The Rebellion's Last Traitor

by Nik Korpon

  Rumor has it Daghda has become something of a roving mercenary over the years, returning occasionally to the hills to try to spark unrest against his brother and ex-wife in between facilitating coups in foreign lands and killing rival heads-of-state for whoever sees to paying him the most, though I don’t know how anyone would understand him with that thick-ass hill accent. But some people say he was murdered across the straits way south of Westhell. Others say he never even existed, that he’s a story the Tathadann created to keep citizens in line. If you ask me, the most convincing account I’ve heard has him dead ten years ago. Chewed a cyanide pill after being captured during a failed uprising in one of the far eastern countries with too many z’s and strange accent marks in their words.

  “What I understand, Walleus, is that they are out there creating sympathy for another uprising by threatening to disrupt the anniversary celebration, and it is your job,” she says, poking me in the chest, “to stop these things before they come to fruition.”

  “Which I have, Lady Morrigan, for the last six years.”

  “They will not destroy Macuil’s statue, nor tarnish his legacy. Am I clear?”

  Oh, the irony. It was Lady Morrigan – wanting Eitan to see her and Macuil as their saviors – who declared memory illegal to erase any trace of Daghda. But making memory illegal only put a premium price on it. The Promhael – the cabal of Tathadann generals who took over a few years back when they saw Lady Morrigan’s calculating edge was dulling and appointed her something like an honorary figurehead – saw money to be made, so they allowed the memory trade to flourish, replacing half of the history she’s tried to erase. Now no one really knows for sure if Daghda is even real because no citizen can talk openly about him for fear of being stripped were they to be heard invoking his name. But talk about him they do, in whispers and lagonael dens, an altered history mixed with hearsay such that he’s become a projection of political stances: a savior to some rebels, a conqueror to others; an example of Tathadann efficiency and justice to its members, a cuckold to its dissenters. In the battle between Lady Morrigan’s nasty god-complex and the Tathadann’s greed, god didn’t stand a chance.

  I suppress my gag reflex, and she motions for Greig to come.

  “Greig has been quite proactive on the matter.” She turns to Greig. “Tell him.”

  He steps forward and says, “Johnstone’s is a rebel bar, Walleus. That’s where they’re planning everything.”

  “That’s Protectorate Blaí to you,” I say. He nods, deferring. “And when did you speak with Lady Morrigan?”

  His lips curl into the slightest grin possible without it seeming like gloating. Greig’s father fought at the end of the Resource Wars and went on to become a general in the Tathadann. He could’ve used his influence to get Greig a high-ranking position, but instead wanted his son to earn like he had. So now Greig carries all the entitlement and accent of privilege while still harboring the conniving, backstabbing tendencies of someone continually trying to prove himself. Yeah, he’s a goddamn joy to have around.

  “Do you read your reports, Walleus?” she says.

  “Of course. And there were no substantiated claims in any reports I’ve gotten from him.” I turn to Greig. “You never said anything like that to me. If you’re sandbagging your gathering, we need to have a sit down.”

  “No,” she says, snapping her fingers at me. I swallow the urge to break them like stale breadsticks. “Explain, Greig.”

  He puffs up a bit. “I’ve seen people in there wearing green and white clothing. Some scarves too.”

  “So there’s a draft and they’re cold,” I say.

  “When has anyone in the last fifty years been cold?” he says.

  “Doesn’t mean it’s a rebel bar.”

  “Nor does it mean it’s not,” Lady Morrigan says. She speaks without looking at me, her eyes focused squarely on him.

  Greig clears his throat, assuming an authoritative tone, that posh goddamned accent making me want to tie his tongue in a knot. “As I mentioned, ma’am, they’re using it as a front. There’s a room in the back where they store maps, blueprints of our facilities. One of the bartenders there, Forgall Tobeigh, looks to be the main architect. He was known as the Lumberjack, because of his size–”

  “It was because he cut a dozen men in half with an axe,” I say. “And no one called him that. At least not to his face.”

  Greig peers at me, swallows, then continues. “The woman there, Emeríann Daele, hasn’t shown any signs of involvement, but her late husband was killed during the Struggle.”

