by Hayden, Nick
"I'm just trying to say this isn't Thyrion. If one of us makes a breakthrough, we all move forward."
"That's not what you were saying. Get me another glass."
"Try to be pleasant tonight. For my sake."
"Of course, my dear, dear teacher," she mocked. "Wouldn't want you to be looked down upon. Now, another glass. Is it my night or not?"
"You’re lucky I don’t take your fits to heart. Marrying a bear of a madman has its advantages."
"Honored. Now, go!"
Calea hung back from the main crowd, waiting impatiently. She could feel their eyes, dissecting her. And his eyes, too, watching her discreetly. After tonight, she'd find a way to be rid of him.
Overseer Piers approached as Almetter slipped away. He smiled genially and moved to embrace her in his grandfatherly way before he caught her look. He was a forgetful, touchy-feely sort of man, the last an unusual trait in an Overseer, but his mind was extraordinarily quick and intuitive when presented with a problem. "I apologize. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. You remind me of my daughter, that's all. She's out there, in Section Eight somewhere. Doesn't like to visit. I tend to forget important things like her birthday, her name--never quite forgave me for all those years." He nodded vaguely. "We won't make a prolonged speech. Everyone's read the research. We'll do a quick little thing then get on with the party. If you'd come along?"
She followed, taking the glass Almetter passed her and finishing it before the Overseer had started his announcement. It didn't taste better the second time down, but she would keep at it until it did.
The Overseer waved a hand at the two musicians, who ceased their manipulation of wind over the many pipes of the panorgan. Those gathered were mostly of the political class, including the seven active Guides and a number of their bureaucratic assistants. Used to social cues, they quieted quickly. A few of the more eccentric Examiners, the theoreticians of Jalseion, had to be hushed.
"My fellow explorers," the Overseer began. Calea forced a smile, her hands curling into fists at her side because she didn't know what else to do with them. Everyone was looking at her, taking stock, deciding if she really belonged. She knew many of them, at least by sight, but how many truly believed in her? None. She wanted to hide; she pressed the thought away, bore their polite smiles, suffered their applause. She was better than they were, and she would prove it.
Then, that quickly, the speech was over, the story of her advances in magic storage and the promotion it gained her told in a few concise words. The Overseer patted her on the shoulder and meandered off. Calea fumbled her way through handshakes and congratulations, fellow Select commenting on her work, or, worse yet, on her gown. At the first lull, she made her way to the food table, giving the cold shoulder to others who wanted to talk. She took another glass and finished it. Almetter reappeared.
"I hate this," Calea breathed.
"People adoring you? I thought you demanded it."
"You're an idiot," Calea said. "You're all idiots!" she shouted. Those nearby looked at her, uncertainly trying to take it as a joke.
Almetter grabbed Calea's arm. "What was that about?"
“It’s the truth, that’s all.” Another glass. Soon, she’d stop caring. “I miniaturized the battery. So what? Wait until they see what I have planned next.”
“Excuse me, Calea?” The voice belonged to a rather handsome young man. “I suppose you remember me?” Rodin had been a Student a level above Calea when he graduated. He had begun three levels above, but Calea had worked hard and fast.
“I do. I have a memory.”
He smiled. “Yes, you do. And an astounding one at that, I recall. Not the only thing you excel at, either, it seems.” He indicated the festivities. “I’ve read the papers. It took me three times, but I finally followed. It’ll take me longer to replicate it on my own. Your magical technique is very delicate.”
“Why bother? Let the Architects bother with the menial labor.”
“No, it’ll be a nice challenge, and I need to keep in practice. I haven’t much reason to practice fine manipulation otherwise. But that’s not important right now. I actually came over here hoping you’d give me the honor of a dance.”
“No.”
His face fell momentarily and what returned was a little less certain. “I’m not sure what I expected. If not yes, then an excuse.”
“I won’t dance. End of story.”
He glanced down at her feet, and she grew angry. “No. And tell everyone. No dancing. I’m here to enjoy myself, so I’d be pleased if you’d leave me alone.”
