The Severed Tower

by J. Barton Mitchell

  “I think it’s all silly. More silly even than that crazy Freebooter city in the sky. Bunch of kids, holed up back here for no reason I can see.”

  “The Tone doesn’t affect them as much. You notice that? That’s probably one reason,” Holt said.

  “Just because you don’t Succumb, don’t mean you’re living. You have to do that on your own, and you can’t live back here. All you can really do is survive.”

  “So what’s your theory, then?”

  “I don’t care enough to have one, but Tiberius thinks Gideon’s building something.”

  “Building what?”

  “No clue, but it makes sense. Only reason you live in a place like this, a place the Assembly won’t even go, is to avoid prying eyes.”

  “Some of the Helix told me Gideon was using the Strange Lands to make his people ‘stronger.’ Some kind of weird natural selection thing.”

  Ravan shrugged. “Maybe so. But there’s more going on here, I guarantee. I don’t know what it is, and, with luck, I’ll never find out.”

  Holt couldn’t agree more. The only problem was, he had a feeling Gideon’s agenda was directly tied to Zoey. Which meant he might have no choice but to participate in it.

  “I’m … glad you got out of Polestar,” Ravan said, her voice softening just slightly. “I saw that place come down. Even from a distance it was scary. Thought you might be … you know.”

  Holt looked at her. “Well, I’m not.”

  Ravan looked back. “Good.”

  They held each other’s gaze a few more steps, conflicted thoughts hanging in the air. “And you saved the Freebooter in the process,” Ravan said. “Her knight in shining armor.”

  “She has a name.”

  “I know,” Ravan replied. “Used it once, and that was enough for me.”

  “Mira told me what happened in the silo. Sounds like you owe her your life.”

  Ravan seemed unmoved. “Owe lots of people all kinds of things. So does everyone else these days.”

  The words resonated, because Holt knew he owed her in similar ways. He wished he could express it to her, but he didn’t know what to say, or what she even wanted to hear anymore. In the end he opted for his usual response. Changing the subject. “What was up with that thing you brought? The artifact that replicates things?”

  “Menagerie stole it off a Landship in Freezone years ago. Some kind of really valuable artifact. Tiberius kept it, even though he never cared much for artifacts. He knew it was a big bargaining chip with the right people, if he ever needed it.”

  “Turns out he did,” Holt observed. “Tiberius must be making it worth your while.”

  Ravan nodded. “Two star points.”

  Holt instinctively looked at her left hand. The star tattoo was there, with four of its eight points filled in. Two more would make her someone with real power in the Menagerie. “A Commandant,” he said, impressed. “Still, with Archer out of the way, that really does just leave Avril. And … we both know what you really have your eye on.”

  “Who knows what Avril will do. She hates the Menagerie and Tiberius. Convincing her to be her father’s heir apparent is going to take work, but that’s Tiberius’s problem. If by some weird occurrence she does take over, it doesn’t change anything. I get myself as high a ranking as I can before Tiberius dies. Then … well, I was always gonna have to fight for his place, wasn’t I? If it’s Avril I fight, so be it. The sooner we can grab her and get out of here, the better, far as I’m concerned.”

  Holt didn’t particularly like her use of “we.” “I’m not going back to Faust, Ravan.”

  Ravan studied him dubiously. “Of course you are. Going back’s your only real option. This place is crazy. These people are crazy. What you’re involved in is beyond crazy. You have to know that, we’re too much alike.”

  He couldn’t argue. Even so, he was different than she remembered. He had changed that night, when he fled Faust. He’d changed again at Midnight City; but a part of him, a big part, agreed with her. It was crazy, and it was getting worse.

  “If I were you,” Ravan went on, “I’d take my chances with Tiberius. Otherwise, the Menagerie will just keep hunting you. You should end things with him, in person, one way or another, not spend your life running.”

  “And you’d still vouch for me?” Holt asked, though he was skeptical it would help much. He knew Tiberius too well.

