The Foul Mouth and the Troubled Boomworm (The King Henry Tapes)

by Raley, Richard

  Expectation could no longer meet the face of reality.

  I took my first peek.

  Not the reality of Asylum lies, but the reality of something larger and dangerous and . . .

  . . . and the world as it truly is.

  Session 30

  “You all know the Three Queens,” Welf said, doing the world’s worst General Patton impersonation by walking back and forth in front of the class with a portfolio instead of a baton and being a Nazi instead of an American Badass.

  We all sat on a bleacher the staff had put back behind the bulk of the Mound for just this purpose, furthest away you could get on the school grounds and not get into trouble for being there. It was really the only place to practice for Winter War without the rest of the school trying to spy on you. Each team got one hour a day for the week leading up and then that same twelve hours split among the teams remaining as the rounds progressed. With only ’07 and ’09 left standing, we had six hours devoted to us. If we wanted it . . . had a feeling Welf was going to wanted it.

  The Mound itself remained off limits, covered in gigantic curtains draped from impossibly high metal frameworks. The only time the Mound looked like this was when the Gamemaster worked on his designs and traps and whatever other nefarious devices he had under his control. With Root, we’d probably be attacked by constructs wielding samurai swords or some shit.

  I leaned over to whisper to Pocket, “Don’t think he’s rebuilding the whole Mound, do you?”

  “In two days? Finals are tomorrow, dude, not enough time.”

  “Root was pretty pissed at us. And the Lady. And life in general . . . guy needs some sex.”

  “That’s your answer to everything,” Raj mumbled on my other side. “Listen to Heinrich, he’s trying to tell us important information for the next match.”

  Important information . . . from Welf. Welf playing the leader one more time. Son-of-a-bitch, and this week had started so well. “You’re right . . . important information. I also wouldn’t want to miss another rendition of the Three Feet speech.”

  Valentine and Miranda sat in the row in front of us. The usual burst of laugher I expected from Val didn’t materialize. Man, I wasn’t serious about the whole blackmail thing . . . I swear. Honest. Okay, maybe if it had worked . . .

  I did get the usual turn-around-and-glare out of Miranda though. On the tail end of it Raj got a little smile. King Henry Price, he can get dates for everyone but himself. Used to be the other way. Back before I gave a shit. Never give a shit, kiddies, it’s the start of all your life’s problems. Worry about yourself and steal the rest.

  Once you start caring, you can’t stop. And if you’re powerful enough to start to think maybe you can fix the world . . .

  Raj returned the smile and then Miranda turned back to Welf’s important information. Yesterday, it had taken her about five seconds to get from astonished to accepting Raj’s plea for help. Girl wants to be a martyr. Probably waste her life on some fool cause. Like teaching kids. Raj and Miranda to the Winter Ball, what does King Henry get for the help?

  One step closer to a date with Valentine Ward. “I can’t believe you managed that one,” she’d whispered to me that morning, the first words since she’d laid out her challenge.

  “Don’t see why. I might end up in the Infirmary on half my plays but I’m batting one-thousand for the week.”

  “Still have to surprise me with hidden depths, King Henry.”

  “No problem,” I’d boasted. “Just full of them.”

  No problem, my ass.

  Val had clammed back up after that little chat. Not a word from her since. And not an idea from me on how to surprise her either.

  “Catherine Hayes is the top of the class, but don’t think of her as a leader like Leo or the Eriksons would have been,” Welf was saying. “They wear aeromancer white, but she could be removed from the game and they’d keep on the same. They’re a triumvirate. A more equal triumvirate than Rome put forth.”

  Hidden depths. Fucking hidden depths. Why can’t a guy just be the guy he shows the world? Scrappy little fighter with a sailor’s mouth and a mind for mischief. That so bad? Why I got to be more? Ever since I arrived at the Asylum, been all about being more.

  “You know about the Blackjacks. Twenty-one men. You’ve seen them around the school, likely ran away from them on occasion. The Queens lead ’07 but it’s the Blackjacks that make them so effective in the Winter War.”

  Ceinwyn Dale, first step on that road. Then Pocket. Then Val. Raj, Miranda, Jesus. Fucking Plutarch. More, King Henry, be more, be better. Ultra Vires. Ultra Magnus Maximus. Beyond, the best, the greatest.