He gave a little nod, almost a mock bow, but not quite. “I’m sorry.”
Almetter had snuck away at the start of the conversation, to grant them “privacy.” Calea grabbed a glass and a plate of cheese and fruit and headed to the corner of the roof, away from the crowd. A dreadful turmoil raged against her ribcage, demanding tears. She took deep breaths, clenching and unclenching her right fist with slow, deliberate motion. She bottled up the storm, pressed down the cork, and held it firmly in place until the danger had passed.
The dark city lay beneath her, music and foreign acquaintances behind. She floated, unanchored and alone.
She set her empty glass down. Someone was near.
“Go away.”
“I cannot.”
“No one’s going to attack me here. Now or ever.”
“I’ve been informed otherwise.”
“So you insist on babysitting me.”
“I’m here to protect you.”
Calea turned. The man stood nearer than she had supposed. He was taller than she was, and thick--thick-faced, thick-armed, thick-shouldered. Thick-headed, no doubt. “What’s your name?”
“Bron.”
“Do you know why the Overseer assigned you to me?”
“Not specifically. I was told to protect you. That is all I need know.”
“I’ll show you why.” The storm was bottled; the alcohol was working. She’d show him she didn’t care. She set her untouched plate on the roof-ledge beside her glass and began peeling her right-hand glove off mid-bicep. Nearly from shoulder to fingertip, metal and wire. Gears and hinges worked with the faintest creak as she unflexed her fingers. “A year ago, this was impossible. I would have had to wear a 100-pound backpack to power this, or perform a dozen intricate magical manipulations minute by minute. The power source on this is the size of what should be my humerus. So, apparently, I’m in danger.”
“I understand.”
“Quicker than you look, then. Or are you just pretending to humor me? Explain.”
“Magic is power. When magic is stored in a battery, portable power. You make the battery smaller, you increase its range and application. You’ve created something everyone wants.”
Calea clapped. “Very good. You earn a passing grade. I’ll recommend you for a level up. Now, if you want to be helpful, get me something to drink. I’m parched.”
“You’ve had plenty.”
Calea pulled her glove back on, pulling it tight at the fingers, and got her own drink. She was feeling light; the prosthetics normally made her feel heavy. Essendr was at the table, too. He was in his late forties, bearded, rather tight in the belly, and perpetually tragic-looking due to the tilt of his eyes and mouth. He’d found a wife during his time Guiding Section Four, a homely, non-Select thing. They were talking closely when Calea saw them. “Essendr! Nice party. When’d you have yours, sometime before I was born?”
He smiled sadly. “Something like that, yes. I was a rather different man then.”
“Skinnier, I hope.”
He nodded amiably. “Less happy, more hopeful, so to speak.”
His wife added, “I’d just like to say again, Calea, how proud we are of you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Neither Essendr nor his wife could find an answer. Bron intruded, “It means you’ve had a bit to drink.”
“That’s not what it means!” She gra
bbed a glass and poured it down her throat before Bron could take it from her. “It means you pity me. This isn’t a celebration. It’s therapy. That’s what you all think. I made myself an arm and a leg and everyone thinks it’s a big deal. It isn’t. I haven’t even started. This was a hobby, something I did to pass the time. But you’re all so anxious to make me feel good about myself, show me I’m almost your equals. Isn’t that right?” Essendr was pale-faced, his wife red. Calea laughed at the contrast.
Bron touched her shoulder and she jumped as if stabbed. “Get off me!”
Others were beginning to gather around, though they still pretended to be absorbed in other conversations, but Calea noticed. “Closer, closer! What have you heard about me? It’s all true, every last bit of it. Even the parts that contradict. Who’d like to dance with me, take me out for a test run? No one? Where’s Rodin? Rodin, I change my mind. Let’s sweep across the dance floor, and let these fine folks take notes. Sketches, too, like good scientists. Rodin? Where are you?”