  Ravan nodded. “We play the angle, somehow, that you were in the Strange Lands looking for Avril. I’ll say you wanted to set things right, that you were integral to finding her, that it wouldn’t have happened without you, so on and so forth.”

  “And Archer? How do you explain that away?”

  “We don’t. You killed him. He was a son of a bitch and he was going to do something inhuman right in front of you. You gave him a chance to not be a monster and he didn’t take it. Tiberius won’t like that answer, there’s no answer he would, really, but he’ll sure as hell respect it.”

  Holt looked at her doubtfully.

  “I said it’s your best shot,” Ravan told him. “Not a sure shot.”

  “Why help me?” Holt asked. It was an obvious question. “After everything?”

  She looked at him intently. “If you’re anything, Holt, you’re sincere. Wearing masks isn’t something you do very well. Back at the merry-go-round—that was you.” Ravan held his stare. “You’d come back, in time.”

  As much as he might want to deny it, it would be easy for him to slip back into the way things were. Still, he had his obligations. He’d made promises and broken them. He didn’t want to break them again.

  “We’ll see,” he said noncommittally.

  Ravan nodded. “Yes, we will.”

  * * *

  MIRA WATCHED FROM A distance as Holt and Ravan moved through the ever-shrinking camp. They never touched, but they walked close. And it bothered her. Which, in itself, bothered her more. She remembered what he’d done on the wing of the plane, the keeping of his past from her—but those things were starting to carry less weight than they used to. Zoey was right, Holt hadn’t been himself at the Crossroads, and his explanation of the Menagerie connection, the choices he made and lived with …

  Well, it wasn’t as easy to hate him for any of it now.

  She sighed and shut her eyes. Why couldn’t anything be simple?

  “Hello.” Mira jumped at a gentle yet gravelly voice behind her. When she turned, she saw the last person she expected. Gideon studied her, or, at least, as much as he could. His white-clouded gaze seemed to drift just a little bit to the right. It was disconcerting, but also disarming in a way. There was something about the fact that he couldn’t see her that made him less imposing.

  “Hi,” she answered, studying him with uncertainty.

  “May I ask your name?”

  Mira hesitated. The question itself wasn’t odd, but she wondered about his interest. “Mira.”

  “It is agreeable to meet you, Mira.” Gideon bowed as he spoke, but he did it with such familiarity that it seemed genuine, instead of some out-of-place custom. Gideon was Asian, obviously, born in some Eastern country. The idea made Mira’s thoughts turn to the rest of the world. What was happening in Japan? Or China? What struggles and adventures were their children having? It made her feel guilty realizing, in all her time since the invasion, she had never once thought about the rest of the planet. There had just never been time.

  “The Prime is resting, I hope?” Gideon asked as he rose back upright.

  “She’s trying. Ambassador helps with the pain, but I don’t know how much longer that will last. It just keeps getting worse.”

  “Yes,” Gideon nodded. “And will continue to, I’m afraid.”

  “Why?” Mira asked pointedly. “Don’t sidestep the question like everyone else does.”

  Gideon cocked his head to the left slightly, like some interesting concept had just presented itself. “Walk with me,” he said after a moment, and then moved off without wai
ting to see if she would. Mira shook her head and stepped into pace beside him.

  It was always strange and slightly sad when Mira encountered an older Heedless, someone for whom the Tone had no effect. Adults were as much relics these days as automobiles and computers, and it was always difficult being reminded of it, of how things once were.

  Gideon wore the same pattern of black and gray as his students, the same white double helix symbol around his neck, and a similar combination of belts and gear, with only one exception. Attached to a clip on one of the straps on his chest hung a small, old, leather book, with its own ballpoint pen. His Lancet hung from his back, and surprisingly, of all the ones Mira had seen, Gideon’s was the most basic. Made of just a simple winding tree branch, the bark removed and the wood sanded and oiled, and little else. In fact, the only thing ornate about it were the two blue crystal spear points on either end, wrapped in their flowing, brass casings.

