by Jason Letts
Chanting sprang up as two men carried off the body. Three syllables over and over that seemed vaguely familiar, but Taylor couldn’t place them. The crowd broke into song, moving about freely now that the fight had ended.
“What are they saying?” Taylor asked, ready to rush to the door.
Among the faces, Taylor spotted the men involved in the street fight and the ex-boyfriend. They offered him heavy nods, some of them still bearing the bruises he’d given them. Had it all been some ploy to get him here?
“They’re saying, ‘Ma Ha’dere.’”
“’Ma Ha’dere?’” Taylor was puzzled.
“It means ‘channeler.’ We channel our spirit energy, purging it of our malice and dissatisfaction,” she explained.
Taylor gave her a hard look.
“And how do you do that?”
The chanting suddenly stopped and everyone turned to look at Taylor. Countless eyes stared at him from under dark hoods.
“Let us join with our new member,” the ex-boyfriend stated to the group, coming forward. Taylor watched him warily.
Nissa took a deep breath.
“The only way to expel those feelings is to act on them,” she said. “The Ma Ha’dere channels its discontent by striking at the foundations of our unjust and cruel world.”
“And what are you, the leader?” Taylor asked the ex-boyfriend, who now stood beside them. He was a large guy who looked like he’d been in his share of fights, but a bit of shame came into his eyes as he shook his head.
“Our sect leader does not see the uninitiated. You join, you pass the initiation, and then he will teach you the power within,” he said.
“I see,” Taylor muttered. Nissa tugged on his sleeve.
“You have to decide now. If you’re with us, we’ll become your new family. Or you can refuse and we’ll hunt you if you ever speak of us to anyone.”
The man produced an empty silver chalice from inside of his cloak. In the light, Taylor saw that it had red stains on it.
“What’s this?” Taylor asked.
“To join, we must know your blood. Until all of us drink, we can never trust you,” he said, and Nissa held out a knife.
Taking another glance at the packed crowd, Taylor estimated there must’ve been forty or fifty people in the room. Did he even have enough blood for all of them? Deep unease shook Taylor’s core, but he trusted himself to keep it all in perspective.
“Let’s do it,” he agreed.
CHAPTER 10
“It’s time, Councilman. They’re waiting for you,” a beautiful woman in a sparkling white dress whispered into Randall Bracken’s ear. As far as everyone in the world knew, Nifer was his wife, but in truth she was paid to play the part, just like the two kids.
“I’m ready,” he replied, trying to shake the tension in his throat. This meeting was the start of a journey he’d waited his entire life for.
“Go get ’em,” Nifer said, pressing her lips to his cheek. She only ever kissed him in public, and he grinned at another pair of partygoers who happened to glance over as they circulated through one of Toine’s extravagant ballrooms.
He knew where he needed to go: into the back, through the kitchen, and then into a closet that led down to the cellar and a room modestly called “The Birthplace of Power.” His first steps in that direction attracted more attention from the other members of Cumeria’s Grand Council, some of whom might have already gone to that room or were thinking about it. But tonight was Randall’s night, and the only question was if he would or wouldn’t.
A man twice the size of Randall in a greasy sous-chef uniform stood by the closet door. It was a poor disguise, not least of all because of the earpiece and the gorged muscles that were usually a dead giveaway for a guard member. Nodding, Randall urged him to open the door and then trotted down the musty stairwell.
A bare light bulb hung from a wire in the cement basement, which was full of wine crates and folding tables. Cut into the cement to the left of the stairwell was a door made of solid gold. Randall gawked at it, thinking it more extravagant than anything he’d seen in the domed ballroom or in the entire massive structure, which was one of the most prominent in the capitol.
Grasping the doorknob and wondering where it would lead him, he breathed as though a great weight had fallen on him. His knees buckled, and he mouthed a fervent wish for the strength to endure.
The door swung open, and he stepped into a room of gilded furniture and high-tech electronics. A projector displayed a map of Cumeria on the wall, and underneath it were two well-dressed men his office had covertly hired, one with thick mutton chops and the other with a mustache hanging over his lip.
The sight of it all put a big grin on his face, and Randall hopped forward to shake their hands.
“I can’t believe I’m really here,” he said, marveling at the charts and packets on the table.
“That’s good, but you can’t ever say that,” Mustache said.
Randall nodded, stuffing the notion into his bursting box of things that couldn’t get out. Mutton Chops came over and put both hands on Randall’s shoulders.
“We’re ready to get started, but only if you are. It’s still a couple of months before anything happens in the public eye, but you have to tell us now with absolute certainty whether you’re in or you’re out.”
Randall returned his hard gaze, knowing he’d have to sell these men on his answer just like everyone else. But he was meant to do this, it was in the stars, and the words rolled off his tongue without a hint of doubt.
“I want to be the next Chancellor of Cumeria,” he said, and the two men patted him on the back amid their cheers. It felt so good to finally let that one out of his box, and now that he’d said it the whole world started to look differently.
“That’s excellent,” Mustache said. “We’re going to get you there, but it’s going to be a grueling, arduous road. There’s no telling what could happen, what’ll get thrown at you, or which other councilors will decide to run against you.”
