by Brian Dae
“The president’s priority right now has to be to reassure the nation.”
The primetime host’s gravitas overwhelmed the morning program, armed with his impeccably groomed hair and creaseless suit jacket. His appearance, an anomaly, captured interest.
“There is no justice able to close the wounds caused by the loss of their loved ones but the government must act. The process of healing cannot begin so long as the killers remain free to celebrate their depraved acts in the insular communities they have built within our nation.”
Sparse in details, Cassidy cut the host’s commentary short and searched for a death count, certain that it related to Edward’s premonition. Flipping to the next channel confirmed his suspicions. Two regular morning personalities stood somber as they read live updates from the field reporters, reiterating known information with strained voices; their executive producer had cancelled proceeding time slots for continuity and instructed them to power through. Emotional exhaustion left the events uncolored, leading to a precise accounting of the day’s events. They reported that multiple blasts occurred mid-morning, leveling several buildings and shattering windows within a four-block radius. By early afternoon the tally rose to 430 dead and 213 missing persons, among the deadliest attacks since the Chandrigar riots against the annexation of the Southern Coast—but then that violence was regional.
This time the target lay in his city. Six kilometers away in the financial district people struggled to find survivors and dig through rubble. The same area where the murder took place. Cassidy tried to orient himself in its direction facing the window, standing on his toes to see if the smoke rose high enough to spot. It had blown every which direction by then and he abandoned the attempt. Back on television, the cameras played long rolling shots, capturing the wreckage in images of distraught people, shattered concrete columns, and dust piling atop rubble. Plainclothes volunteers worked alongside uniformed rescue teams until heavy machinery arrived onsite to remove the debris. Lacking images or video of the blast itself, media stations could only focus on the positive contributions of those involved, declaring unity and strength in times of distress. Without survivors emerging from below, the words rang hollow.
The devastation failed to provoke strong feelings inside him but he thought to stand there in person and watch. A curious sense of duty drove him to chase after them, unsure if he would become a volunteer himself. To him, such acts could not be seen as extraordinary during wartime and they were constantly at war, so while it made him feel disturbed, the violence existed as an extension of what happened across their borders. Anything he might have felt he attributed to guilt, knowing in advance and saying nothing. However, knowing something and preventing something existed separately for him and if one led to another history would have been easy to change. He wore a jacket and stepped out.
Security measures complicated his decision. All train stations closed under emergency orders and police paraded themselves in force, eager to question anyone they thought tangentially related. Cassidy had to travel there on foot, spending an entire afternoon observing his city working and functioning with solemn spirits, unsure if they should stop. The locals’ perseverance bewildered confused tourists who repeated things said on television while locals nodded or shook their heads. This calm resilience abated Cassidy’s worries and allowed him to focus elsewhere. Walking down Main Street, the artery which connected the city’s main districts, he wondered how little the skyline changed since childhood. Residents occupying the lower rungs constantly rotated in and out but the old structures remained unchanging monoliths, overlooking everything with an almost disdainful oppression, apparent in their straight walls and concrete forms. Things closer to ground level exhibited vibrancy and growth while ascending floors approached a homogenous and dull sky, growing conservative in nature. He figured it an unfair observation when people working on high were out in the same streets, sharing in the chaos.
Shifting winds carried a faint smoky smell, lingering far from the scene. Cassidy raised his coat sleeve to his mouth searching for its source as he wandered among countless others doing the same. Uniformed officers lining the street corralled spectators with metal barricades and gestured them to step aside, causing a vacuum to form down the center. Emptying Main Street allowed a long procession of government vehicles to race ahead of onlookers. Once the important persons moved on, the police relaxed control and opened the streets again. Everyone’s motives for attending varied but their effect was universally felt, creating severe disruptions in traffic and business along the main thoroughfare. If a common denominator drew these crowds out it was the anticipation of historical significance, an eagerness to participate in a pivotal movement of their country’s history. They demanded to hear the president speak believing his person to be the final catalyst and there too existed a genuine curiosity in seeing how powerful men reacted to provocation. Unlike casual insults thrown around during debates or campaigning, a president shrugging off an enemy attack abdicated his role as figure head.
Local residents and workers abandoned the district in fear while newcomers raced past their empty buildings to spectate. Public servants stationed on rooftops and in side streets overlooking the crowd held dirty glares toward these gawkers. Aided by these federal workers, this festive crowd filtered past open gaps in security like sand grains in a sieve, seeking to satiate their voyeurism. Dust-caked windows served as markers of how close they were getting; their ash-covered footsteps resembling prints in snow. At this point one could not escape the crowd, everyone moved in a single direction against a stream of burnt office documents floating in the wind. Eventually they packed themselves onsite and the blemish became apparent. Glass strewn about into little sharp kernels and withered metal husks greeted them. Few saw the buildings in person or pictured but the devastation appeared self-evident—entire city blocks razed to the ground. Lacking perspective to frame the destruction, people shifted about and waited for the president to speak. Although too far to see, Cassidy filled in his face by memory.
