by Jason Letts
“Truer words have never been said, and I’ve got plenty of business of the sort to deal with in my committee. Lately we’ve been looking at the dangerous, untested technologies some of the solar firms are using. Makes you wonder why the Grand Council is paying for them. Add instigating an unfounded investigation against an innocent man, and there’s a strong case that we need to be more careful with our funds,” Randall said casually.
The threat wasn’t lost on Ptock, who peered through unforgiving eyes.
“You are gravely mistaken, Councilman.”
“I don’t think so,” Randall replied, raising his voice. “If they think they can use the government to take down an icon of Cumerian commercialism without getting repaid in kind, they have no idea how things work around here.”
Ptock blinked and the grin returned to his face, stronger than ever. Randall sensed a trap, but he couldn’t see the pitfall. Fortunately, Ptock spelled it out for him.
“If you go after the solar subsidies, the consequences will stay with you for your entire career. You can wave goodbye to any support you hoped to get from Seasand. Turning every grain of sand into a gold coin couldn’t buy you a single vote,” he said.
The time had come to deny his intentions of running, but Randall chose to save his breath. The more he tried to repudiate it, the more obvious it would be. Every son of a premier family with a Grand Council seat would run at one time or another. Best of all, he might still win without any support from the desert. The only option was to press forward.
“If this investigation and that man you have running it, Shelman Toggler, aren’t over and done with in one cycle, I’m pressing the issue in the Resource Distribution Committee. I have the votes, and you have the power to render them irrelevant. The choice is yours.”
Randall felt he deserved an award for his threats, but even his show of oratory couldn’t move Qi Ptock.
“It’s out of my hands.” He shrugged.
“That may be the first time in history a chairman ever claimed to be powerless,” Randall spat, breaking for the door and leaving the office.
It had been a surprise that Ptock had refused to budge, but now Randall needed to find a way to make good on his threat. Unfortunately, he’d overstated his claim about the number of votes he could corral in the twenty-five-member committee. He could only count on a handful, and getting to thirteen in a single cycle would be a tall order.
As soon as he returned to his office, he brought his entire staff together and they mobilized to scrounge votes from the other committee members. Skunky and Nifer weren’t thrilled about the direction he was headed in, and Randall could only guess what his campaign managers would do if this blew up into a scandal.
But once everyone was out the door hunting down the other councilors, only Randall and Cori remained in his office.
“Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?” she asked, much too close for a cleaning lady but not nearly close enough for a lover. Randall grimaced. The worst outcome would be if he couldn’t get the votes together and his resolution failed.
“They’re swinging for our neck. We either fight back with everything we’ve got, or we go down hard,” he said, his head in his hands. Bolt & Keize were becoming a greater threat than any of them had ever imagined, popping up just when it looked like Bracken Energy had vanquished the last of its serious competitors. If they could only knock off this last one, Randall might finally get out of the backseat compared to his sister in their father’s esteem.
At the end of the cycle when he knew it was safe to contact his dad, Randall gave him a call and explained the situation to him.
“Whether Ptock gives in or the resolution passes, it’ll knock the wind out of Bolt & Keize,” Randall concluded.
“I can tell you one thing,” his dad replied in a whisper. “The investigators sure haven’t given up yet. There are guys outside digging through my trash right now.”
“Do they have anything yet?” Randall asked.
“I have no idea, but they must be getting close. As far as I know, Bolt gave them everything they needed and this is all for show, the bastard.”
Randall sighed, actually enjoying a sense of relief at talking to his father this way. He felt like he was on the inside, part of the team, in a way he hadn’t since he was young. If there was going to be a time to bring up the most pressing subject, it was now.
“Dad, I need to tell you something. I want to run for the chancellorship.”
As they had before, the words felt good to say, but terror followed them when his father didn’t answer right away. No doubt the implications for their wealth and that of the company hit him immediately.
“I’m not sure the time is right,” his dad said, paining Randall, who rushed to try to change his mind.
“But this could be the perfect time. If money at the company is getting tight and if the outlook isn’t great, I could win this race and then the payoff would be enormous. Bracken would be secure for generations,” he rambled.
“Let’s talk about it later,” his dad said, each rejection hitting Randall harder than the last. Randall pondered how little had changed since his childhood if he had to have his father’s permission even to run for the chancellorship.
“It’s a gamble, Dad. I know it’s a big one, but my chances are good, and with Bolt & Keize out of the way we’ll be in a perfect position.”
But his father wouldn’t commit to anything, and the call ended on an unsatisfying note. Getting the resolution passed and hoping it would convince Bolt & Keize to call off the dogs was Randall’s only hope for giving his dad peace of mind enough to agree.
Randall had trouble sleeping. The specter of the next day and its implications for the rest of his life loomed large in his mind. Though his staff didn’t have all of the votes yet, they were confident they would. When he woke up, he expected to find a message from Ptock saying he’d thought it over and would halt the investigation, but not a word came in.
At the office, his staff appeared bleary-eyed, no doubt the result of hounding other councilors right to their beds. If they pushed too hard, it might turn some of their targets in the wrong direction. The resolution would come down to just one or two votes.
