by wildbow
Toward the back of the property, I could see that Ralph Stein was in the process of walking the top of the wall. The route went from the right side of the gate, over to the right of the house, alongside the riverbank, around the back of the house, under the tricky bit where the tree’s branches hung over, up the left side of the house, and then over to the left side of the gate. All on the weather-rounded, uneven stones that made up the wall’s top, virtually always in the rain.
My focus wasn’t on that.
My focus was on the black coach parked to the left of the house, beneath the overhang in the roof. The horses were wearing black raincoats, utterly still. Their driver stood beside them, smoking.
My eye didn’t leave them as we made our way down the steps that had been set into the slope. Each one of the stone stairs had seen enough traffic and years that they’d been reshaped, as if buckling faintly under thousands of footfalls.
Gordon pushed open the door. Lillian and Jamie helped me through.
We stopped in our tracks at the sight of a man in the front hallway.
If it had a brain and a nervous system, the parts could be used for making a stitch, or voltaic creature. The quality of that stitched was indicated by the placement of the stitches that gave them their name. Poorer work or a stitched that had been ‘repaired’ often involved joins in visible or inconvenient places. Across the face, or across the joints, where they interfered with function. A good stitch had the joins and scars kept just out of sight, under the chin, or in places where clothes could cover the work.
The figure that stood guard by the door was the most human-like stitched I’d ever seen. Tall, broad-shouldered, the parts had been selected for size and raw power. But for stitches visible just past the cuffs of his jacket, I might not have known. He wore a suit under a hooded raincoat and carried a pistol at his hip.
He was, in two short words, a problem.
I smelled tea, and I heard very little commotion. If I hadn’t seen the coach outside, I could have put two and two together to figure out that we had a guest.
“That would be the children,” Mrs. Earles said.
The others properly put away hoods, cloaks, shoes and boots before toweling their feet to a reasonable state of clean and dry. Lillian bent down and had me lift up my feet one by one to dry them.
“Thank you,” I murmured.
“It’s what I’m here for,” she murmured back.
One by one, we headed around the corner from the front hall, into the sitting room. The room itself had homey touches, and was very much Mrs. Earles. It was her perch in the evenings, the part she made her home. The knick-knacks and decorative carvings, still, were placed well out of reach of errant hands, on the mantlepiece above the blazing fireplace and on various shelves and bookshelves.
My eyes scanned the shelves and bookshelves. Searching.
Mrs. Earles didn’t give off the image of someone who ran an orphanage. She’d struck me more as the assistant to that sort of someone. Managing one child had a way of turning women into mothers, wearing away at certain things while exaggerating others. Even with help, managing sixteen should have pushed her to an extreme in some respect. Something in the vein of a tyrant or a defeated woman, a woman who turned to vice to escape stresses, or a saint. But she wasn’t any of those things.
A part of me wanted to think of her as a mother, but she wasn’t. She didn’t pretend to be. She ran Lambsbridge, she kept us fed and sheltered, and she was quick to use the threat of a smack to keep us in line. Even though I’d been a recipient more than once, I could appreciate that she didn’t hesitate in that respect. I had to live with fifteen others, and if they were allowed to run rampant, I faced more grief than I did dealing with the occasional rap to the knuckles.
Mr. Hayle, by that same token, was almost but not quite my father.
He frowned as he saw me, immediately taking in details that more than a hundred people in the busier part of the city had failed to spot.
“I’ll make sure you don’t have eavesdroppers,” Mrs. Earles said, disappearing.
“Thank you,” Mr. Hayle said, without turning to look at her.
We stood in the entry to the sitting room, while he examined each of us, silent.
He was an older man. Sixty or so, as far as anyone’s age could be pinned down with certainty. He hadn’t prettied himself up or taken advantage of Radham Academy’s resources to remove wrinkles or revitalize his hair. His hair was grey and waxed back away from his face, and his wrinkles cut so deep into his face that I could have imagined them as cross-hatching done with a scalpel. He wore a doctor’s coat indoors, the fabric thick, dyed black so that it wouldn’t show any blood stains. His gloves had been pulled off, and the ends were sticking out of one pocket. A collection of files were already tucked under one arm.
“The other children are accounted for. I’ll be in the kitchen, where I can intercept anyone coming your way,” Mrs. Earles said.
“Thank you,” he said.
She retreated, leaving us alone.
“I was planning on a longer meeting,” Mr. Hayle said. “To look at Sylvester, he might not be able to stand for the duration. Is he stable?”
“I’m stable,” I said, at the same time Lillian said, “He is.”
Mr. Hayle frowned. “What happened to you? No. Hold off on that. If you’re stable, let’s cover the essentials. Tell me, how was it?”
Gordon answered. “Our target’s second experiment is in one of the warehouses, off to the southeast of King. Sleeping off a meal, we’re hoping. It’s there, with all of the notes. As for the target, he’s…”
“In his experiment,” I said, managing a smile.
Mr. Hayle didn’t smile back. “I don’t understand. Clarify?”
