by wildbow
The smell of blood, feces, smoke, and gunpowder were thick in the air. I could imagine the rock walls on either side of the path were a funnel, bringing the smells in, in a very concentrated way.
“I can see them well enough to count them,” Jamie said. “We gave the instructions that led to the deaths.”
“The decision to—” Gordon started.
I raised a hand, gesturing. He stopped.
Gordon would have argued, and shoved his way of thinking at Jamie, and Jamie would have agreed. It probably would have sunken in. Jamie would have internalized it, and it wouldn’t be a bad thing.
But I wanted to talk to Jamie about this, not to Gordon.
“We did give the instructions,” I said. “Me, mostly, but we all played a part, yeah.”
“It feels impersonal,” Jamie said.
“It is. It was.”
“It feels worse for being impersonal.”
“You’ve killed before,” I pointed out. “Personal kills, you looked them in the eye. Even Phlegm.”
“It feels worse for being impersonal,” Jamie said.
“How?” Gordon asked, all at once. “Why?”
Jamie shrugged. He didn’t have an answer.
“Whatever the reason,” I said. “It’s allowed to feel however it feels.”
“Thanks,” he said.
“Never a problem.”
The silence was broken up by handlers on the wall-top shouting down to the stitched below. We hadn’t lost any actual lives down there, and stitched were more expendable, tougher. Easier troops to field.
“Didn’t see anyone climb the wall,” Mary said. “But if they did it at the start—”
Still fixated on the assassins. Not a bad thing.
“We’ll assume someone got in and take measures,” I said.
Mary nodded.
“I kind of want to see the vat-grown humans that Polk made,” Helen said. “I wonder if they can have babies? Jamie, do you know? Lillian?”
Lillian made a squeaking sound as her name was mentioned.
“Do you?” Helen pressed.
“Why do you want to know?” Jamie asked, very cautiously, then before Helen could answer, he quickly added, “And do I want to know why you want to know?”
“I’m just curious,” Helen said.
“Do you want babies?” Jamie asked.
“No. Why? What does that have to do with anything?” Helen asked.
Which all added up to the Lambs being very confused.
I wondered if Ibott had instructed Helen to practice psychological warfare. Her talk at the teahouse, and now this? If he’d given the order, she’d picked up on it remarkably fast.
The stitched turned on little lamps they had with them, and more were tossed down. Each lamp had mirrored metal around the majority of it, so a beam would be cast out in a cone. The light that was cast was a yellow-orange, and danced as the wind blew.
As the lamps lit up and the stitched spread out, we were given a view of the battlefield in all its garishness. The road was too rocky with too many gaps, and the rain had pounded down the blood that hadn’t slipped into the gaps. The bodies were just lying there, and without the right amounts of blood, they looked artificial, even posed. A little girl’s dolls, dropped and left in whatever position they fell.
I studied the cliff face, looking to see if maybe one of the assassins was utilizing it to climb. Nothing.
How were you planning to get in? I wondered.
Jamie reached out, grabbing my upper arm.
He pointed.
There. At the rear of the group. A figure with features spaced too far apart, strange earlobes, and a girthy belly.
Phlegm lived?
No. I didn’t buy it. The reactions of the woman with the teeth…
“Guess we won’t find out,” Gordon said.
The rain continued to pour down. I continued to try and think of all of the different vectors for attack.
I turned and headed down the stairs, approaching the Brigadier.
“You were right,” he said.
Oh. That.
Last thing on my mind.
“One assassin fell, it looks like. But the man is supposed to be dead.”
“The dead can come back,” the man said. Rain was streaming off his helmet, and collecting in his wooly chin-strap of a beard.
“Guess so,” I said.
“Just sent my men out to get reports from each of the other gates. If this was a distraction, something might have happened elsewhere.”
I nodded. We did have security measures at the other gates. The Academy forces of Westmore weren’t going to be sleeping tonight.
