The Misrule series Box Set

by Andy Graham

  A woman sat on the edge of the chair. The double-holed leather straps attached to the chair hung around her limbs, tickling at her flesh. At the sight of her, the crawling, being-watched sensation between Brennan’s shoulder blades vanished. Jake Swann yelped in pain and whipped his hand out of Brennan’s grip.

  “You tricked me,” the woman said.

  “Maybe,” Randall replied, the smirk on his face not reaching his eyes.

  “The green fluid you gave me” — her eyes flicked towards the solutions on the table and to Brennan — “the liquid he force-fed me wasn’t poison. I didn’t need to come back for the antidote.” The Famulus ran a hand through her hair. Strands floated down to the floor. The other hand was wrapped in a dirty cloth. Swollen, burnt flesh peeped around the edge of the bandages.

  “I could be lying to you still,” Randall said. “I told you you’d been poisoned. Now I’m telling you it wasn’t poison. Which version of me do you want to believe? This is how politics and religion work, no? I can say whatever I want and you get to pick and choose which truth you prefer.”

  “Stop, please,” her voice was as scrawny as her limbs. “No more games.”

  “The quest for eternal salvation never stopped for the sheep who attended all these secret ceremonies of yours. The veneration of the Higher and Lesser Elements: the earthly four of fire, air, earth and water, and the celestial triumvirate of space, time and consciousness. It was endless.” His voice had taken on a mocking resonance. He grasped at the air and pressed a fist into his chest. “The pursuit of Mother Nature’s truths never ceases. Why should this?”

  “You won.”

  He cackled. “I know.”

  “Let me go, please.”

  “You’re free to leave.” He waved his hand at the door. “But there’s always the chance that I’m lying again and I really did poison you.”

  She picked at the fabric of her trousers with her bandaged hand. There was a triangular burn under there. Brennan knew because he’d done it. The woman’s scalp was visible through the thin roots of her hair. As were the deep scratches from her fingernails.

  “And there’s also the minor issue of you murdering Captain Brennan’s sister—”

  “Lena.” Her name slid between Brennan’s lips.

  “Yes, Lena.” Randall stood over the Famulus and whispered, “Likeable Lena. Lively Lena. Lascivious Lena.”

  Brennan stared at one of the lights, hoping, praying that the glare would burn away the naked images that cavorted in front of his eyes.

  “Lena,” the VP said, “was well-loved by her family. And Brennan here has certain emotional qualities that make him well-suited to asking questions. He’s very good at it, too.”

  “I’ll help.” Malakan gazed at the torturer’s toolbox. His face was flushed and sweaty. “I can ask questions. I reckon I can do what you did to that kid in the president’s office.”

  “Who is this child, Brennan?” Randall asked, his gaze still fixed on the Famulus. Jake Swann started.

  “Dr Stella Swann’s son. You said we were to keep him with us at all times for insurance.”

  “No, no, no.” Randall pointed at Malakan. “This child.”

  “He’s new. Private Malakan, sir. Corporal Seth’s replacement.”

  “Replacement?”

  “Dead.”

  “Seth’s dead? Shame. How did he die? No matter. Not interested in the details. Seth was a liability. His complete and utter lack of ethics and morals made him useful, but” — he picked out a fleck of dirt from under a nail and flicked it at the Famulus — “he’s no loss.”

  There was a muttering, low and quiet from the orange shadow in the corner. Jake Swann started and huddled close to Brennan. The boy’s shoulder pressed into the man’s hip. Brennan saw a younger version of himself in the child: innocent and defiant, before the predators had got hold of him and twisted him into a different version of himself. This boy, Stella Swann’s kid, still had a chance to grow and bathe in the sea of emotions that humans were capable of, rather than being afraid of getting wet and drowning in them. The boy’s thoughts, though, were written plain across his face, “I hate you. But the others? They scare me.”

  The only way for the child to deal with hate that deep was murder. Brennan knew. That had been his choice. He clasped his hands behind his back, the alternative would have been to hug Jake. He couldn’t. Not after what had been done to him. Malakan’s words in the sub-metro came back to him, as he had originally heard them, told by his sister: “The world’s going soft if an adult can’t hug a child.”