  “Your Lancet,” she said. “It’s very simple.”

  “What need do I have of decoration?” Gideon asked. “Who would appreciate it? My enemies?”

  Mira instantly regretted her words. He was right, what did a blind man need with an ornate weapon? “I’m sorry,” she said.

  Gideon smiled. “I have found that seeing isn’t as critical as you might think. We place too much value on what our eyes tell us. Ironically, they often assign importance to things that do not deserve it. In this place, I do not need to see. I can sense everything. So can my students. It is my hope you will be able to sense as well.”

  Mira looked at him in surprise. “Why would you want that?”

  “Because I can see the Pattern forming, and I feel the task of guiding the Prime to the Tower may fall to you. If that is the case—you must be ready.”

  Mira felt a sense of dread. “But … you’ll be there. You understand this place better than anyone, you should take her. Or one of your students. Any of them would be—”

  “As I said, Mira, I can see the Pattern forming. I fear our destinies lie in different directions,” Gideon replied in a low, unsettled voice. Whatever that direction was, he was conflicted about it. “Besides, the Offering you will use to enter the Vortex will only be enough to shield the Prime and one other.”

  Mira felt her heart sink. Every time she thought she’d found a way to hand off the responsibility for Zoey to someone more capable, it just came right back to her. “I … I don’t think I can do it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m scared.”

  “Fear is an emotion and little else. It only has the power we grant it.”

  “I wish it were that simple, but it isn’t. I’m scared because I know I’m not good enough.”

  “And why do you think this?”

  “Because the first time I was ever here, I failed,” Mira said tightly. “In a big way. I’ll fail again, I know it. I can’t do it alone. There has to be a better choice than me.”

  “No.” Gideon’s pace gently slowed until he came to a stop. “There is no better choice. And you must come to believe that.”

  Mira looked around at where they were. A dozen or more White Helix were filling hundreds of canteens with water from a series of large plastic vats connected to the river by mini aqueducts made from PVC pipe and funneled by an ingenious system of paddles and wheels. All of it, like everything else, was being disassembled and carried toward the phone booth at the other end of the camp.

  Gideon unclipped the small leather-bound book from the strap, and Mira saw it in more detail. It was old, more than a hundred years probably, and its black leather cover had been inscribed with the white double helix symbol that all of Gideon’s followers wore. “Would you believe me if I told you this was the most powerful artifact in all the Strange Lands?”

  Mira looked at the notebook skeptically. It didn’t seem likely, but then again, the Chance Generator was unassuming to look at, and she knew the horrible power it wielded. “What is it?” she asked.

  “I will show you,” Gideon replied, pulling the pen free from the binding. She watched as he opened the notebook, and to her surprise it was empty. The pages were yellowed with age, their lines barely visible, and they were all blank. Gideon wrote only a few words inside—and then abruptly ripped out the page.

  As it yanked free, a slight flickering line of flame burst to life down the seam where it had been ripped loose. Almost instantly, another page rematerialized in its place, flashing to life in a similar brief flicker of fire.

  Before Mira could see more, Gideon shut the notebook, replaced the pen, and reattached all of it to the clip on his chest.

  As he spoke, he began folding the piece of paper. Small, specific folds, over and over, blending the corners into seams in the middle, working them with his hands. “Once long ago, there was a demon named Asegai. He was vile and terrible, and there was none more feared. One day, Asegai was traveling through the villages of the countryside with his attendants. In one of these villages, they witnessed a man performing walking meditation. Nothing uncommon on its own, but as they watched, the man’s face suddenly lighted up in wonder. For he had just discovered something amazing on the ground.”

  Mira watched the old man’s hands move over the piece of paper, folding and blending it into some complex shape.

  “Asegai’s attendants asked what the man had found,” Gideon continued, “and Asegai simply replied, ‘A piece of truth.’”

  “‘Doesn’t this bother you when someone finds a piece of truth, Evil One?’ his attendants asked. ‘No,’ answered Asegai. ‘Right after this they often make a belief out of it.’”

