Twig

by wildbow

  I shrugged.

  “Yeah,” he said, again. As if he was answering a question or statement. “Okay.”

  “I know where to find you if I need you,” I said.

  “Find one of us in the office tomorrow,” he told me. “Should check levels.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  He nodded.

  Easy. No dancing around, no tricks, no posturing.

  Just business.

  Jamie was talking to the others. His team. From what I overheard, he was trying to convince them that no, he didn’t need to stop by their office now. Yes, he would be there soon. Yes, he understood that people were present now.

  My eye went to the book. He was holding it with both hands, but he wasn’t holding it with a deathgrip, he wasn’t hugging it.

  He didn’t need help.

  I retreated a bit, approaching the three girls at the edge of the canopy. Lil was talking to Mary while she fixed the bandage at Helen’s side. Helen seemed to be taking it in stride, arching one eyebrow as she glanced back at me.

  The arch, much like the smiles, winks and nods, seemed to be for my benefit rather than her own. Little touches that made me feel more nervous around her, rather than less.

  “…Mnemonic trick to figure out how things are laid out,” Lil said.

  “Trick?” Mary asked Lil.

  “It’s a body. Each department has a focus. The Tower is the head. Record keeping. The Rise is the shoulders, or the collarbone, the neck, supporting structures, storage, think backpack. Then you have the Academy headquarters. Center of everything, Claret Hall—”

  “The heart,” Mary said.

  “The rows,” Lil suggested, trailing off to give Mary the chance of offering an answer.

  Mary shook her head.

  “Ribs. Dormitories. I think of it as rows, ribs, bars, cage, zoo, students. That’s how I put it together in my head, drawing the connection. I started doing it from the beginning, but even though I know, I still sort of think that way. I make the connection like that,” Lil said.

  She sounded so excited. A kid with a chance to show her stuff. She wasn’t a project, but she was clever in her own normal way. Exceptionally so, it could be said. Maybe it was because she’d been pushed to keep up with us, maybe it was because she was a rare breed.

  But she wasn’t one of us. She had a family, a place to go home to.

  “What do you think the Hedge is?” I asked.

  Mary started a little at the sound of my voice. “Hedge? Exterior wall… skin?”

  I shrugged and nodded. “Immediate care, contact with the city outside, first line of healing and prevention.”

  “Does that help?” Lil asked.

  “Help?” I cut in.

  “With feeling lost and overwhelmed in this place,” Lil said.

  “It helps a little,” Mary said, in a way that didn’t convince me in the slightest. She moved her hands a bit to tug at her uniform top and the chains rattled.

  “Okay, that’s great!” Lil said, perking up, “So, after the Rows, you have other main buildings. There’s the—”

  “Helen,” a voice cut through the patter of rain on the canopy roof. It was a hard voice.

  Lil’s train of thought crashed right there.

  “Ibott,” Mary murmured.

  Ibott. He was someone who had been elevated to a position in society that didn’t suit him in the slightest. He was among the most brilliant minds at Radham, clever, not bad looking on the surface, he had the veneer of the upper class and none of the follow-through. His hair was neatly parted, set firmly in place by something that had a way of smelling rancid at the end of the day, leaving his hair locked into hard strings that crossed one corner of his forehead. His round eyeglasses were gold-rimmed, but so smudged I could barely see the eyes on the other side of the glass.

  A name that might not have been known by every household, but was known to most.

  “I expected you earlier,” he said, and his phrasing was civil and proper, the tone far from it. “In the future, you come straight inside and report to me. Do not make me come out here.”

  “Yes sir,” Helen said.

  But you’re not always here, I thought. Is she supposed to report regardless?

  Ibott seemed to think so, and now Helen would.

  He was now close enough to speak to us without raising his voice. I sensed Lil shrinking back and shifted my position a little, to put myself between Ibott and her.

  “You’re bleeding,” he observed.

  “Yes sir,” Helen said.

  “Explain.”

  Before she could, I spoke up, “Sir.”

  He ignored me. “I want to hear it from Helen. I certainly hope she recalls.”

  “Sylvester put me in harm’s way so we could capture our target,” Helen said, before I could say anything. “It was the best way to get me to where I could be most effective.”

  I would have worded that better, I thought.

  I was barely finished the thought when Ibott struck me. He wasn’t a strong man, but he was several times my size, and he was a man.

  The noise of the back of his hand connecting with my face made virtually every head present turn.

  “Take more care,” he instructed me.

  I had to blink a few times before I was able to figure out that I was on my hands and knees. I opened my jaw yawning-wide, feeling it pop before I was able to work my mouth to form words. “…Yes sir.”

  Helen offered me her hand. I took it.

  “Do not help him up,” Ibott said. “Come.”

  Helen let my hand drop from hers, but she didn’t move.

  “Good work tonight, Helen,” I murmured.

  She turned and followed a step behind her creator. Jamie’s crowd and Dewey all took care to move out of the way as the pair entered the tower.

  Conversation didn’t resume until the door shut behind Helen.

  I ignored Lil’s offer for assistance in standing, and got to my own two feet.