  Randall glanced up at the corner with the orange shadow. Something there was muttering two words over and over again. “Brennan,” the VP said, “I expect you to give Private Wet-Behind-the-Ears a reminder of the basic protocols for dealing with his new president. He is to shut up until told otherwise. The reminder can be painful if you wish.”

  Malakan’s rattish nose pointed from one man to the next, his teeth grinding.

  “You will have time to educate him on the journey to the Donian Mountains.”

  “Donia?” Malakan burst out. “I’m from those mountains. I just escaped those superstitious peasants. I’m not going back there! They’ll lynch me.”

  Brennan pivoted and backhanded the younger man on the nose. Warm blood sprayed across Brennan’s face, stinging one eye. Malakan staggered, tripped over Jake’s outstretched foot, and went down in a sprawling heap.

  Brennan pinned him flat and beat him.

  Ten frantic seconds later, Brennan got back to his feet. His fist was sore, his knuckles red and throbbing. He was floating above the sea of emotions. One toe had dipped in that whirlpool. He was still not feeling, but he wasn’t quite as dead as he had been.

  Malakan struggled upright. His lip was fat. Blood ran into one eye. He stood to attention, one foot juddering on the floor. Jake Swann had a look on his face that could have been fear or satisfaction depending on how the light caught it.

  “Better, Brennan, better,” Randall said. “Glad to see a little of your old self back. Now you and Private Moron will be going to Donia. Another sun-fan has taken out one of our relay towers, so communication with the provinces will be limited, but you should make short work of these ‘superstitious peasants’. Major Henndrik is prepping a larger party but I want you there first. Take as few as necessary to get there quickly.”

  “And you, sir?”

  “Jake Swann and I are going to have a chat.” He plucked at Jake’s shirt. The boy gave Brennan a wide-eyed look that slid into the scared hole Brennan had once occupied as a child.

  “Sir?” the question was hanging in the air before he could stop it.

  “Yes, Captain?”

  Brennan’s gaze slid round the room. Malakan, bloody but obedient. Jake, terrified, desperately hopeful. Randall Soulier, implacable, evil. So much more so than Corporal Seth had been. Seth had been stupid. This man was intelligent. Seth had been the bloody fist to Randall’s bigoted brain, one of many bullies happy to hide behind someone else’s thinking.

  “You had a question, Captain?” Randall’s odd-coloured eyes followed Brennan’s gaze back to Jake. “About the child?” Jake shuffled a prayer’s breath closer to the legionnaire.

  Brennan’s head was throbbing, each pulse of blood shaking his vision. “No, sir. About her.” He pointed to the Famulus.

  The woman shrank back into the chair, trying to camouflage her angular body in the awkward corners.

  “Of course you do.” Randall tilted the Famulus’s head back with his finger. Her eyes were red and blurred with tears. “I know you want to question her and you will get your turn, of that I give you my word. But I need you to sort out the situation in Donia first. Meanwhile, our friend here is going to have a little chat with a living legend.”

  A creak ushered in a sliver of light. A shadow stretched across the ceiling. Tentacle-like silhouettes of curling hair twitched on the ceiling. As the figure came into view, Brennan heard an intake of bre
ath from Malakan.

  “What’s she done to her face?” Jake asked.

  Skin that was two sizes too small shone in the light. Bright red lipstick was smeared across lips that were inflated to the point of bursting. A nose, pinched at the bridge. Eyes, slanting up at slightly different angles that hurt to look at. Her blouse was partly unbuttoned, the skin above it was wrinkled and loose. A deep shadow lay between breasts that strained the fabric of her top. Teeth, whiter than bleached bone. And a smile that was as fixed as it was forced.

  “Gentlemen, may I present Professor Wu-Brocker.”

  “I thought she was dead,” Brennan said.

  “Just modified.”

  “A legionnaire, perfect!” Wu-Brocker’s voice was distorted as it squeezed its way past lips that didn’t bend. “Tell me, Captain, at what point does patriotism become jingoism?” Eyes that looked as if they had once belonged to a corpse fixed on Brennan’s face.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Ignore her, Brennan. She likes her questions, claims it’s a scientist’s prerogative.”