“Dead,” Gordon said. “Swallowed.”
“Complications?”
We collectively uttered a chorus of ‘nos’ and shook our heads. I glanced at the back of Jamie’s head, saw the faintest hesitation before he joined us in shaking his head.
“What happened to Sylvester?”
“The snake charm—ah, our target, he arrived, forcing us to hide. He found me in my hiding spot, purely by chance, and took me hostage. Sylvester distracted him, and was splashed with—”
“Enzymes,” I said.
“Splashed with enzymes, during the altercation that followed.”
“I did what I could,” Lillian said. “Neutralized the spread with counteragents our target had on hand.”
Mr. Hayle nodded. “Good. Lillian, I believe this marks your third assignment with the group?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Would you do another?”
I didn’t miss the hesitation on Lillian’s part.
I tried to view things through her eyes. Seeing the man get swallowed. The horror.
“I would, sir,” she decided.
“Good. You’ll continue to have my support at the Academy, then. If you don’t find all doors are open and all resources available to you, let me know. Your tuition will continue to be waived.”
“Thank you sir.”
“That takes care of the, ah, what did you call him? The snake charmer? Now, unless there’s anything else, I should look after Sylvester there.”
There was a jumble of ‘no sir’s from the others.
He crossed the room, and the others were quick to get out of his way. I used the opportunity to move to one side, further into the sitting room, and scanned the shelves.
There.
Mrs. Earles didn’t keep matches close to the fireplace, and she didn’t keep them where the smaller children could get them.
Even for me, it would require that I stand on my toes and reach high overhead.
The problems that came with being small.
Mr. Hayle was talking while he found and put on his boots. “I do want to have a longer discussion. I’ll need to rearrange my evening, which will take me at least an hour. Add the time it takes to deliver Sylvester… hm, it would be la
te. Too late?”
“The younger children will be in bed. I could ask Mrs. Earles,” Gordon said.
“No. I’ll be by in the morning. I only considered tonight because I thought you’d want to know how Sylvester was. I can send someone your way, if you’re willing to keep an eye out the window for them. A quiet, short visit to pass on word.”
“Please, sir,” Gordon said, sounding far more solemn than I’d have expected.
“I’ll see to it. Thank you for another job well done. Sylvester?”
I was out of time.
With a wall between myself and Mr. Hayle, each of the others positioned to see, I reached up to the shelf, and felt my burns stretch, eliciting a tearing sensation, and a fresh renewal of pain.
I closed my fingers around the matchbook, then collapsed against the wall, panting.
“Problem?”
“Moved too fast,” I said.
Mr. Hayle gave me a sincere look of concern as he did up the buttons of his coat and took his umbrella from his stitched bodyguard.
“Let’s get you looked after,” he said. He paused. “No shoes?”
“Burn on my foot,” I said.
“Carry on, then.”
I discovered that stopping and then moving again was quite possibly the worst thing I could have done. Every burn felt fresh. The movement of my arm was the worst of it. The stitched bodyguard helped me, even going so far as to lift me bodily to my seat. All the same, by the time we reached the coach, I was sweating bullets from pain alone.
The coach’s interior was red, the windows stained to reduce the light that came in, and something that looked like a glowing orange minnow swam in a bowl overhead, casting light on the interior.
The driver steered the stitched horses around. Before long, we were on King Street, heading for the Academy.
“It’s rare that I have a chance to talk with one of you,” Mr. Hayle said. “Can I see your arm?”
I offered it. He probed the edges of the injury.
“I suspect you’ll resist, out of loyalty to your… brothers and sisters? Is that how you think of them?”
“Friends. Gang,” I said. I swallowed hard. “Sometimes I think of them as siblings. What am I resisting?”
“Giving me information. Can you tell me if they’re doing alright?”
“Yes,” I said. “They’re doing everything they’re supposed to do.”
“Is that so? Something tells me you wouldn’t tell me if they weren’t.”
I smiled a little. “What makes you think that?”
“I’ve watched you grow up these past few years. I’d like to think I know you.”
I nodded. I forbade myself from looking outside the window.
“Not up to talking?”
“Not sure what to say, sir.”
“Tell me about the snake charmer.”
“Yes sir. Um—”
A crash shook the coach.
I could hear shouts. Mr. Hayle’s coach came to an awkward stop, lurching, then jerking to the left before finally going still.
He twisted in his seat, and slid a panel to one side. “John?”
There was a pause. The driver replied, “Water. Knocked me off my seat. One of the voltaic horses got drenched. It’s gone quiet.”
“Water?” Mr. Hayle asked. He frowned. “I’ll be right out.”
I remained where I was, very much in pain after the sudden movements.
“Douglas,” Mr. Hayle said. “Look after Sylvester. Be ready to come outside at a moment’s notice.”
“I understand,” Douglas said, the words clumsy in a way that was hard to define. Too precise, the local accent rounded off at the edges. I suspected it would be worse if it was a more unfamiliar phrase.
The door of the coach closed.
One, two, three.
I forced myself to sit up.