  “Mister Root lent me the play-through tapes for ‘07s’ Winter Wars. They did just as bad as us in Single and did worse than we’ve done in Bi. But by Tri . . . they found their strategy and they’ve stuck with it. ’07 is the first class to win as Tri’s in seven years. The first class to have a chance at repeating championships in seven years.”

  Beyond. Like that word. Beyond feeling. Beyond my past, beyond the future. Untouchable. Don’t have to be a part of the world, don’t have to feel. Beyond it all.

  “I’ve talked with the older Ultras and I’ve come upon a theory. The triumvirate wasn’t a triumvirate until last year. Before that they fought with each other. It wasn’t until Catherine, Teresa, and Mary decided they all could be Queens that they settled down, that they picked the strategy of their success.”

  Best. I can be the best. Best fighter. Best lover. Best don’t cost nothing. Best comes out of nothing but skill and power and how fucking crafty you can be. Best, been the best before, been the best plenty of times when I put down bullies with an iron fist. Pop in the jaw, bitch. Learn your new place in the world. Ain’t best no longer.

  “The Three Queens run three teams. One each with seven of the Blackjacks. They’re good at defending, each team sitting in between the four zones. They slide back and forth, rushing like three arms waving in your face, then returning to the middle when you’ve backed off. Attacking, pulling back, attacking again.”

  Greatest. That’s the killer. Want no part of that shit. Greatness, real greatness takes caring. Takes sacrifice. Sacrifice your life, sacrifice your time, sacrifice your future at the altar of your cause. Saving the fucking world before the Mancy makes it go suicidal. Winning Winter War. Getting a date with Valentine Ward, the girl of dreams, and not just my dreams. The star. Telling me I have to be great . . . have to sacrifice . . . have to show all the shit I’ve tried to bury below layer after layer of dirt.

  “’07 is offensive even on the defense. That’s their make-up. When they’re the attacking team it’s even more pronounced. Same style, same nature. Three wedges of Blackjacks with a Queen behind each. Then a rush. The Blackjacks take out as many as they can, expecting to be knocked out. It’s brutal to watch. On defender and attacker both.

  “You see, ’07 doesn’t expect all their team to be standing at the end of a game. They’re only interested in three of them making it. Then—whoever on our side survives—it’s all alone against Catherine, Teresa, and Mary. I hate to say it . . . but we have a lot to prepare for today,” Welf finished, not on the most encouraging note.

  Layer after layer of dirt.

  Good thing I’m a geomancer I suppose.

  [CLICK]

  Welf had us practice.

  Can’t say I paid any more attention to that than I did to his briefing. Three Queens this, Three Queens that. I know the rep. I’ve seen them. I’d fuck ‘em . . . but only if they agreed to let me tie them up. Them girls are biters and scratchers and probably ball slappers, you can see it in their eyes.

  Know your levels of crazy, kiddos.

  With the Mound out of bounds we couldn’t actually work on setting up our defense. A lot would be riding on the coin-flip. That Bitch-Queen Fate again. There was some debate between Welf and Estefan’s groups if maybe choosing two attacks to two defenses might be preferable.

  I’d watched
what the Three Queens and Blackjacks did to the Singles, but that’s to the Singles. Singles always get roasted. They were good. Good and willing to make sacrifices for their victories. What I say about greatness again? Can’t escape it, can’t even escape it here in the Winter War.

  Why can’t I be the fernthrower? Stupid artificing.

  Jesus had pegged me good early in the week. I ain’t no hero. Ain’t no great. Don’t want no depths even if they might be there. Damn stars . . . should have done a double date with Pocket for Naomi and Sandra. I could barely believe who those two had ended up with. Could barely stomach it.

  The Erikson twins.

  Can you believe that shit?

  I should probably get credit for putting those couples together too.

  It’s like a curse.

  “Pay attention,” Raj reminded me.

  Welf won out on the coin-flip rules, going traditional with two defends if we won. We hoped for the best, focused all our efforts on the less fun part of the Winter War. Defense. Not my thing. Waiting around for the other guy to make a move. So not my fucking thing.