  “Progress depends on questions, Mr Soulier. Loyalty, less so. Isn’t that so, Captain?” She arched an eyebrow at Brennan. “Now what do you have for me?”

  “What? Not who?” Malakan muttered.

  “It’s easier to break a what than a who. Less emotional fallout,” Randall said, seemingly unaware that it had been Malakan that had spoken. “For most, anyway. Some people are wired the other way round.” He leant on the chair arms, his face nose close to the Famulus’s. “Corporal Seth, for example, didn’t like breaking things unless they screamed or squealed. Brennan here just gets the job done. And Wu-Brocker has a particularly scientific bent to her methods. She likes to record everything she does and see if she can reproduce the results, even down to the screams.”

  Wu-Brocker clicked her fingers. The muttering shadow shuffled out of the corner, bent-backed, wrinkled and clothed in an orange smock. “Benn. John. Left. Right. Right. Left. Benn. John.”

  Jake’s hand slipped into Brennan’s, warm fingers clutching his. It felt oddly comfortable there.

  Scars, both long and short, flickered on Benn-John’s skin as Wu-Brocker said, “We’ll start with the razor.” Benn-John’s eyes flicked to the blade. One hand stroked a scar that circled his throat. Then, feet dragging on the floor, he shuffled to the table.

  Brennan felt Jamie’s arms circling his thigh, head pushing into the man’s hip. Brennan flinched. Counted. Five to one. Breathed.

  The VP indicated for the legionnaires to follow him. “Before you go, Brennan, I need to talk to you about Field-Marshal Chester. Major Henndrik had an idea.”

  At the man’s name, Brennan’s hand drifted down the Jake’s shoulder and squeezed. Comforting who, though?

  “You need to make some calls,” Randall continued. “I’m sure you can do that without messing it up. We’ll leave the Famulus in Dr Wu-Brocker’s capable hands. Or, as she used to be known in Camp X517, Lady Flay.”

  15

  The Musical Labyrinth

  (Return)

  They ran, muscles burning, throats raw from the exertion. Away from the Kickshaw, Orr, Nascimento and the bully boys and girls in the Unsung. Ray and the others had picked up a tail. Not vampires. Not dogs or werewolves. There was no chance of the Cracks getting them, either; they were moving too quickly. They fled through the deserted streets of Effrea, dodging curfew patrols, hoping the route Ray had used not long back to get into the capital would also get them out. Dan Swann’s feet slapped on the concrete floor of Warehouse 433, the musical graveyard where confiscated musical instruments slept. He ran clutching his head, muttering and grimacing and crashed into a piano. A thrum of out-of-tune strings burst into the air.

  “There,” someone shouted from behind them.

  “This way,” another voice.

  “I told you we should have avoided this place.” Ray’s back screamed at him as he hauled Dan Swann to his feet. Stella was hovering, trying to help, getting in the way. Her usual decisiveness lost in the worry and fear for her husband. Emily Swann watched her parents, gnawing at her bottom lip.

  “It’s the quickest way from the Kickshaw to the pickup point,” Martinez replied.

  Dan pushed Ray away and, as Stella grabbed her husband’s hands, he pulled free. “Don’t. Stay away. Safer. Better. Easier. Head hurts.” Stella, jaw quivering, scooped up her daughter. Vena watched the scene unfolding, her blue eyes unreadable.

  “Follow me.” Martinez started off into the darkness with his characteristic hop-skip-swing gait.

  The shouts were louder, closer. “Wait.” Ray reached into the piano. The strings were still vibrating under his fingers. “Best not look, Tino.”

  “What you going to do?”

  “This.” Ray grabbed the hammers and wrenched them out of the piano. They came free with a squeal of cracking wood.

  “What are you doing, Franklin? Those things are priceless!”

  Ray hurled one of the felt-padded hammers into the darkness. A clanking, hissing noise split the air. It was answered by shouts and the stamp of feet as their pursuers altered course.

  “Lucky. You hit the cymbals.” Martinez grinned. “Best drum solo I’ve heard for a long time.”

  “Only drum solo you’ve heard for a long time.”