His president looked tall, heavy-set, and possessed recessed eyes which when paired with his parted hair made him owl-like in appearance. This owl-like man presided over a portable podium emblazoned with official seals, coughing into his arm while technicians set up cameras. His advisers swarmed the stage offering bottled water or last minute advice to steady him as he recited his speech internally, much like a fighter before the competition. Once the moment came he stiffened his shoulders and belted out their government’s response.
“The people who committed these evil acts have values which are antithetical to our own. In our society, we do not hide in the shadows to fester in hate but choose instead to engage in vigorous debate. In our society, we do not imagine injustices or linger on past grievances for we are a forward-thinking people. In our society, we cannot tolerate or share space with those who think nothing of spilling the blood of their fellow human beings. We must and will repudiate them.
“The indiscriminate way in which they have decided to communicate their ideology shows how weak they are. But our military is strong. Whether they operate inside our borders or out, the combined forces of our fighting men and women and the good will of the world gives us the moral imperative to seek and engage this enemy no matter where they cower; and the people responsible for this evil will be brought to justice, because righteousness will continue to prevail.
“I call upon Parliament to deliver to my desk a bill which authorizes our military full authority to fight our enemies on even ground and without delay. Every second we give reprieve to the enemy is another second which they will use to plan future attacks on our nation. We cannot afford to let this happen.”
Cassidy decided to stop listening. It made him feel both patriotic and hollow in the aftermath—a flirtation with someone he might have been given a different path in life. Whatever he expected to hear from the speech failed to materialize and the message failed to reassure him. Likewise the people sta
nding beside him frowned and crossed their arms while listening on; this crowd was not going to applaud his speech as a matter of civic duty. A third of the people there were immigrants or tourists who held the misfortune of being there when it happened and this spectacle failed to impress upon them any real urgency. Speaking to voters outside his base and people from outside his country, the president’s lack of charisma took away from the authority of his position and lead them to believe nothing important would come about from his speech. Robbed of historical purpose, people began to filter out.
Driven by a certain thirst, Cassidy walked around until he found an open bar with its happy hour sign crossed out and replaced with an appropriate message scrawled underneath. He entered the building and heard the president’s speech repeated, encouraging patrons to speak of donating blood. General inebriation shelved their enthusiasm. Given the day’s stressful circumstances one imagined more people drinking, a better excuse than most, but everyone there looked like the usual early afternoon crowd. Watching along with the patrons, the bartender eventually noticed Cassidy sitting at the end and offered him the daily specials. After ordering a burger and an import beer, he turned to face outside and watched speech attendees pass by. Those who witnessed the damage to their city left reassured in the permanence of their shared landmarks and identity; it showed on their faces. The bartender interrupted his thoughts and handed him his order.
“We won’t forget about today.”
Cassidy nodded his head. As a child he thought The City eternal, invulnerable to natural disaster and financial panic. He hoped his son would continue to see the same skyline light up in the darkness of night and project the same strength as before. Those unchanging and dull floors were necessary, in retrospect, even if they prevented The City from becoming what it had the potential to be, because it was already what it was. New buildings erected now would serve the same purpose in years to come and somehow he imagined all these things with regret—again a survivor. This time no different in its inevitability and outcome. The attack had occurred two days after his meeting with Viktor and it reinforced older doubts. There are always larger things happening in the background over which the individual has no control, or even a partial effect. If someone were given the opportunity to effect change for a singular issue, this would already be a greater share of the world’s responsibility than the vast majority would need to consider—and so Cassidy reasoned with himself.
He looked back outside. No one expected the trains to resume operation today and the multitudes were testament to this reality. Everyone who would have vanished below ground was thrust to the surface. It appeared surreal for crowds to exist without much open or working in the area, like lost spirits unable to find peace. Everything he experienced today may well have been lived vicariously through them as if he stayed in bed and continued watching lazily because it was all so distant to him. In a charitable gesture, the regulars invited Cassidy to join their conversation and offered him drinks. Cassidy accepted their generosity and drifted over.
“Did you go and see the president speak?” Nathan asked.
“I was there just now,” Cassidy replied.
“Suspected as much. You know, although we’re here most days, and this here being pretty close to the site, none of us bothered to go out there and see it for ourselves. What made you go through all that trouble? Judging by your shirt, I don’t think you’ve just gotten off work.”
“No particular reason. I can’t say I know what I’m thinking right now.”
“Well we can tell you’re a local. Tourists would have gone straight back to their hotel rooms having gotten their money’s worth. City folks like us carry on because the world’s still spinning. That’s the problem with having seen it all right?”
“That’s one problem,” Cassidy answered.