I opened my eyes.
Naturally, going outside, Mr. Hayle hadn’t taken his paperwork.
When problem solving, the simplest answer shouldn’t be discounted.
I reached for the files.
The bodyguard reached out, blocking my hand with his.
“That is not yours,” he said. The words were clumsier than his ‘I understand.’
If it was a human bodyguard, and not one that had died and been reanimated, rendered very simple and loyal in operation, I suspected I could have manipulated him or sent him out of the coach.
Stitched were easier in some ways, harder in others.
I pulled the matches out of my pocket.
I struck it.
He didn’t flinch.
I blinked.
Reduced to very primal, simple function, they were supposed to have reactions to fire. Nine times out of ten, it was fear. One time out of ten, it was violent and destructive rage.
The quality of this stitched was top notch. Had Mr. Hayle or the person he bought the stitched from somehow solved the problem?
“Put that out,” the stitched told me.
I reached out, bringing the match closer to him.
He didn’t move.
“Put that out,” he said, more firmly.
I moved my hand, and he remained where he was.
No, the problem hadn’t been fixed. But they’d found a step forward.
He was frozen.
I’d hoped to distract and disturb him enough that he’d forget his instructions and let me snatch up the files. This, however, worked. Still holding the match up, the whole of his attention focused on it, I grabbed the stack of folders.
I returned to my seat.
Before I could open the folders, the door opened.
Mr. Hayle studied me, his expression blank.
I froze, caught red handed. Well, the red hand was the burn, but—
“And it all makes sense,” he said.
“Yes,” I said.
“Sylvester,” he said, climbing up into the coach and taking his seat, “You know why I made you.”
“Yes sir.”
“Each of you. My colleagues in other departments have made weapons, monsters, they’ve made viruses and more, with the understanding that there may very well be a need for these weapons.”
“Yes sir,” I said.
“My focus, as you very well know, is on,” he reached over, and he tapped me on the forehead. “The brain.”
“And I was dumb just now,” I said. “Failed project?”
“No,” he said. “No. I made you. Like I said, I know you.”
“If it helps, I’m starting to believe you, sir.”
“It would be stupid of me to make you for a purpose and not expect you to fulfill that purpose. Mistakes here and there are to be expected, and your mistake here was expecting me to be dumb. You’re still developing, and each of you are still being refined in your own ways.”
I nodded.
“Why didn’t you ask for the files?” he asked me.
“Because you might have said no, and you would have known I wanted them,” I said. “And because I think people are more genuine when you catch them off balance.”
He nodded.
“Something to keep in mind,” he said. “And I suppose I’m getting too predictable, if you were able to arrange this.”
“Yes sir,” I said.
“Take a look,” he said.
For a telling second, I thought the files would be empty, that he might have checkmated me.
But I paged through them, and I found them filled with pages of data, notes, design, and more.
Helen, project Galatea.
Jamie, project Caterpillar.
Gordon, project Griffon.
Sylvester, project Wyvern
I found the fourth file. The one I’d wanted.
I glanced over the first page, then closed it, nodding.
“Why?” Mr. Hayle asked. “All that for a glance?”
“Yes sir.”
“What, specifically?”
“Expiration dates, sir.”
&nbs
p; Previous Next
Taking Root 1.3
The syringe was fancy, glass with silver leaf at the ends and at the plunger. The glass had turned smoky where it had once been clear, and only the faintest trace of the original contents were still inside. Thicker around than any three of my fingers put together. It probably cost twenty dollars, if not more. A good week’s wages.
Somewhat vindictively, I pulled out the plunger until I had the weight balanced, put my fingers on it, and sent it spinning wildly on the desk, periodically rustling scattered papers or sending them floating over the desk’s surface, riding a thin layer of air. Traveling across the desk, it struck an identical syringe, eliciting a pair of high, sweet songs from the ringing glass.
It didn’t break. Shame.
I stepped over to the window, my feet kicking up more papers as they might stir leaves in the fall. I was at ‘the Hedge’, the colloquial term for the wall that encircled the Academy. A great deal of the wall wasn’t large or tall at all, but it rose in places, and the corner of the Academy closest to Radham had a hospital built into it. Through the hospital, students bought their turns at getting training and locals bought care. The view was of the wall itself, the Academy on one side, Radham on the other.
About the only thing that was the same about the two places was that it was raining. A light rain, but enough that just about everyone had their hoods up. The boys and girls on the Academy side moved as though they were all in a hurry. They were all tidy, hair well looked after, white uniforms clean. Their bookbags had flaps over the top to keep the rain out, and the buckles that kept the flaps in place each had the university’s symbol on it, a full-face helmet in profile framed by red leaves and ribbons.
Almost but not quite a badge of office.
Outside, watched from a distance, people moved as though they were mired in tar. They found their way eventually, but there was no clear direction, even in a city that had been built with a plan in mind.
I didn’t enjoy looking, but there wasn’t much else to be done. I’d read the books, I’d read the various papers, and I’d slept. Seven days I’d been cooped up here.