  Mira tried not to roll her eyes at the parable. “If something’s true, it’s true,” she retorted.

  “Yes, but it is we who determine what is true,” Gideon countered, still folding the paper. With each fold it became smaller as a whole, and more complex. “We are what we think we are. You—you think you are afraid … and incapable. And so that is what you are.”

  Mira sighed. “Okay. Fine. I think you’re probably right, and my rational self believes it, too, but, for whatever reason … the rest of me doesn’t.”

  “You have spent much energy running from your fear. What has it gotten you?”

  “Nothing,” Mira said in exasperation, “but what do I do?”

  “Understand that fear is a part of your experience, yet something separate from who you are. See that having fear is irrelevant. It simply is.” His hands stopped moving, but Mira couldn’t see the final result. It was now clutched mysteriously within a double fist.

  Mira looked at him in frustration. “And how the hell do I do all that?”

  “Normally? With years of study and meditation.”

  Mira sighed and looked away.

  “But there are alternatives, assuming you are willing to accept a small amount of pain.” His fists uncurled, he held the paper out to her. It had been folded into the shape of what looked like a dragon.

  “Origami?” Mira asked skeptically.

  Gideon smiled almost sheepishly. “A childhood skill, one I never enjoyed then, but the folds are more beautiful to me now that I can only feel them. I’m not sure why that is.” The last part he said musingly, as if examining a riddle; but it only distracted him a moment. “The energy of the ‘idea’ must be stored on the paper of the notebook, and folded before it releases. It need only be folded once, but … I indulge myself.”

  Mira smiled. She liked Gideon, and understood now why his followers were so devoted. He was another reminder of what the world had lost. There were no great teachers anymore.

  Something occurred to her about what he had just said. “An … idea?”

  Gideon nodded. “A single idea. One I believe will help you, if only you can recognize it.”

  “Why not just tell me, then? Why use the artifact at all?”

  “Learning an idea is just as difficult as learning a skill,” Gideon answered. “Hearing me explain how to use a Lancet is not the same as practicing it with
discipline. In the same way, hearing an idea is not the same as accepting it. Simply telling you to believe in yourself … will not make you believe.”

  Mira said nothing. She couldn’t argue the point.

  “You will accept it this way, it will take root,” Gideon continued, “but it is not without its price.”

  Mira looked down at the folded dragon in her hands. “How?”

  “Unfold it and read. The power of the artifact will do the rest.”

  Mira studied the paper dragon. What if Gideon could do what he said? What if she could overcome her fears by simply unfolding a piece of paper? But she was still unsure. “There’s … pain?”

  Gideon nodded. “Nothing of value is ever without pain, Mira.”

  Mira stared down at the folded dragon a second longer, then made up her mind. She began pulling it apart, undoing the shape Gideon had meticulously crafted. More and more it unfolded, an unending series of bends and twists, unwinding back to its original shape, until there was only one fold left. The initial one, the fold that had cut it in half.

  Mira’s fingers trembled. She steeled herself—and then opened the final fold.

  Inside the paper was writing, and Mira stared at it, confused. It was written in Asian characters, each a blocky mass of jagged lines. Japanese, she assumed. Whatever it was, it made no sense to her.

  Angry and frustrated, she looked away from the paper …

  … and gasped as a searing, burning agony flooded every nerve in her body. It was like being set ablaze.

  “Release the note and the pain will end,” Gideon’s voice echoed in her head, “but you will learn nothing.”

  Mira almost did exactly that—the pain was too much, too horrible—she felt her fingers loosen, about to drop the terrible piece of—

  An image flared to life in her mind. It did nothing to cloud or obstruct the pain, but it did give her something to focus on.

  The image was a mirror. In the mirror she saw herself, and she didn’t look as she expected. She didn’t look frightened. Or weak. She looked—

  The pain continued to build and Mira groaned, crushing the unfolded dragon in her fists; but she had to hold on, had to see what it was showing her.