  “We were watching Tobeigh before the last bombs went during the Struggle. There are too many people gathering on him to try anything,” I say. “And everyone had someone close killed during the Struggle. I mean, Daele’s an artist. How violent could she be?”

  “You’ve seen her profile,” Greig says.

  “I have, so I know her statistics, locations frequented, occupation, and known associates, but that doesn’t mean I know anything about her.”

  “It all matters,” Greig says.

  I flick my hand, batting away his theories. It’s bad enough she has to hide living with Henraek – and that she has to put up with Henraek – she doesn’t need Greig bothering her as well. “I thought you knew better than to believe everything you heard. Were you the one who told Lady Morrigan I like ice cream too?”

  Greig considers me for a minute, debating whether or not to pursue this point in front of her. If he can prove Johnstone’s is the hub of this plan, he’ll embarrass me and bolster his position in the Tathadann. And all in front of the other men, no less. But there ain’t no way he can prove it. Not with the way I’ve heard Emeríann and Forgall run that place. They should run it right, because Henraek was the one who taught her.

  And I taught Henraek.

  His point made, Greig gives a respectful nod to Lady Morrigan then turns on his heel and leaves before I can confront him.

  “He’s quite the young prospect,” she says. “Perhaps his talents are being underutilized in his current role.”

  “I doubt it. If he were any good he would know about my stomach condition. I’ll re-evaluate his gathering but I wouldn’t expect anything.” I scratch my chin. “And if you don’t mind, ma’am, I have to go over some reports before meeting someone, so I’ll be on them.”

  “I do mind.” She clucks her tongue once. “Let’s ask the man in the back what he knows about Johnstone’s, shall we?”

  “I guess the files can wait, then,” I say. I turn to check on Cobb, who has curled up on a bench, and when I turn back, my stomach brushes against Lady Morrigan.

  She looks down like a rat cozied up to her ankle. I follow her into the back room.

  The man is lashed to two crossed pieces of wood by leather restraints. Long streams of blood run down his arms, the bare space where his fingernails had been still pulsing wet. His head hangs, eyes closed and lips slightly moving, his barely rising chest pocked with spear-sized holes. He’s older than he looked at first, even through all the blood, but I still don’t recognize the face. The soldiers who brought him in sit in padded chairs on either side of him, taking a breather. Their blood-crusted probes rest against the man’s legs. At the sight of Lady Morrigan, they both stand at attention.

  “He’s an undercover rebel, ma’am,” one of them says. “We picked him up in Macha. He was loitering – arranging a pickup, we believe.”

  “Are you going to ask or should I?” Lady Morrigan says to me, nodding at the bleeding man.

  “Ladies first,” I say.

  “What has he said about Johnstone’s?” she asks one of the soldiers.

  “He hasn’t said much of anything, ma’am. We did find this transponder in his pocket.” The soldier holds it out for me, staring like he expects a medal of commendation.

  I shuffle the metal oval around in my palm, looking over the pitted surface, and cold threads spread through me. The tusks are broken off down to nubs, but I’d know N
imah anywhere. Hill-people juju. Some of the rebels used to carry them during the Struggle, calling out to Daghda. I always thought it was worthless, both the calling out and him saving us. No one in Eitan carries them anymore.

  “Good work, men,” I say to them.

  “He won’t tell us anything, ma’am.” The soldier looks over at his partner for backup.

  “No, ma’am,” his partner says. “We’ve been on him for two solid hours and he won’t say anything. He keeps singing.”

  “Singing?” I say.

  “Yes, sir,” the first soldier says.

  I drop the totem on one of the steel tables and step close to the bleeding man, set my ear beside his lips. His words are only breath but I know what he’s saying by the rhythm. Down near the river where our brothers bled. My fingers tingle. Last time I heard that song, Henraek and I were leading a group of two hundred men in choruses as we marched through the streets. The old rebel song doesn’t give me anxiety, though; it’s his accent that makes me sweat. Thick. Muddled. This man is actually from the hills, and that’s probably worse than being a Nimah-worshipping rebel.