Bron grabbed her again and did not let go when she tried to escape. With an iron grip, he pinched her shoulder and led her away. She cursed and screamed, and he, in her ear, said softly, “Be quiet. Don’t make this worse.”
He ushered her to a far corner, away from the lights, near the stairs. She was crying now, shuddering in his grasp. The bottle had cracked; the storm was loosed. “How dare you! How dare you!”
“I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“They can’t hurt me,” she screamed, voice raw. “But you--you--!” She turned away, bawling uncontrollably. She felt his presence, silent, unreadable, unmoving, relentless. She wanted to squirm. She could take any insult; she could not take this. But she forced herself to stop crying. She forced it down, beat it down, crammed it tight, tight, into a crevice. It would come out again, unexpectedly, but for now, she was calm.
She hated him.
“I’ll have you fired,” she said.
“I don’t think they will listen. I’m good at what I do.”
“No one’s trying to kill me.”
He did not answer. He met her gaze then, suddenly, looked down. “You’re right. I will remain at a distance.”
“I’m returning to my room. You enjoy yourself up here.”
“Of course. Thank you.”
Calea studied him for a moment longer. She would repay him for what he had done to her. Carefully, she made her way down the stairs, listening for the sound of her knee. She could hear it; that would have to be fixed.
Bron watched her go and waited. Then he descended, following her.
Chapter 3 - The Ruined Tower
I stop. Fatigue has failed to slow me. The scene before me succeeds.
Her tower rises above me, decapitated. It has loomed over me, broken, puffing, beckoning. The sun is warm now, the air still. The smoke billows; I can see fire lazily licking the bones of its meal. The tower is tilted, nudged, but it stands.
Separating me from what remains of the wide entrance is a trench. The generators that provided power to Section Four hummed here, fussed over by Architects. Dreary, overworked Select. Dead now. I think I see pieces of them here and there. The power facility sat in the barrier wall between Section and Tower. Gone, all of it. Obliterated into powder and junk. The tower entrance reveals the rooms within, like the side of a doll house.
Where are the Select? With magic they move rock, wield wind, control fire. I hear none of it. If regular man survives and begins to dig his way out, Select will too. But I do not see them; I do not see them working.
The trench is deep, its walls steep. My fingers hold my weight; my battered feet find toeholds. I work slowly, unused to climbing, but my will is strong. I have no fear of falling; therefore, I will not fall. I reach the bottom, begin up the other side. I reach level ground. Done.
I peer up as I enter beneath the shattered structure. If it has not fallen, it will not, but even I cannot escape the sense of inexorable gravity pulling down, down, down. I pass through the foyer. Men here died instantly, the ceiling beams and furniture from the floor above crushing them. I listen. There is sound, a voice, nearby. Not hers. It might know where she is, though.
I search it out, moving into the main hall, turning aside into a room designated for drinking and lounging. A club for Guides and their assistants, a place where men who decide the fate of thousands toss dice and wild ideas. One is dead at the threshold. He sprawls across the carpeted floor. The room is miraculously untouched. I step inside, wary. I check behind the door, open the cabinets. No one else is there.
I return to the body. His blood stiffens the carpet. I turn him over. I know him. Essendr, an amiable fellow as Guides go. She hated him. A gash runs along his abdomen, a wound in his chest. Weapons. Blades? Unconventional in Jalseion. I would know.
I say a prayer for his soul. I have largely forgotten my mother’s faith, but old habits die hard. I’ve seen death. The city stinks with it today. But I was to protect ones such as this. And her. Above all, her.
I stand. My hand is shaking. It’s beginning to sink in. She is dead. I don’t know it for certain yet, but it’s becoming reality. Jalseion has been shaken until anything that could move, did. And someone is using it to cover the murder of Select.
No--hesitation is delay. Delay is death. I move on.
I still hear that voice, faint but constant. I force the door to the next room open, the hinges protesting. The floor above is visible. Two more dead, and one alive beneath the rubble. Grigor. He likes tea. That’s all I can remember of him at the moment, all that sticks. He stares up at the third-floor ceiling. His legs are pinned beneath a cabinet. He’s cut somehow; I see blood pooled beneath his lower body. His lips are moving, and sometimes they make noise. I come to him.