  Welf broke us up into six groups of five. He was getting complicated again with the plans. Guess that’s the problem with winning in secret and poisoning your second opponent—your idiot leader doesn’t learn from his mistakes if he doesn’t think he’s made any. Especially if your idiot leader was so into himself he didn’t even bother watching the recording of the first match to see what really happened.

  Six groups of five against three groups of eight. We had numbers at least. Had numbers until Welf split us down. Five against eight. To be set up straight across from the Three Queen wedges. Straddle them train-tracks and be sure you don’t piss on the third rail in fear.

  Those three groups of five had our fastest and our weakest amongst them. Floromancers and corpusmancers mostly. There was the Jason group, which also had Jessica, Pocket, Yvette, and Nick. There was the Isabel group, which also had Bird, Sandra, Tamiko, and Naomi. Then there was Eva’s group, which also had Nizhoni, Robin, Rick Brown, and Jesus.

  Welf had them practice running together. This sounds simple but is pretty complicated. What speed works for the group, how do you stay together without drifting apart, all this kind of stuff to make running a pain in the ass. After they had running down they switched to facing one direction, backing up, and then turning into running away. Next was quickly splitting their group so they had gaps in the line.

  Now the next three groups added themselves in. Here were our heavy hitters. Welf’s group had Valentine, Hope, Quinn, and Asa. Estefan’s group has Ronaldo, Miles, Debra, and Curt. My group had Athir, Raj, Malaya, and Miranda.

  Cuz fuck me, that’s why.

  Welf had the running groups come at us, split open, and then we walked slowly through the holes. Few times of that and then we ran right through the holes. Few times of that and then the running group halted just behind us and swung around to join our attack.

  It was a pretty impressive maneuver.

  Fake a retreat and then hammer them.

  Could work.

  We just had to get the Three Queens mad enough to rush us.

  I promise I wasn’t trying to do it . . . it just happened.

  [CLICK]

  We broke up after four or five hours of practice. It was still afternoon, so I decided to go for a walk around the campus. Yeah, yeah, dangerous to be alone or whatever the fuck, but frankly I think if someone kicked the crap out of me I’d prefer it to having to think about depths.

  Besides, Raj was in Miranda Land now . . . and Pocket had somehow gotten sucked into Welf’s meetings with Estefan’s guys. Plus every other word out of his mouth was ‘Sabine’. Guys who can’t believe they’re in a relationship are annoying as hell, even if it’s only for one dance . . . even if it’s your best friend.

  My mood soured, and curdled, and burned the plastic container.

  Had I ever been that annoying with Sally?

  Nah.

  Smug, maybe, but not annoying.

  There’d been an Intra girl I poached for a month at the start of Bi. Erika Nelson. We had a bit of fun, she got to see the Mound, then we broke off. Why can’t everyone else—boys and girls—be so simple about this love game?

  Love . . . hah . . .

  Never felt that one for a chick.

  Doubt Pocket loved Sabine but Raj damn sure loved Miranda. More than a crush there. Raj would sign marriage papers if she mentioned them.

  Val . . .

  Love . . . hah . . .

  Fifteen-year-old-me might cop to having feelings for her. Which was a lot for him. More than he’d felt for Sally or Erika or any other girl back before the Asylum. Now, all the years later . . . yup, I love me some Valentine Ward. Every crazy, want-to-get-naked one night, don’t-get-too-touchy the next day part of her. It’d be easier on me if it was just fake, just some teenager mistake of thinking sex and love are one thing. But I’m long gone from teenage now . . . know the difference. Not known it often, but known it with Val. I don’t think back on the sex, I think back on our little stolen moments. On my jokes that made her laugh. On her little teases and flirts that made me smile. On me surprising her every time I chose right over easy, and the proud look she’d get on her face. On every time she went superhero badass and left me shaking my head in awe.

  Fifteen-year-old-me took his hands out of his coat pockets and blew air in them to warm his face. Winter War after all. The first few days of the tournament had been unseasonably warm, but now the usual mountain freeze had returned. No snow . . . yet, but close to it. The sky was overcast with clouds, grey to grey to more grey.