  Martinez rolled his eyes. “That was the point. You lost any residual traces of your sense of humour now you’re about to be a dad?”

  “Dad,” Emily said.

  “Yup.” Martinez ruffled her hair. “Franklin’s going to be a dad. Think of the kid as insurance for when you’re older, Ray, someone to push your wheelchair to the top of a windy cliff and leave you there. That’s what my dad said to me.” His grin faltered. “That turned out to be the worst kind of dad joke.”

  “Dad,” Emily repeated. “Mummy. Look at Daddy.”

  Dan Swann’s face glistened with sweat. Lit by the orbs that glowed on the high ceilings, the sweat beaded on his face in hues of red, crimson and gold. He was drilling his knuckles into his temples, rocking back and forth. Muttering. Swearing. “Dan?” Stella asked, torn between a need to go to him and give him space. Dan’s lips curled back over his teeth. Strands of spittle clogged up the corners of his mouth. He extended his hands towards his wife, fingers curled into talons, eyes flashing their unnatural purple. Ray pulled Stella behind himself only for Stella to shove him out of the way. “He’s my husband. My children’s father. I am not going to hide behind anyone.”

  The shouts of their pursuers were closer, angrier. Ray hurled another piece of piano in the opposite direction. This one clattered on a stone floor. “Missed,” he said, adding a curse under his breath. Stella stood in front of her husband. He was shaking. His teeth chattered. He raised his arms, fingers twitching in front of Stella’s neck. Ray started forwards and Stella held up a warning hand.

  “Mummy!”

  A shout: “This way!”

  Men’s voices.

  “Another decoy.”

  Excited. Hunting.

  “No, I heard them.”

  Emily cried.

  “The girl.”

  Closer.

  One of them yelled something about what he was going to do to Emily and Stella that made Vena flush an angry red.

  “What are you doing, Stella?” Ray hissed. Dan’s fingers had closed around Stella’s neck. The skin under his contact was puckered and stretched, halfway to bruising.

  “Dan,” Stella repeated. “It’s me. Stella Swann. Your wife. Emily’s here, too.” Softly, slowly, she recounted memories, details, quirks, the little things that no one outside a loving relationship should know. In another situation, Ray would have had the decency to walk away. Now he had no choice but to listen.

  “We got problems, Ray,” Martinez said.

  “We need to stall them.” Ray ushered Emily over to Vena.

  “I’m to look after her?” Vena sneered. “The woman looks after the girl while the cripple and the man with the nev
er-ending bad back fight the good fight? I see the dinosaurs of sexism and tradition are still alive.”

  “Nope.” Ray pushed his revolver into Vena’s hands. “You get to look after the girl and fight. I keep hearing how women are better at multitasking. Prove it. Tino and I have worked together. We’ll be more efficient doing our job while you do yours.”

  “I thought . . .” A puzzled expression crossed Vena’s face as she looked at the revolver.

  “What? That you’d get the knife?” The blade glinted red in the half-light. “You can take it if you want but knife wounds are ugly. They’re personal. They stink of blood and shit.”

  A look crossed Vena’s face that was more thoughtful than it was disgusted. “I’ll keep the revolver.”

  “Freeze!” A man emerged from the black. He couldn’t have had more years in him than he had pimples on his face. His hair was bushed out like a scared cat and the tremor in his hands was obvious. He trained his rifle on Ray.

  “She’s got a gun,” Ray yelled, pointing to Vena.

  The black dot of the legionnaire’s muzzle swung left.

  “Thanks, Franklin,” Vena muttered. “That kind of gender equality I could have done without.”

  “Hypocrite.”

  “To survive?” She shrugged. “Always.”

  “Shut it!” the soldier yelled, voice cracking. “Shut him up as well!” He nodded to Dan and shouted into the darkness for his colleagues.

  Stella ignored him. She was talking to Dan. Her hands rested on his waist. Her husband’s face was contorted into a grimace of pain. A reflection of what was going on in his head? Or real pain? Idly, and despite having a nervous rookie waving a gun in his face, Ray wondered what Dr Stella ‘The Pain Researcher’ Swann would say about that.