Arriving at the committee chamber in his best suit, a stylish dark blue one, Randall realized this was the real start of his campaign. As he added his resolution to the cycle’s docket, he received startled glances from committee members he knew would never vote alongside him. This was the bold position the campaign managers wanted him to take.
As the hours rolled on and the vote on his resolution neared, Randall continued to check for a message from Ptock. He could drop the vote without too much trouble. But instead of calling, the door in the back creaked open and Chairman Ptock took a seat with the spectators. He had the bemused look of someone at a museum watching some strange and fascinating art exhibit.
“Councilman Bracken, I believe you have a matter to pose to the committee,” the chairman said from his high seat. Taking a deep breath, Randall rose and adjusted his jacket. Ptock had brought this upon himself.
“I do, Chairman. I’ve long been suspicious of the solar energy industry on the grounds that their technology is hazardous to the point of being a danger to society. If you don’t want to take my word for it, we’ve uncovered some startling new evidence of exactly how deadly these machines can be. I’ve got pictures of a man named Gort Kikkerson, an employee of Bolt & Keize Solar, who was caught in one of the panels and was electrocuted to death. This is what our subsidies are paying millions of count for every year. I believe it’s time we put a stop to that,” he said.
Randall continued with Nifer’s presentation, outlining points and drawing clear lines between strange deaths and government funds. He pulled it off flawlessly, drawing begrudging nods from those he knew to be in opposition.
“Then let’s put it to a vote,” the chairman proclaimed.
Returning to his seat, Randall cast the first vote, as
was tradition for the one who had proposed the resolution. Ayes and nays followed around the bench. Trying to remain calm, Randall ceased counting and instead waited for the chairman’s verdict.
“Fourteen for and eleven against. Let the subsidies for solar funding be stricken from committee expenditures!” the old chairman proclaimed.
“Yes!” Randall said, leaping to his feet. He wished his dad could’ve been there to see his moment of glory. He looked to the audience, where half a dozen people were rushing out to spread the news. Chairman Ptock remained on his bench, offering muted applause and a look of chagrin.
Savoring the chance to rub it in, Randall took the aisle next to Ptock on his way out on the next recess.
“Congratulations on passing your measure,” Chairman Ptock said, hailing Randall as he approached.
“You should’ve taken me at my word,” he said, practically glowing with pride. The vote might hurt his election chances and would certainly push relations with Bolt & Keize to extremes, but it would all be worth it to fight off this investigation.
Qi Ptock gestured for him to remain a moment longer.
“It does surprise me that you chose to get your revenge against Bolt & Keize like this, especially when the one who instigated this investigation was Bracken Energy Chairman of the Board Carlisle Empry.”
CHAPTER 11
Staring down the barrel of a Florjium-powered gun poised to send a shot clear through her skull, Tris shuddered at the strange rush of being so close to death.
“Give me the money,” Lux demanded. The coldness she’d seen in his eyes when he’d raided that village was now directed at her. Whether he shot her or robbed her, she’d end up dead on the streets of Madora, a poor, filthy hive of a city. The only difference was how long it would take her to die.
Every breath seemed like her first one; nothing in front of her escaped her notice.
The spider tattoo on Lux’s face twitched when he squinted, signaling to Tris that he was about to fire. She leaned in and to the side as the bang hit her ears and the shot passed over her shoulder. As if it were the most natural thing, she reached out and dragged her nails over Lux’s raw, wounded hand as he pulled the hammer back.
He yelled, his face ravaged by the searing pain. The gun fell from his hand and right into Tris’s. Before she knew what she was doing, she fired it at Lux’s chest, cocked the hammer back, and shot Zandy, the ship owner, who was overcome by shock. Both men spilled onto the cobblestones, and Tris also dropped to one knee.
The toxic Florjium glowed a blinding bright green, and the burning sensation nibbled at every inch of her skin.
Lux and Zandy groaned as they made their last halting movements. Tris began to consider what she would do next until she noticed something cold and sharp pressed against her throat. She’d nearly forgotten about the hooded figure from the other side of the square, who must’ve snuck up on her during the commotion. The long sword kept her from moving even an inch.
“You did some impressive things,” he said from over her shoulder in a voice as smooth as silk. Together they gazed at the two men she’d killed. Before today she’d never so much as performed a slap, but it all happened so fast and so easily. She glanced at her hands, which were red and irritated.
“You speak Cumerian?” she asked, not moving a muscle.
“I speak Language. It is the tongue of all knowing,” he explained.
“Oh,” Tris squeaked, not knowing what to make of it. She expected him to slice her neck open and take the pouch of money against her chest, but instead he kept her pinned to the razor-sharp blade.
“You have very strong Moa.”
“What’s Moa?” she asked, struggling to steady her breath.
“Resistance to death. Some die from a paper cut, others die after taking a dozen arrows to the chest. This is Moa,” he said.
“Will it save me from you?” Her question drew noises that might’ve been laughter if they weren’t so wheezy.
“Not even Moa can keep you alive without a head. But I have another intention for you. You will be the Virtuoso of Madora. Reform her and save her people,” he said.