The bar smelled of diluted bleach. Cassidy looked over the counter and spotted an off-color patch papered over with cardboard flats. Given the poor lighting he had missed it upon first glance and only noticed it when their bartender took a prolonged step to avoid the spot when he moved. Removing a large green bottle from the shelf, the bartender poured shots for everyone present and made a short blessing. Everyone present gave verbal confirmations and consumed the unidentified liquor. Warm orange light from the exposed lightbulbs made Cassidy sweat as the orange liquid burned deep in his chest. Despite regular doses he had never acquired a tolerance for drinking and it sat poorly inside him, even after eating, causing the room to feel less solid. In quiet drunkenness he observed the other patrons fall silent, sipping their shots without mirth or comradery. An exceptional thought prompted him to stand and walk outside for air. Rising from his stool revealed his legs lacked cohesion and he nearly toppled over his feet. Nobody paid mind to Cassidy’s twisting footsteps, whose limp figure managed to withdraw his coat from the wooden rack and find its way outside, crowds long gone. Somehow he found his way home.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Have any of you spoken to Paul lately?” Robert asked.
They turned their heads to stare at Cassidy who shrugged in response.
“The last time I saw him was during the New Year’s Party,” Cassidy said.
Members disappeared for weeks on end and materialized at random without mentioning a word to close friends. They considered this perfectly fine behavior. As adults their personal lives belonged to themselves and nobody could compel them to stay. Robert’s question spoke to Paul’s reputation and how his absence proved uncharacteristic. Serving the role of unofficial guardian, Paul provided counsel and support to other veterans from the perspective of someone who understood their problems personally and that required him to be there nearly every single week. Regardless of whether he could cure their depression this service made him well-known. Visitors who appeared outwardly sociable came to confide their demons to him, often revealing too much and breaking down into tears—a difficult burden to carry for a single person. When such upstanding individuals disappeared it usually meant something snapped inside them. Not that anyone stopped them from getting to this point.
“You don’t think he offed himself?” Robert asked.
“What? Paul? There’s no way he’d do something like that,” Scott said.
Again Cassidy said nothing. Paul left him with the burden of secrecy. If he told others the truth it would tarnish Paul’s legacy despite how much they respected the man. Any association with Karkovian separatists received little room for interpretation whether 20 or 200 years ago, leaving an indelible black spot for society to mark next to your name. Bringing in an outsider to this circle, knowing full well what it meant and the risk it entailed, showed either a great degree of trust or indifference in Cassidy. Hundreds if not thousands of non-Karkovians found the intent mattered little when the doors came down.
“Paul told me he was retiring from his job at the factory a few weeks before the party. He’s been working there a long time you know. People don’t just stop working somewhere they’ve spent a lifetime at unless something’s wrong,” Shawn said.
Shawn’s comment caught him unaware. He knew Paul to be a person whose conscience demanded he settle things before jumping into rough waters. Even before thrusting Edward under his care, something already told him to jump. Whatever it was. It made him shudder to think how he missed the warning signs near him when he thought he could see the larger picture. Perhaps Paul’s careless laughter at his jokes spoke to them seeing the same thing coming, both understanding the implicit purpose behind the conversation. Ultimately everyone who passed through the Veteran Organization’s doors sought empathetic listeners; unable to express themselves fully to family and coworkers who listened on with preconditions. Maybe they all thought too highly of Paul by making him an exception or the constant churn of failed lives finally got to him. Nobody knows.
These thoughts came to him while standing outside the factory doors serenaded by the subdued hum of working machinery; its harsh mechanical whirring and spinning drills
dulled by shuttered windows. White corrugated metal walls devoid of signage shielded the structure in a large desolate lot. Few pedestrians would wander through an industrial zone but he suspected even their neighbors might be ignorant of what they produced inside. Cassidy visited the site on many occasions, preferring to wait at a distance to avoid exposing himself to Paul’s coworkers—people treated veterans different when they attended the Organization. Extending this courtesy meant never entering the building itself. He considered knocking on their door and hesitated, unsure of how best to catch someone’s attention. While he loitered about the entrance, a worker saw him standing outside and waved, shouting for Cassidy to stay put. Moments later the wall itself began to convulse and slide open along a track, creating a space wide enough to accommodate a container truck. The man who welcomed him looked a generation his senior, a properly disheveled man refusing to shave the remaining gray tufts of hair on his head.
“Don’t worry, we were planning on having a pick-up later today. But if you ever plan on returning the entrance is round the back. My name’s Hal, how are you doing?”
Having mistaken the shipping dock for the entrance, Cassidy followed the man onto the platform where pallet jacks fed product onto container trucks and black and yellow lines warned workers to watch their step. Instead of walking onto the factory floor, they climbed narrow stairs up to a drab office where four cubicles faced one another. Two sitting desk workers looked up briefly and said good morning before returning to their spreadsheets. Hal brought Cassidy a few steps further to an office window overlooking the shop floor and pointed, expressing concern at a drop in business while operators below manned large industrial machines spitting out fabricated parts at an incessant speed. He explained how declining domestic sales rested solely on younger generations who let the craft die — bemoaning their preference for imports and designer clothes while he himself dressed in foreign designer brands. Only enthusiasts purchased sewing machines now, he declared, and these customers demanded higher specifications matched with extensive support, cutting their already limited profit margins ever smaller. Listening on Cassidy nodded his head and put forth a few polite questions; constantly interrupted by short phone calls “H” answered on a reflex, ending his sentences short before resuming where he left off. When he finished introducing the business, Hal asked if Cassidy came from the Organization.