“We’ll see if your next prediction is right,” he said.
Someone gave a shout, and the gate opened. The other Lambs were gathered together in clusters, or meandering down the stairs. Jamie and Helen were a little slower to move.
The stitched that had been stationed outside filed in, carrying the dead.
“We’ll have some replacement stitched that won’t be hurting morale any,” the Brigadier said. “Might even come out ahead.”
“Might even,” I said. “Can I have a bayonet?”
He raised his eyebrows.
“I’ve been right twice. I get to ask for more favors, don’t I? Things that might be a little questionable or inconvenient?”
“I suppose,” the Brigadier said. He gestured for a soldier to come closer, then took the man’s weapon.
“Hold on,” I said. “Don’t give it to me yet.”
It took another minute before the stitched had made it inside the walls. The gate creaked as it swung closed. Bars were lowered into place.
I reached out, and the bayonet slapped into my hand.
As I approached the line of stitched and bodies, Mary fell into step beside me. I extended the bayonet to her, and she tossed it into the air in front of me.
Gordon, appearing on my other side, caught it. By the time I looked back at Mary, she had knives in her hands.
“The bodies,” I said, clearly, my gaze on the corpses that were being dragged. I raised my hands to my hood, pushing it back and running my fingers through my hair. My tone was weary as I said, “Check the dead bodies.”
“Mm,” Gordon said.
Gordon lowered the bayonet blade, aiming for the first corpse.
At the last second, before stabbing, he raised it, stabbing the stitched.
Mary moved fluidly, throwing her knives, hitting the second and third stitched in the line.
They reacted as anyone might. Alarmed, hurt, they reached for their weapons.
“Stand down!” the Brigadier hollered. “That’s an order!”
The specialists on the wall and beside the line repeated the order, though they looked confused.
Gordon was already moving, aiming for the fourth stitched in the line. Mary threw knives at the fifth and sixth.
The sixth ‘stitched’ moved fluidly, knives in its own hands, as it struck the throwing knife out of the air.
Faster and more graceful than any stitched was.
Mary threw more knives, sprinting forward. The stitched hit them out of the air once more. It approached, picking up speed as it made a beeline for Gordon. It didn’t seem to care that he was armed, or that he was raising the gun to aim.
It wasn’t Gordon that shot. Others on the sideline opened fire. As much as the man could knock a thrown knife out of the air, he couldn’t do much against bullets. He jerked, stumbled, and tripped over a corpse that lay on the ground behind him.
The rain continued to pour, the sound of the gunshots ringing in my ears.
No assumptions, I thought.
Now the dance really began. With this ploy failing, our enemy would be forced to get creative. I’d get to see what kind of tacticians we were up against, and we’d have to match them in kind.
Previous Next
Esprit de Corpse—5.11
The two bodies were each held by four of the A
cademy’s soldiers. With a shout and a very practiced motion, the bodies were heaved up and onto freshly wiped granite slabs. One was Phlegm. The other was dressed as a stitched, complete with our uniform.
The doctors and scholars of Westmore were already collecting around, many wearing their coats and aprons, masks covering the lower halves of their face, goggles over their eyes. Black, elbow-length gloves were pulled over freshly washed hands. The room was open-air, a shelter for wagons, very possibly a drier point for coal to be offloaded, but canvas cloths had been tied down and sealed it off, with sandbags up to the four foot mark, providing some insulation and walls. The floor was packed soil, and was caked with old blood, shit, and other detritus. Kits off to the side had all of the material needed for stitched, while toolbox-like constructions were in one corner, providing other tools for more conventional medical care.
“Out of the way,” a man told me, as he wheeled a cart over to the foot of the table. He had more than enough room. He was just bullying me, indicating that I was not supposed to be here, in a way that meant he didn’t have to say it outright.