  “Why did you come down here?” I whisper to him. “What are you doing?” It might be the shadows playing over his bloody face, but I swear to god he smirks.

  “We can’t tell what it is, ma’am. Might be some sort of code,” the soldier says.

  “He’s praying,” I say to them. “He’s making his peace.”

  “How do you know?” one of them says. “Do you speak Amergi?”

  “Does this pasty bastard look Amergin to you?” Sometimes I’m amazed this party has ruled for so long with soldiers like him on the ground. “You’re not going to get anything from him,” I say to her. “He’s not even here anymore.”

  Lady Morrigan lets out a long sigh, then flutters her hand at the man. “Strip him.” The soldiers exchange a glance, then peek at me, as if I have any say. “Don’t look at him,” she says. “I told you to strip him. The rebels must understand who they are fighting.”

  One of them clears his throat. “Lady Morrigan–”

  His compatriot cuts him off. “It’s taken care of, ma’am.” He crosses the room to a closet and pulls out a cart. Sitting on it is what could pass for a small generator, clear tubes snaking from the base and leading to a stochae, an oblong glass container that doctors used to hold small amounts of medicine.

  After the hill-man is hooked up to the machine, one of the soldiers will flip a switch and the man will be stripped of his consciousness, which will be held in the glass tube on a shelf in the basement of the Gallery to fester in the darkness next to his countrymen for the next however many years. Or centuries.

  During the Struggle, we told our men that there were worse things than death, partly to motivate them to fight bravely, and partly because it sounded cool. Then Doctor Mebeth invented stripping.

  “Post his body where they will see him,” she says. “And make sure you hose down the floor before you leave. The tiles will stain.”

  I open the door for her, and as we’re leaving the room, the man erupts in one last howl that raises my hair.

  “What will you do about Johnstone’s?” she says to me as we pass through the main Gallery.

  “It’s all under control.” I shape my face into a comforting smile, see her to the front door. “You go home and relax. It’s been a long day and I’ve got someone coming in.”

  She gives me a smile that could be mistaken for a paper cut, then adjusts her hat and steps into the street, leaving without another word.

  I go back to the booth where Cobb sleeps. His sculpture pulses over the table, something that could be either a pile of debris from a bombed-out building or an abstract person. I shut the screen off, then lean down and run my hand over his head, his patchy hair so fine it’s almost invisible.

  One of the soldiers calls my name and hurries through the patrons, his hand cupped by his side. Belousz gives me a crooked look from his booth then returns to gambling.

  Cobb stirs and blinks his eyes open, woken by the soldier’s yelling. Now he’s going to be cranky as hell because he didn’t get a decent nap.

  “Sir, you left this in the back room.” He hands me the totem.

  I give him a nod, gritting my teeth. “Thank you, son. Thank you for your commitment and service to Eitan City.” I look him up and down. “Now go clean yourself up. You look like a used tampon.”

  He thanks me and hastens back to the room. I wait until he’s gone before I throw the totem in a garbage can.

  3

  Henraek

  The Gallery lies in undulating shadow, the prized flower in Eitan City’s crown of thorns, nestled among cafés with metal bars striating the windows and water repositories guarded by teenagers wielding nail-speckled boards. Even with badge readers at the front doors, the Tathadann wants to make sure that what is theirs remains theirs. Thick nets of Spanish moss hang from the streetlamps’ ornate wrought-iron armatures, a constant symbol of Tathadann decadence at the expense of the people.

  I swipe my badge and enter the Gallery, the cold air hitting my face like a fist. This is one of the few buildings left with air conditioning, but the system is so old it needs every advantage possible, such as the marble floors. They’re wonderful for keeping the space cool but create a constant murmur that rolls through the room. Considering some of the conversation topics, that might be a positive.

  Patrons line up before the paintings hung on the walls, pointing and whispering to one another, or squinting and tilting their heads. Some of them sway in time to the hologram band, the same music Emeríann plays at home, though ours is from a pirated network feed because our kind can’t afford holograms. One woman asks if a painting is hung the right way. Fifteen years ago I would have laughed and called her a philistine, but I have a similar reaction now when Emeríann shows me her sculptures.