“Do you know where Calea Lisan is?”
He stares at me, confused. Suddenly, his hand is at my neck, fumbling for my collar.
“I had a dream,” he says. “I knew I would die this way.”
I let him speak. I am impatient, but by patience I might get an answer. He is not in his right mind; direct questions will yield nothing.
“I die with the world,” he mutters. “I cannot even lift my....” He lifts his neck, craning to see his legs. “The power is gone. Can you sense it? Gone. The world is empty. Do you remember what they used to tell us as kids, about the world dying? It’s hollowed out, emptied. I can’t even....” Again, he looks at his legs.
I understand. A Select should be able to move the cabinet with a push of magic. Shock does strange things. I’ve heard of a mother lifting a car to reach her trapped child; I’ve heard of men going mute after a traumatic experience. Perhaps he is no longer able to reach the magic. My first instinct is to help. My second is that moving the burden would injure him worse.
My third is that I’ve abandoned so many already. What’s one more?
“Do you know where Calea is? Calea Lisan? Guide Lisan?”
His eyes focus on me. “Poor girl. Without magic....”
“Where is she?”
“It’s only a matter of time. Everything will waste away now. Everything. The earth is a corpse. The spirit has fled. We should have known. It was bound to happen someday. Today....”
I stand. It’s useless. I will go where she must be. If she is to be found, it will be in her rooms.
If she is not there...it doesn’t matter yet. Ifs will kill a man and have.
I know every passage in all eight Towers. I studied the maps and walked them to be sure. Just in case.
I don’t know how damaged the rest of the Tower is. I’ll take my chances with the most direct route.
The nearest stairs are used by the maids who keep the Tower clean. I see it in my head: Down the hall, turn right, fourth door on the left is the stairwell. I am to the turn as quick as conscious thought can recount the location. Dust and plaster fly up as I hurry along the hall. It is oddly preserved, like an old house, dusty and skewed, but largely intact. Footsteps stand out on the
filthy carpet.
Calea’s apartment is on the eighteenth floor. I throw open the stairwell door, rush up the stairs. The steps are steep, the flight narrow. I ascend easily, up, up, but the passage is unnaturally bright. The lights are dead, so it must be the sun. By the sixth floor, I can see the scar above me, a slash that cuts the stairwell in half, opening the column to rooms on either side. I stop at the eighth. Beyond, the steps are twisted by the spasm that has compressed this whole area. Four floors are wedged together, collapsing into one another, but hanging delicately, waiting for a final tickle to destroy the balancing act.
I return to the seventh and exit. Students live on this floor and the one above. Or lived. I don’t know which, after today. I hear movement, talking, anxious sounds. The nearest classroom is packed with young girls, with three teenage mentors soothing them. The nearest sees me first. She freezes, then boldly asks, “Are you here to help us?”
“I have someone I need to find.”
“We need to get these children down.”
“Use the stairs.”
All the girls are staring at me now, wide-eyed and fearful. “Is it safe?” the first, the one who has decided to lead, asks. Lowering her voice, she says, “We heard screams. We’ve been waiting for someone to find us, to show us the way....”
“Yes, it’s safe.” I remember Essendr’s wound. “For now. Don’t stay here. Get to ground level. Get out of the Tower. The stairs are fine.”
Another of the older girls speaks up. “You’re looking for Guide Lisan.”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know. I...I just recognized you.”
It is a strange thing to say. A bodyguard is not meant to be noticed. “How?”
She turns red. “I just... Guide Lisan lectured in our class one day. You were there. That’s all.” She is embarrassed for some reason. Teen girls are strange creatures.
“Can one of you power the elevator for me?” It’s a stupid question. They would have tried that first, if they tried anything.
“It won’t work,” the first says. “Not anymore.”
“Get out of here. All right?”