Scanning some of the charts, Mutton Chops urged Randall to take a seat and tossed him some of the papers.
“Here’s the situation. We like your chances for a number of reasons. First, you come from one of the premier families, and one of the wealthier ones at that. Second, you’re young and don’t have a lot of baggage from things you’ve said or votes you’ve cast. Those are both supremely important things,” he explained.
“But there are obvious drawbacks,” Mustache cut in, gesturing to the map. “Your popularity depends on your family’s, and while the Brackens enjoy broad support in the ClawLands, most other people only know them for the nuisance energy bills they receive for a service so essential it’s completely taken for granted.”
“Can we overcome that?” Randall asked, already thinking of what his relationship with his family would mean for his election chances.
“It’s possible, but this investigation against your father is going to be a major obstacle. If it drags on and continues to damage his reputation, you’ll be associated with that and suffer the consequences of a major reduction in funding,” he went on.
“I know,” Randall agreed, hardness coming into his voice. Cumerian elections were raw displays of wealth on a massive scale. If he couldn’t use his family’s fortune to buy votes and support across the entire nation, he wouldn’t have a chance against someone else’s fortune.
“Your father is giving you access to his money, right?” Mutton Chops asked.
“Oh, of course,” Randall lied. He hadn’t asked his father yet, but how could he refuse? Becoming Chancellor meant almost unlimited power to renegotiate contracts and form trade agreements that would pack Bracken’s towers to the top with easy money. “But it sure would help if I could nix this investigation.”
The two men exchanged glances and turned to a booklet on the table. Flipping it open, they stopped at an image of the chairman of the Private Oversight Committee, Qi Ptock, a man of piercing eyes a
nd impeccable hair.
“That puts you in a very tricky spot, Mr. Bracken. We believe the man holding the reigns of this investigation may be cracking the whip in order to diminish your standing as a competitor in the election. If you went to him and asked for help, there’s no telling what kind of a concession he’d want. A promise that you’ll bow out of the race and support him. Money. Anything.”
Randall grimaced while Chairman Ptock continued to smile in the picture. How could he get this guy to relent without giving up his dream? He chewed a knuckle and pondered. Certainly Bolt & Keize wouldn’t abandon their complaint, but cutting off their funding as his father had suggested might be enough to turn the tables.
“Maybe I’ll just push something through the Resource Distribution Committee to cut off funding for solar companies,” Randall proposed, but Mutton Chops shook his head. He had a substantial waistline, making Randall think that Pork Chops would be a better name for him.
“I won’t deny that it would be a nice dose of revenge, but that won’t do anything about the investigation. Only Qi Ptock can stop it. Besides, going to see him might have unintended consequences. Maybe you can make a promise, break it, and get into the chancellorship before he has a chance to pay you back,” Mutton Chops shrugged.
Randall nodded, knowing he’d have to work both committees in order to both save his family and use its wealth.
“OK, is there anything else I have to do?” Randall asked. As if he’d been waiting for that question, Mustache leaned forward and tossed him another packet. Randall wondered why they kept throwing paper at him when he wouldn’t ever read any of it.
“Rather than continue to float under the radar as you have, we want you to come out with some bold positions on controversial issues that happen to coincide with what most people already think. That’s leadership.”
“We’ve identified several issues we think will come up during the campaign. Things like whether councilmen should be subject to the courts, plans to increase the number of roads as car travel becomes more common, and whether to annex the Floodlands for greater access to fresh water,” he said.
“I’ll get right on that,” Randall agreed, wondering what the members of his staff would advise him to say about those things. Schmoozing and networking was such a full-time job that it had been years since he’d actually looked at data and formulated his own positions. Some days things would come out of his mouth that seemed completely at odds with his own beliefs.
Getting up from the table, Randall shook the hands of his new campaign advisers and tried once again to prove his dedication with a look. He needed these men to believe in him, otherwise they might sabotage his campaign or jump to another councilmen. They were the best, or at least that’s what he had been told.
“You’re going to look great in the jade and fuchsia robes,” Mustache said, filling Randall with hope that all the contorted words and forgotten principles would be worth it.
Arranging a meeting with Qi Ptock had been surprisingly easy. Usually the man was doing ten things at once, but he had no trouble finding time the very next cycle. That alone gave Randall and his staff pause, and together they strategized in his office with his most senior advisers.
Nifer, whose specialty was public relations, his wise chief of staff, Skunky, and his eager council delegation liaison, Fast Talker, huddled around his desk to plan their next move. They were the only ones who knew of his intentions for the upcoming campaign. They knew absolutely everything there was to know about him. Well, almost.
“Is it really a good idea for her to be here while we talk about this?” Skunky bristled, rolling his bloodshot brown eyes at Cori, the cleaning lady, who was polishing plaques near the back wall.
“It’s not a problem,” Randall said, ready to go on before his gruff chief interrupted.
“Are you sure? If she leaks any information, we might as well pack up and go home now,” he said.