  “Always good for a first impression, Ibott is,” I said, glancing at Mary.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “If he wanted to, he’d run Radham,” I said. “He doesn’t want to, but he still has that clout. Not what I would have wanted you to see while trying to win you over.”

  “You’re assuming I have someplace else to go,” Mary said.

  Yeah, I thought, I am. But maybe you don’t see all the options that really lie in front of you.

  I saw Jamie shift his grip on his book. Head bent a little, arms crossed over the notebook’s leather-bound cover.

  “Lil,” I said, without taking my eyes off him.

  “Lillian.”

  “I don’t know how to say it without sounding like I’m telling you to go away, but… if you wanted to go to your room and get a good night’s sleep, this wouldn’t be a bad time.”

  “That does sound like you’re trying to get rid of me.”

  “But?” I asked. “Pillow, covers, your own room, peace and quiet…”

  “Nightmares,” she said.

  “Do you think you’re going to have less nightmares, if you spend more time hanging around us?” I asked.

  She made a face.

  But she flipped her hood up, picked up her bag, and headed down the long road to the middle area of the University, where the Rows radiated out around Claret Hall.

  “Come on,” I said. I grabbed Mary’s chain, tugging a bit.

  “Don’t,” she said, suddenly tense, resisting the pull.

  Which a student and a stitched bodyguard took as leave to give her a push.

  “Cooperate,” the student called out.

  “It’s fine,” I said. “Really, it’s fine.”

  But it didn’t feel fine. Jamie was shrinking into himself more, glancing my way as his group led him inside. I was caught between the two. Couldn’t abandon Mary at this stage, but letting Jamie go ahead without giving support…

  “Please, Mary,” I said.


  Mary hesitated, then obeyed.

  We covered ground quickly, Mary’s chain rattling, but I had to hold the door for her, and then the stitched bodyguards and their handlers were right behind us, wanting to keep an eye on Mary, and all in all, it was clumsy and awkward, and it took some time for us to catch up with the brisk, businesslike strides.

  I pushed past students in lab coats to get to Jamie.

  He unwrapped his arms from the book, and after a moment’s pause, he handed it to me.

  I took it with reverent care, and held it securely in my arms.

  “See you,” he said.

  “Soon,” I replied.

  Griffon getting pieced back together. Galatea in the care of her maker, who is as different from her as night from day.

  And the Caterpillar…

  I watched the caterpillar disappear down the length of the hall.

  Appointment was the wrong word.

  I rubbed the side of my face, where I knew I’d bruise, then turned to Mary. We were as alone as we’d get, with our stitched escort.

  “I wanted to show you better,” I told Mary. “I want to show you Lambsbridge. How we have a home, how we have each other.”

  “You have his book,” Mary said. “I think I get it, even if I don’t understand the details. I’m not sure I would have believed whatever you meant to show me.”

  The perils of being an established liar.

  “I want you to be one of us,” I said.

  “I think I might want to be,” she replied.

  “That’ll have to do,” I told her.

  We had nine flights of stairs to climb, and when I offered to hold up the midsection of the chain to alleviate the weight of it, she didn’t resist.

  When we arrived in Hayle’s office, he didn’t seem to miss that detail, either. I saw his gaze linger where my hand held the metal links.

  “Dog and Catcher are after Percy,” he said. I noted how he watched Mary. It seemed he’d been filled in on my intentions there, too. Jamie’s work, no doubt. Keeping everything in order, making sure the messages were passed along.

  Mary didn’t flinch or react.

  “The pursuit would have been easier if you hadn’t burned down Percy’s home,” Hayle told me.

  I reacted to that. I blinked a few times, trying to organize my thoughts and work through the shoddier bits of my memory. “I didn’t.”

  Hayle leaned back in his chair. “You didn’t?”

  I shook my head.

  “Dog and Catcher say it wasn’t Percy who did it. They would have had the scent, even with the rain.”

  “I don’t have an answer for you,” I told him.

  “I do,” Mary said, her voice soft. “The plan was… more complex than I think you understand.”

  “Complex how?” Hayle asked, his pale eyebrows rising.

  “The children we were copied from, he had to do something with them. He sold them, to others with ambitions in line with his,” she said, and she couldn’t maintain eye contact, staring down at the ground instead. “It’s a group. One he tried to keep secret from even me. And it’s a lot bigger than you’d think.”

  Previous Next

  Enemy (Arc 1)

  Overshoot, Percy mused. A species finds itself with no predators and an abundance of resources. The species grows by leaps and bounds, oftentimes exponentially, and quickly reaches a point where it vastly exceeds the space and resources available.

  Percy held his umbrella up at an angle, pointing it against the rain that was driving down, now. His eye fell on the Academy. This late in the evening, it was one of the only points of light in this dark little city, walled in, with enough lights around the Hedge that the front wall was illuminated.

  He turned away, shifting his grip on his umbrella. His free hand reached up to tenderly prod his own damaged face. The moment he’d been hurt, he’d chosen to exaggerate the severity of it. He’d trusted his Mary.