  Primary colors dominate the art, scenes from a time before the Wars: the reflection of a cloudless summer sky shimmering on glassy water; the emerald knolls, ripe with the musk of fresh rain; the face of a child smeared with candy. Whoever painted these must be either biblically old to remember times like these, or have access to dangerous amounts of Paradise. Once I asked Walleus if he knew the artists. He clapped my shoulder and smiled then walked away. I’m not sure he could identify a painting from a photograph.

  My father used to tell me stories about scenes like these from when he was a kid, lush green forests beyond the hills he’d explore and slow-moving brooks brimming with fish that he and his brothers would catch. I’d spend nights with my wife Aífe recounting those stories, both of us lying on the living room floor of our house, imagining that the ceiling was some distant, better, brighter sky, a reason to fight harder against the Tathadann and reclaim the city as ours. But sometimes I wonder if these paintings are what the land actually looked like years ago, or if it’s merely Tathadann-sanctioned reality. Another way for Morrigan and the Promhael to rewrite history, position themselves as our saviors and gods.

  When patrons stroll through the Gallery, the paintings create a longing for an unknown, idealized past. Patrons need to experience green grass and clean air, to hear birds chirping and watch a child dig into a sandy beach. As they slink farther toward the back of the Gallery, the ache grows until they’re nearly scratching at their throats and begging for help, for communion, for air. Walleus soothes them, answers their prayers, gives them air: he sells them memory.

  And I harvest the memories for him.

  My heels thump on the floor as I weave through the crowd, oblong polishing droids scuttling between people’s feet. Guttural laughs undulate from the back of the Gallery like vultures thrown down a well. Walleus’s lackeys occupy a booth, all of them dressed in brown Tathadann fatigues. I lobbied Walleus to let me out of wearing the uniform, saying that I’d better be able to slip amongst the people, but in all honesty the soldiers look like walking pieces of actual shit and I’ve suffered enough indignity.

  They p
ush gambling chips back and forth, grunting and arguing and sniping at one another. Someone pushes it too far and a shiv comes out, then tentatively lowers. Their conversation disintegrates into whispered laughs as I approach. I set the case on the table and try to stare a hole through Belousz. One of his eyes is shocking blue and the other is grown over with skin, slightly sunken like a tarp lying across a gaping hole.

  “You look lost, son,” he says, not even bothering to smile. “Need some help?”

  “Only if you show me on your trip to Hell.”

  “Ah,” he nods. “I’m sure you’re well on your way.”

  During our raid on the Tathadann outpost he commanded, Belousz stepped on a hastily buried scatter bomb and sent jagged metal bits into his face. I considered it a fair trade, considering he was in the middle of beheading Josihe, my second-in-command and the husband of Aífe’s best friend. Since then I try to view every interaction with Belousz as a testament to my self-discipline, that swearing to no longer take lives really does mean something, because there are few things I’d rather do than put him in a cage and set him on fire.

  “If you two’re going to fight, then fight. If you’re going to screw, get on with it. Otherwise, shut up,” Walleus says, coming up beside me. “You’ve got something red on you, Henraek.” I wipe my hand across my face. A slash of blood in my palm, from Riab’s father cutting me. I’m surprised Emeríann didn’t notice or bother to tell me.

  He uses a handkerchief to blot away sweat on his massive forehead, even though it’s cold enough I expect to see my breath in a burst of fog.

  Walleus nudges one of the lackeys – he’s new to the organization and under Greig’s wing, which means I haven’t made any concerted effort to learn his name yet – and flicks his wrist, telling the kid to move over. With a great exhalation, Walleus lowers himself to the leather bench. I imagine the wood groaning beneath him.

  He leans back and knits his fingers together behind his bald head. With his white linen suit, thin gold chain and chunky rings, I would expect to see him selling luxury vehicles used on vacations a hundred years ago, in one of the southern lands across the channel, not sitting inside a Tathadann-run art gallery that doles out the very memory they stand against, lest the people remember how they used to live and want it back. With everything that has died since the Struggle began, it’s nice to see at least capitalism can survive. “Any problems?” he says.