“I have the utmost confidence in her discretion,” he said, firm and emotionless, but desperate to change the subject. He noticed Cori smile at him when no one else was looking, hinting at the love they shared that no one could know about. Cori had a crooked nose, ratty hair, and her family had a history of grave robbing—all things the public would never accept—but she was the only one who saw through the farce.
Skunky cleared his throat and proceeded to business.
“The only play here is to completely deny your intentions on account of your youth and see what he wants in exchange for dropping the investigation,” he urged.
“His seat isn’t too far from Rock Shield and the Seasand Desert,” Fast Talker said. “You may be able to strike a deal that your committee will keep government support for solar if he drops the investigation. That’s the only position of strength you have.”
Randall turned his attention to Nifer, whose appearance was so manicured that she didn’t seem real.
“Going after solar will do long-term damage out west, but should only cause a bump elsewhere. If you’ve got to pitch it in a speech, make sure you stress that the Grand Council shouldn’t be funding technology that hasn’t been tested at scale. But make no mistake: the self-serving nature of this attack on one of Bracken’s enemies will be lost on no one. And the public doesn’t know Bolt & Keize are behind the investigation.”
“OK, I think I’ve got it,” Randall said, waving them away. He didn’t have much to bargain with, and there was no chance Chairman Ptock would just give him what he wanted.
Once the room was clear, his eyes immediately turned to Cori. Sometimes he wished he would lose so they could be together, but his seat belonged to the Brackens and it was his responsibility to his family to hold it. As he came around from his desk, she met him by the door and gave him a kiss.
“Or you could tell the truth,” she whispered, hitting on exactly what he wanted.
“One day,” he said, sighing.
The entirety of the Cumerian government occupied an imposing structure known as The Spiral, which had ramps winding around the sides of the spacious council chamber in the shape of a fat double helix. For councilmen like Randall, it was either an upward spiral to the chancellor’s office at the top, or a downward spiral back to the public at the bottom. No one stayed in place for long.
Located between the office of Chancellor Aggart, a titan of sea shipping, and those of mere councilmen, the committee chairmen’s offices exercised massive influence over the various structures of government. Walking up to Qi Ptock’s office, the monolith on his right and the green and blue valley surrounding Toine on his left, Randall imagined one day making it to the very top, where it was said one could see forever.
Though Randall’s office was lavish, Chairman Ptock’s lobby was the picture of decadence. No doubt every painting, piece of furniture, and ornament were gifts attempting to shield one company or another from the scalding touch of the Private Oversight Committee.
“He’s expecting you,” one of two secretaries said from her seat next to an ornate door. Randall took a deep breath and tried to release some of his nerves. He was a Bracken, and didn’t need to demure in the presence of anyone. But he needed to find a way to break this impasse to clear his father and get access to the funds that would make him Chancellor.
When he opened the door, he expected to find Ptock behind his desk, but instead the man was right there at the entrance, staring with a subtle grin on his face.
“Councilman Bracken, I thought you would have paid me a visit days ago,” he said. “But come in.”
Equally surprising was his office, windowless and bare of all but a wooden table, a few chairs, and some stacks of paper.
“You’re surprised. I can tell,” Ptock continued. “Most people think me a corrupt, power-hungry extortionist, but really I only want to do what’s best for Cumeria. That’s why I need to keep the trinkets forced upon me at arm’s length.”
Randall wondered how much of what he heard was true, but he couldn’t argue with the bare
walls and empty space. Ptock didn’t even have a computer.
“I have a few ideas about what’s best for Cumeria, as well,” he said, taking a seat in an uncomfortable wooden chair.
“And right now most of them revolve around dropping the investigation against your father, right? That’s why you’re here. Let’s dispense with the subterfuge and get right to the heart of the matter. Lowell Bracken faces charges of internal deception. Cumeria does not care if companies lie to each other or even their customers, but our nation was founded on this one pillar: ‘the truth of self is the only truth’. For an executive to defraud his own company is against the law, and when the investigation is complete and the evidence is presented, he will be punished for it.”
Those were hard words for Randall to hear. Having never talked with Ptock before, he suddenly wished the man were a feckless and greedy louse whose ambitions for the chancellorship could be manipulated. Leaning back, Randall was aghast that a man of principle had somehow made it into public office.
“But there must be some way we can put this issue to rest,” Randall said, strained.
Qi Ptock pulled a piece of red chocolate from his pocket and took a bite.
“Mmm. Of course there is. All he needs to do is cooperate with the investigation and confess that what he’s done is different from what he’s told his investors.”
Randall stifled a laugh. Whether his father admitted guilt or evidence was found, he would face a censure vote by the entire Grand Council. Once a fly flew into that web, there was only one possible outcome: when the censure passed, Carlisle and the board at Bracken Energy would be expected, or even obligated, to vote him out. Then his entire family would be banished from their own company forever.
“And what if he’s innocent?” Randall suggested. Chairman Ptock raised his eyebrow as one might to a fanciful child.
“This is Cumeria, Mr. Bracken. Everyone is guilty of something.”
Growing discontented, Randall swished the saliva around his mouth. Fast Talker had been right. The only way he was going to get anywhere was if he drew blood. Randall stood up and stretched his arms.