I hopped up onto a stack of sandbags in the corner. I offered Mary a hand in climbing up next to me. Totally unnecessary, but I had to be gentlemanly. Gordon, Lillian, and Shipman stood at the other side of the enclosure, pulling back into the corner a bit, where they were clear of the normal footpaths.
“No children in the room,” one of the scholars said, getting in Mary’s way. Black coat, black apron, black gloves, a pin at his collar marking his rank, Field Surgeon. He was surrounded by grays and whites, some with pins, some without.
“Ahem,” Lillian said. She took a quarter-second too long to say something, reaching for the badge in her pocket.
“Out!” the man said, raising his voice, more at the fact that I hadn’t budged. Gordon and Mary were taking my cue. I pointed at Lillian.
Lillian spoke up, “I’d like to—”
“John, Troy, see that the children go,” the Surgeon said, turning his back. It was what I would have done. Deflecting and dismissing her, forcing her to appeal to more people, people who were in service to authority, a hard chain to break.
Lillian looked at me for help. I stayed quiet, watching.
Sure enough, two of the doctors who hadn’t yet washed up approached, ready to usher us out.
“Sir,” Shipman said, her voice stronger than Lillian’s had been. She grabbed Lillian’s wrist, pulling Lillian’s hand from the pocket. Lillian was holding the badge. “We’d like to stay. Pursuant to the Brigadier’s orders.”
The surgeon turned to look back at the badge. He made a face, then raised his chin. “Sir?”
We turned, and we could see that the Brigadier was standing in the street with a few other men.
“They can watch. Have them bring me the write-up when you’re done,” Brigadier Tylor said. Then he was gone, looking after other business.
The surgeon’s face was hidden by the mask and goggles, but I entertained myself by imagining that it looked like he was sucking on a lemon while he had his balls in a vise.
Probably wasn’t the case, but it was funny to imagine.
Mary and Shipman hurried to get to a vantage point where they wouldn’t be in the way. A tough job, considering how packed the space already was.
“Troy, would you take the notes?” the surgeon asked. Troy, still wearing the apron and coat, but not scrubbed in, picked up a pen and paper. John hurried to get to the sink and wash up. I presumed it was a constant competition to get recognition from the surgeon.
Another doctor took scissors to the clothing of the men, cutting away what they couldn’t open on their own. The men were soon left naked on the table.
Phlegm had a broad stomach, the sort where a strong man also ate too much. The muscle was there, underlying it, but it was insulated enough that the lines werent’ readily apparent. Thick neck, strangely spaced facial features, and odd earlobes, with messy hair. He was covered in deep, recognizable scars.
“Subject appears to be stitched, standard ‘Y’ cut. The work looks as if it was done only hours ago. Trepanning method of lobotomy, holes still present, with skin flaps covering. This was a fast job.”
“We killed him earlier today,” I commented. “They needed a decoy.”
“If I want commentary, I will ask for it,” the surgeon said.
I raised my hands in the gesture for surrender.
“The word ‘Phlegmatic’ is tattooed along the first subject’s collarbone,” the surgeon said, prodding the flesh. “Bone structure stands out as differing from the norm. Fused collarbone, ribcage has flat affect across the front and back, with broader sternum and fused spaces between ribs. Vat-grown. Older scars suggest the changes are the result of grafts and prior work. Layered, different types of scars. The previous work was done over a long period of time.”
“John, White, see to the staples.”
Two others at the slab got pincer tools and began removing the staples.
The surgeon bent down, examining Phlegm’s face. “Changes are of a type expected from nineteen-ought attempts to modify the living code, rewriting the fabric of a grown individual. The grafts, to speculate, were part of efforts to repair the damage done with the system-wide changes. Subject had limited vision, with occlusion of the ocular cavity, sinus cavities, mouth—enlarged tongue—and—”
He pried Phlegm’s mouth open.
“—throat.”
“Intentional,” Lillian said.
“Beg pardon?” the surgeon asked.