  His walk was brisk. Running was a giveaway, walking was too slow. He compromised on both fronts. Living here, one got used to the rain, walking on slick sidewalk and road. The Academy had wanted rain, they had devised a method to get it, algae that were now part of the water system. Buildings at the periphery of Radham spouted out fumes that would catalyze the bacteria.

  When Overshoot occurred, the end result was often a devastating collapse of the system that had formed. Populations often died en masse.

  The wind nearly tore his umbrella from his hand. He had to pause to fix the arm at one side, where it had inverted, turning one side of the umbrella into a cup rather than a shield. While he did so, he took the opportunity to glance over his shoulder, double-checking.

  He didn’t see anyone that shouldn’t be there. He kept a particular eye out for children, and saw nothing.

  He felt both relief and disappointment. To see Mary there would have lifted his heart and it would have made him feel safer. To see all of the boys with Mary would have left him ecstatic. Given him hope.

  Only rain and shadow in equal proportion.

  Radham worked so hard to portray itself as something good and proper. He’d known that much already, spending the better part of six years at Mothmont, but he’d never been one to wander the street in the worst weather. He’d been aware of the existence of such stitched, but he’d never seen how many stitched were active late at night, collecting trash, bodies, or simply going about on predetermined errands, especially now that he was in the shadier part of Radham.

  A stitched was picking through a can of trash that had been left outside of a business, moving as though drunk, too loose, prone to swaying. When it found something, a broken clock, a child’s toy, a pair of scissors, it fumbled to fold back a waterproof cloth that had been draped over a crate, placed the item inside, and then replaced the cloth.

  Percy wanted to help it. To give it an hour of his time, or find its owner and tell them how to maintain it better. Some individuals were prone to complaining about how their relatives, friends and neighbors were collected before they ever touched a coffin, or dug up at the first opportunity by grave robbers looking to make some coin by selling to would-be-students. Oh, but if they knew that stitched were sometimes used like this, ordered to go through garbage for anything that might be of value, taking the materials to a location where the valuables could be sorted out and sold?

  A stitched wasn’t easy to make, but the attempted and ultimately partial revival of the dead had been one of Wollstone’s first projects, and had consequently been one of the most detailed in Wollstone’s literature. All one had to do was obtain the materials that the Academy controlled and follow the documentation to the letter.

  The materials were inexpensive, the end product lasted years, longer if kept dry and maintained at the right temperature, which this poor thing wasn’t.

  He appreciated few things more than good work. A craftsman with care regarding their trade. This wasn’t that kind of good work.

  The creator no doubt had access to a great many bodies, and thought it easier to go to a third-rate Academy graduate and have another made, than to work to keep this one functioning.

  Flesh was cheap. Dead flesh cheaper.

  The stitched turned its head, looking in Percy’s direction. The eyes were nearly gone, the pupils and irises clouded with milky white.

  It wasn’t, however, looking at Percy himself.

  He followed the gaze of the stitched creature, and he saw two figures in the rain.

  The first and most obvious was a monster. Four-legged, It stood tall enough that if it walked against a building, its shoulder would brush the upper end of a doorframe, but it was narrow enough that it could fit through the doorway itself, if it ducked its head down. It had parts of a human face, writ large, the features largely concealed by long black hair. Here and there, where flesh wasn’t sufficient, large amounts of metal had been set in place, fixed to flesh and bone. Light from a streetlamp reflected green in its eyes.

  The other figure was a man, w
earing a wide-brimmed hat and a long jacket. The light from the streetlamp reflected green in his eyes as well. He carried a stick with a collar fixed to one end, ready to snap shut once touched to the throat, a bear trap without the teeth. Sometimes it had spikes, Percy knew, but no.

  No, Dog and Catcher wanted him alive. To question. To take his work, repurpose it. It was only a matter of time. The only reason they hadn’t noticed him was that they were distracted by something else. It seemed Catcher was saying something, though the collar of his jacket was high enough to hide his mouth.

  Dog nodded, and the sound he made in reply was deep and loud enough to be almost audible. Speaking was impossible for the thing, given the mangled metal wreck that was his lower jaw.

  How could Percy even describe the feeling that came over him, then? The dread, the misery. He imagined the feeling being very much like what he might experience if confronted by the family of the children he had replaced with his own. If he had been cut down mid-stride, before accomplishing his goals.

  As if a weight had been dropped on him from high above, smashing all he was to pieces, while leaving his body intact.

  But dread didn’t help him. He circled the garbage-scrounger and used the creature’s bulk and smell to hide him from sight and nose.

  With a note of regret, he folded up his umbrella, subjecting himself to the rain. Bone handle, properly waterproof. Too large to go in the crate, too obvious a thing to be carrying.

  “I hope your master rewards you by tending to you,” Percy murmured. “So please forgive me for this.”

  He pulled the waterproof cloth away from the top of the crate, where it protected the contents, threw it over his head and shoulders, then hefted the crate. He contemplated kicking off his boots, but decided against it.

  Visually, it would mask him from their view. But their eyes were the least of his problems.

  They could see better than him, they could track scents as well as any bloodhound, they could hear, as rumor went, a leaf settling on the ground, and they had the wits to use that information.

  If they were this close, they had his scent, and if they had his scent, that mancatcher was as good as around his neck.