The pressure of the sword lessened, and Tris twisted to see the man’s bristly face and shaded eyes. Some blood dribbled from his lip, alarming Tris, who saw that his cloak was bloodied, as well. Lux’s first shot must’ve struck him.
“And who are you?” she asked. This man had killed her liaisons on the plane and had followed her all the way to the Plagrass mainland, and now he wanted her to be a heroine. Wouldn’t he be better off with somebody younger?
“I’m the Defender of Madora. A few know me as the Unseen Man,” he said, a faint grin appearing on his lips. “But some things must be seen.”
In an instant, Tris felt something cold and hot at the same time slice through the side of her neck twice.
She yelped, wondering how she would be a virtuoso if she were dead. In his free hand, the defender cupped some white powder.
“This will hold in some of your life. The rest you must trust to Moa.”
Lightheadedness struck her before her eyes closed and her mind went blank.
The wind chimes played a soft tune that brought Tris back to consciousness. Her back was stiff, her arms sore, and she could barely open her eyes. When she did, she discovered she was on a long, porous crate that had straw at the bottom. When she peeked between the boards, a chicken stared back at her.
Trying to get up was a mistake, and she collapsed back onto a pillow that must’ve been filled with sand. She grew woozy and was barely cognizant of her surroundings. It was a home of sun-dried brick trimmed with glittery rocks hanging on strings from the ceiling. Sheaths of silky fabric covered the windows, but they couldn’t keep out the intolerable heat.
Her rustling and moaning must’ve gotten someone’s attention, because a frail, middle-aged woman entered the doorway. She had on some plain tan fabric that looked cheap and uncomfortable. It seemed restrictive when she tried to rush over to Tris and the crate.
“Shh, shh,” she said, kneeling down and forcing Tris to lie flat. When the woman touched her neck, Tris remembered the cuts and realized her wound must’ve been bandaged. Probing gently, she found some material wrapped completely around her neck. The woman smiled encouragingly and then began to peel it away.
“How long was I out for? Do you know Lowell Bracken?” she whimpered. The woman nodded but obviously had no idea what she was saying. The sun was up, meaning she had been out for a long time.
When she lifted her head, Tris sensed some soreness in her neck that wasn’t as bad as it had at first seemed. More details returned, and she recalled the defender and his powder. It all seemed like a dream.
“Hoooooo!” the woman crowed when the bandage finally came off.
“What is it?” Tris asked.
The woman went over to a cracked mirror leaning against a broken set of shelves, grabbed one of the larger shards, and carried it back to Tris. Looking into it, Tris squinted and swiveled her head until she could make out scars that formed an X on the side of her neck.
“Oh no!” Tris moaned, dabbing her fingertips to the scars. They were still red and raw, but seemed unlikely to open again. The powder had helped speed her healing.
The woman put away the sliver of mirror and aided Tris to her feet. Once they were up, she wrapped her arm around Tris and put her head to her chest in an inexplicable show of affection. Tris struggled to maintain her balance and return the hug, not wanting to seem ungrateful for the care and attention she received. She also noticed the pouch of money remained intact, a great relief.
But all at once, the kindly resident broke from her hug and trotted out the door, waving her arms and hollering. Tris couldn’t make sense of any of it and sat down until the woman returned with a man wearing a sleeveless tunic who may well have been her husband. When she gestured to Tris’s neck, the man’s blank expression gave way to shock and delight. He clasped Tris’s hand in both of his and shook it
far more vigorously than she would’ve liked.
Of all the things about her—her clothes, her hair, the money, the story of how she got there that she herself didn’t know—it was the new scar on her neck that held their fascination. Tris shrugged.
“What’s going on? I don’t get it,” she said, but the man couldn’t understand her any better than his wife. They seemed to live a simple life with only a few possessions. Tris’s eyes followed the woman as she went to an old book on a rickety cabinet near some half empty bottles.
The wife picked up the book, flipped through the brittle pages, and showed Tris an image of a woman on a throne who very clearly had an X on her neck. Attendants waited on her while gold rained from the sky. Tris was beside herself. What had the defender done?
“Is this a story? Is this a real person? Does everybody know about this?” she rambled, growing embarrassed and anxious. “There’s no way I can let people see me if they expect I’m going to make them rich.”
Tris, who was tall and had light brown hair, looked far different from the woman in the picture, but none of that would matter to people if they got a look at her scar. She looked around for something other than the bloody bandage to wrap around her neck, but found a sharp pain when her back disapproved. The woman handed her a soft scarf of flowing reds and oranges so vivid they appeared ready to burst into flames.
“Wow, this is nice. Where did you get it?” Tris asked. The beaming wife gestured to herself, either sensing the question or incredibly eager to take credit for her handiwork. A dozen such scarves hung around the house beside a pair of knitting needles and a scarf in progress that didn’t have enough wool to be finished.
Though her neck had healed it must’ve spilled a lot of blood, because exhaustion overcame Tris, and she had to return to her stiff, wooden bed. There was little food around to aid her recovery, and as a result she spent the next two cycles confined to the one-room building thinking about how badly she wished she were home.