“I’d bet you dollars to pennies it’s intentional, and it can be controlled. He used weaponized gases, I think, before he died. The blockages would have been a casualty of the changes to his facial structure, and they were modified to serve a purpose.”
“If true, that will be verified at a later point,” the surgeon said. “No more commentary from the gallery, please.”
“I’ve seen work by students who were trained by Phlegmatic’s creator, very similar. Efficient lungs, improved circulatory system, every orifice can be closed,” Lillian said. “He’d be made to hold his breath underwater for twenty minutes. Or in a cloud of noxious gas for twenty minutes.”
Was she like this around her classmates? I wondered how many of them wanted to throttle her.
“Thank you for that observation,” the surgeon said. “I’m sure we’ll see for ourselves when the time comes.”
“You should pay attention to the ears and eyes,” Lillian said. “Most of the work would have been there. The eyes would need protection, which means there’s some interesting work—”
The surgeon cleared his throat.
“There’s some interesting work done there, with eyes made immune to most airborne issues, or the eyes were sealed and he used another sense. Probably the ears.”
I was willing to bet that if the Brigadier hadn’t given the okay, the Surgeon would have grabbed Lillian and literally thrown her out of the enclosure himself, even knowing he’d have to scrub down all over again.
“What an insightful set of observations,” the surgeon said, sarcastically. “Do you have anything more to say, or may I continue with the investigation?”
“Oh, I’m done for now,” Lillian said, smiling, as if she had no idea he was upset. “I’ll say more as things come up.”
“I’ll thank you not to,” the surgeon said, somewhat under his breath. “Before we were interrupted, I was moving on to the ears.”
Which was probably true, I imagined. It had to rankle. I noted that Shipman was murmuring something to Lillian, who was smiling.
“Ear canal and normal ear structures are present, with little modification. The area surrounding, however, suggests a latticework of tympanic membranes, of varying size,” the surgeon said. “Barring another situation of heavy occlusion, he would have possessed exceptional hearing ability, both in terms of sensitivity and range. Moving on…”
The surgeon moved away from the head. On to the torso.
> “The body is probably booby-trapped,” I commented, idly.
The surgeon reacted like he was going to lash out and say or do something, but then the words sank in. He remained frozen where he was, scalpel hovering over Phlegm’s chest.
I shrugged, very casually explaining, “He was already dead. They made him into a stitched to bait us into thinking we’d caught one of their assassins. He’s resistant to many gases and poisons.”
“Ooh! Of course!” Lillian said. “He’d have bladders in his body, for holding reserve, or for buoyancy control, if he’s aquatic at all. Which is probably. Any one of the bladders could be pumped full and sealed. Would be.”
The surgeon stared down at the body, scalpel still in hand.
“Just so you know,” Lillian said, smiling wider than before. She met my eyes.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I told the surgeon and Lillian both.
Lillian, I was realized, was having a great deal of fun.
She and I didn’t get to play off each other like this, ever. The earlier attitude had been intentional, needling the man.
Not that she was necessarily wrong about the booby trap.
“Perhaps,” the surgeon said, very carefully, “You children would want to leave, to be safe?”
“Not at all,” I said.
“There’s nothing to worry about, so long as you’re careful,” Lillian said.
Shipman cleared her throat. “I think I’ll step out.”
Gordon reached out for her hand. I wasn’t sure if it was to hold her back or to offer reassurance of some sort, but the gesture was ignored. Shipman stalked out, flipping her hood up as she exited into the downpour.
He didn’t look at any of us as his hand fell back into his lap.
The surgeon went back to work. The staples were removed, and the man took a scalpel to the existing incisions, which had been glued shut. A very careful cut, with several slices, each one cutting only a fraction deeper. The skin parted, and a rank odor filled the enclosure.
People were alarmed, stepping back, hands to their masks.
But it was only the stench of death. This would be why the enclosure wasn’t properly indoors. It was a more ventilated space.