  Not many students outside. The cold had sucked some of the fire from the Intras’ rage, cold and the realization that ’07 would be more than happy to dish out revenge for the pancake poisoning. That and everyone who shit themselves puckered wants to forget about the whole thing, like it never happened.

  Those kids outside were in a hurry, heading for a destination and not sightseeing like the crazy, lonely Foul Mouth. A good chunk had their winter coats on too. Apparently this was a thing. Thicker, heavier, lined in fur, hoodie on it. Not me though, just necromancer blacks. Seeing as how it wasn’t my usual the tailors hadn’t bothered to supply a full outfit. No winter coat for me.

  I blew air into my hands again, cupping my mouth. Whole second of warmth and then leeched to the ether. That’s life, ain’t it? I put my hands in my arm pits, tried to ignore the elements . . . at least this type of element didn’t run my life.

  Past the Ultra dorms, past Admin.

  Hidden depths.

  There’s parts of me that I knew would surprise Valentine. Fighting, stealing, fucking, and smoking . . . maybe not smoking any longer, but the first three, yeah, still. But I’d added to the list. Reading. For reals. Not normal textbooks and not fiction for fuck sake. But on the Mancy. As soon as one of our teachers mentioned some small bit of info in passing I’d be in the Library, making sure they weren’t full of shit or pulling something over on us.

  Didn’t check the books out, I stole them and then returned them, and only read them after my privacy curtain was closed, so no one knew about it—had an image as the belligerent idiot to keep up after all. That might surprise Val . . . but not really sexy or romantic or nothing is it?

  Here, I read Artificing for Beginners, want a book report?

  Nah.

  I’d get that look, that disappointed look that cut me deep. Best you could do?

  I play Magic: The Gathering and Dominion with Russell Quilt every Sunday morning after breakfast, think that will work? Shit . . . worse than admitting to reading. Geek card games . . . wouldn’t do it if Quilt didn’t have such good gossip . . . and wasn’t so oblivious about all the infos he spilt to me.

  Nah there too.

  Quilt’s your friend? Isn’t that special. Doesn’t really make my nipples pop though, does it?

  I ducked into the Library, looked around.

  Full as can be
. Students at the books, students just chatting, students messing with computers. Room, after room, after room, all filled. An off day during winter didn’t hold to normal library Hush it, Motherfucker rules. Even the Auditorium had kids in it, a few with music instruments on the stage practicing a song. There was a band and choir and all sorts of stuff at the Asylum you’d expect at normal school. Singing . . . not my thing . . . not my hidden depths.

  Doe, ray, just fucking kill me.

  I stood in the back, watching the band nonetheless. They covered some Sabbath then some Van Halen. Basically a high school garage band—so they sucked ass—but it’s not like we had iPods at the Asylum. It took me four songs to notice the drummer was my Tri nemesis Leo. Maybe the guy ain’t so bad after all . . . like only ninety-five percent asshole instead of a complete asshole.

  He had his cryomancer’s coat off, nothing but white undershirt, showing off arms ripped with muscle. Bunch of girls, Intras and Ultras both, swayed to the music, watching as much as listening to the show. Musicians, even the shitty ones get the chicks. Not much depth though, is there? Bands are all a lie, all shallow, an excuse for good girls to fuck. Pretend to be a bad girl for a night by playing groupie.

  Don’t think Val’s interested in playing bad girl. Free girl maybe. Free of power. Free of worrying about igniting the people around her, or the walls, or the anything. Val frowned in concentration sometimes. She didn’t think people noticed, or was so worried about it that she pretended we didn’t. Maybe the others don’t.

  I did. Watching faces, watching eyes, save you from a beating. That frown out of nowhere, a pause in her step, a pause in her sentence. Keeping back an inferno. Val’s one of the fastest and strongest anima poolers I’ve ever seen, but she’s not high on control. Costs her something to control. As brilliant and quick as she is . . . it’s only the part of her not watching the inferno.

  Every Firestarter fears they’ll go Carrie. Doesn’t help that some mancers do go monster . . .

  Okay, Price, show her she’s not a monster, show her that’s she’s beautiful. But don’t just blurt it out . . . don’t say it, that’s tacky, motherfucker. She’s worth more than an easy word. Show her.