man’s windpipe as Felton’s eyes bulged.
“Cogs!” Harold screamed through clenched teeth. “She’s a child, not a cog! How many more children will you almost kill and call them gears in a watch? How many people are you willing to hurt for your own ego?”
The wind left him as a knee made contact with his stomach. Harold gasped, falling to his side. Felton rolled free and bounced to his feet. He waited for Harold to catch his breath, his fists raised, a feral grin across his face. He hopped once or twice on the balls of his feet.
“I always knew there was a fighter in you, Harold,” he said. “You’ve been due for a while now—”
His head jerked back as Harold’s fist popped his chin. Harold hit him a second time and Felton stumbled back. When he looked back at Harold he was still smiling, his eyes electrified.
“That’s the spirit!” he shouted and wiped blood from his chin. “How long has it been since you’ve punched a man who deserved it? How long since you were honest with yourself about just how angry you are?”
Two quick strikes to the face stunned Harold.
“Apathy is a disease, Montegut,” Felton said through a clenched grimace. “It’s anger turned inward, rotting you from within. You need to stop moping and start fighting, son. Get it out! Direct it at the people who deserve it.”
“She’s not something for you to use!” Harold said, throwing a punch.
But Felton swatted it away. He was fast for a man his age, his fists a blur as he landed another blow to Harold’s nose. Stars exploded in his vision and he staggered backwards, his heel catching the edge of the rug. The world swayed and Harold went down. Pain exploded in the back of his skull. Felton stood over him, gray hair askew, that same smug grin on his face.
“You’re a fighter, Harold. This city needs fighters. More fighters like you.” He extended a hand.
Harold swatted it away. “Go to hell!”
But Felton only smiled, his hand extended and open. His voice was calm now, almost civil.
“You realize that what I have divulged here implicates you as well. You work for me, Harold. It would be very hard to deny what you’ve been up to, trading the bomb materials right under my nose to the children who used them to blow up the capital building? Blood is on your hands too.”
The world spun and Harold looked around. “I should go…”
“Stay,” said Felton, his hand still extended. “Don’t be stupid.”
“The girl’s parents… they should be informed.”
“She is an orphan, Harold. I checked city records. Her mother died when she was very young. Her father’s name is in all the logs, a subject of the Confessionals around the time they were destroyed. I doubt very much he is alive.”
Harold sat up, looked at the extended hand. “I should check on my apartment then. There are things I need.”
“I would advise against that for a while,” said Felton. “I’ll have some of the mayor’s men take anything you need from there. In the mean time, my mansion is the safest place in the city. You will stay here with me and the girl. I have plenty of room.”
The girl. In his rage Harold had forgotten that Gil slept in a tangle of hoses and tubes in the next room, a prisoner just as he was. If Felton wanted to he could just as easily step through that door and pull a plug… Harold couldn’t rescue her without killing her. He took Felton’s hand, letting the man pull him to his feet.
“What am I to do then?” Harold asked.
“I expect you to be smart,” Felton said, giving Harold an appraising look. He reached out and dusted Harold’s shoulders off. “Don’t go running about. Things are going to move very quickly now. With the conscription laws coming into effect, you won’t want to be out on the streets—though I imagine they will be somewhat safer after the gangs have been cleaned up.”
“The gangs?”
Felton smiled. “Where do you think we’re getting these soldiers, Harold?”
His legs gave way, and Harold collapsed into a chair. His fist ached, his nose throbbed. He wiped it with a sleeve and gave the blood an indifferent glance. He looked up at the man.
“When does it happen?” he asked.
“When does what happen?”
“This war with The Church,” Harold asked.
Felton gave Harold a somewhat condescending, but not unkind look. He picked up a clean glass from the counter and filled it. Harold watched the man as he walked to the chair opposite him and sat.
Felton took a drink, wiped his mouth and looked back at Harold.
“The war will not simply be from The Church, Harold. When the war comes, it will be from the rest of the world.”
Chapter 36
In-Between
THE FARM THAT Dale and Marley called home resembled a stage set, lit from above by a solitary spotlight, floating in an otherwise blackened void. Its fields, freshly tilled and steaming with warm earth, ran in even rows along the ground in front of the porch where Marley sat. A tin chimney spewed white smoke from over the top of the roof, evaporating back into the nothingness from which it sprang. Mass or matter did not exist beyond the cone of light, no form, no space, no ideas. Beyond the boundary of the field sat a wilderness of vacuum. It might as well have been a theater play in space.
Dale knew this was only because they hadn’t traveled past the trees in ages. Doing so invited the ire of the wilderness beyond, a wilderness that only existed if you looked directly at it.
Marley sat in his armchair, his gargantuan weight bending its boards and legs. He chewed a stalk of straw that looked more like a toothpick between his teeth. This was the part he enjoyed, the part that didn’t involve any more effort. He could sit like this forever, and a part of him thought that maybe he had.
Dale emerged from a screen door behind him and placed a monstrous mug on the table beside Marley before turning to his own chair, dwarfed beside the huge bald man.
“Crops are going to come in slow,” Marley muttered as Dale sipped lemonade. “I think we’ll do carrots again.”
“We always do carrots,” Dale took another drink. He remembered there being something else he used to add to it¸ something that made his head fuzzy. Was that vodka? Or was it whiskey? “I’m sick of carrots. I’ll turn into a rabbit. That and corn. I’m sick of corn too.”
“Don’t matter,” said Marley, scratching his chin. “In the end it’s whatever you want it to be.”
In the end it was always carrots.
“In the end we don’t even eat,” said Dale.
Marley grunted. It wasn’t a laugh. “In the end we have it all right.”