The Rebellion's Last Traitor

by Nik Korpon

“Mister Walleus, get back here now!”

  I bristle at the command until the man yells something about your son.

  I hustle to the back, each slap of the shoe sending tremors through my shins. My breath comes hard before I even reach the door, then disappears as I enter the back room.

  One soldier lays sprawled across the ground, his fingers and feet twitching. A large puddle surrounds him, steam or smoke coming from his mouth. Two other soldiers hold their batons extended and ready, poised around yet another rebel who has been lashed to the crossed wood and beaten unconscious.

  I take a breath and taste burnt hair. Cobb is not here.

  “What about my son?”

  “Sir,” one of the soldiers says. He looks to his partner, waiting for him to speak.

  I point at the beaten man. “He’s almost dead, you idiots. Put away your weapons. What about Cobb?”

  “Sir,” the soldier says again, this time flicking his head as if to say, look around the corner. I step to the side. Crouched behind the wooden rack is Cobb, holding a constant-charge prod in his hand.

  “What are you doing?” I put my hands up, palms out by habit, then immediately lower them when I realize how it would look to Cobb. I motion for the two soldiers to sheath their batons. “Come on now, Cobb. Put it down.”

  He tries to click but it cuts itself short. I approach him normally, even crouching a little like we’re playing hide-and-seek. But I can’t pry my eyes from the two prongs at the tip of that prod. Each shock is one hundred thousand volts and they don’t need a recharge time like the old ones did. As fast as you can jab, you can electrocute.

  “Hey, bud,” I say to Cobb. “I like the drawing you did. But doesn’t Dad look a little fat there?”

  He clicks and tips his head to the side. The soldiers keep their hands near the handles of their batons. Light on their feet, ready to strike.

  “Yeah, I can see that,” I say. “You want to go draw a different one? Maybe Dad with some big muscles instead?”

  Clicks.

  “No, sweetheart, you’re not in trouble. We all know you were playing, don’t we?” I give a severe look to the men, who nod compulsively. “But you know you can’t go running around Daddy’s work. You could get hurt and neither of us would want that, right?”

  A pensive click.

  I take the prod with one hand and scoop him up with the other.

  “Let’s get some more paper and we’ll do one together.”

  As I pass the men, they fall in line beside me.

  The one who called me speaks first. “Sir, he–”

  “He’s a child, soldier.” I fight to keep my voice below a yell, for Cobb’s sake. “If I ever see an incident like that again, I will personally tie you to a board and drown you. If I ever hear word of this again, I will tie you to a board and drown you. If I ever see you using a board, I will tie you to it and drown you. Understand?”

  The soldier gives a tentative nod. The murmur up front grows, someone yelling out.

  I say, “Good,” then stick the prod against his neck. His eyes and mouth shoot open, body convulsing until I pull it away. He collapses on the floor.

  I point the prod at his partner before dropping it. “Collect your friend.”

  Cobb and I exit the back room. There’s something brewing near the door, the customers ringing around someone. Probably some lagon forgot how to walk again. They know they can’t cop in here. I grab another piece of paper for Cobb and sit him in the back booth to keep him away from whatever derelict is causing a scene, then take a few swigs from my flask. I stop at Stilian’s booth.

  “I need you to access the memory network and find the records of death or hospitalization for anyone who’s been through the continent,” I tell him. “Maybe incarceration too, but I doubt it.”

  “That’s millions of memories.”

  “Look under east, struggle, revenge, hills, killing, cyanide, drowning, tags like that to narrow it down.” He picks up a pencil and I snatch it from his hand. “Do not write this down. Memorize it. No records until you find something. That means nothing that will throw up an alert, so no Nimah, no mercenary, nothing.”

  “What am I looking for?”

  I exhale hard. “You need to find me Daghda Morrigan.”

  Stilian looks bewildered.

  “You hear me? Find him. And not one word of this gets to Mebeth or Morrigan, hear?”

  “Boss,” he says, glancing around the Gallery as if his soul will be sucked into the void on hearing the man’s name. “He’s not real. He’s a campfire story.”

  “He’s real, I can assure you, and your pain will be very real if you don’t find him.” He starts to protest, but I know what he’s going to say before he says it. “I don’t care if she’s got you on a new assignment. Get three or four men to help and I’ll cover here. But do not under any circumstance tell them what you’re looking for. Give them generals,” I say. “And I need this last week. I’m trusting you with this, Stilian.”

  He swallows his nervousness and nods. I push past a knot of customers, feeling a tingle in my knuckles at the thought of sinking them into whatever amadan has fallen out in my Gallery.

  When I break through the crowd, I see Henraek arguing with a customer. Of course. Why should I expect anything else today? The man puts his finger in Henraek’s face and he grabs it, twists it around until the man is contorted and kneeling on the ground. He begs Henraek to let him go.

  “Henraek,” I yell.

  He looks over to me, almost like he’s surprised I’m here.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I say.

  He releases the man and approaches me, cocking back his fist and swinging without breaking stride. I’m too shocked to block him and white dots explode across the Gallery. I stumble back, then plant my foot and raise my fists. Muscle memory never goes away.

  He stands with his hands beside his waist, though, chest heaving and face deteriorating.

  “Why’d he shoot Aífe?”

  It’s starting.

  13

  Henraek

  He sits there with that dopey look, the same one a cheating husband clings to while the betrayed wife screams in his face. I haven’t the slightest idea how it happened, sweetheart. I must’ve tripped dick-first and she caught me between her legs. I continue to pace because it is harder to break someone’s face if you can’t stand and plant your feet.

  “You lying piece of shit.”

  “What the hell did I do?” He stares at me, rubbing his jaw.

  “What happened to Donael? Did the Tathadann take him? Is he alive?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Aífe. I saw her in a memory. That bastard shot her.” My voice cracks as I say it, my eyes hot with tears. “So if she wasn’t killed in a riot–”

  “Henraek,” he says.

  “Did they take him?”

  “Henraek, come on.”

  “Maybe he didn’t–”

  “You don’t want to do this.”

  I charge at him, thumbs searching for his throat. “Don’t you tell me what I–” and the room flips before my eyes. I blink and realize I’m staring at the bottom edge of the booths, with Walleus’s knee pinning me to the floor. I smell cold dust and hot metal.

  “I don’t know what is wrong with you,” he says. “I understand that you’re upset–”

  “Upset?” I scream. He grabs my arm and my shoulder flames. I gasp and my breath makes a damp circle on the marble.

  “–but you need to calm yourself and not make more of a scene.”

  “This is the exact time to make a scene.” Even with his weight pressing on me, my chest still heaves with stuttered gasps and swollen cries. “This is what scenes are for.”

  “Not here, they’re not,” he says. His voice is close to my ear, so I swing my head back, hoping to crush his nose. He tightens his grip, presses my shoulder so far I expect to hear a snap. “You need to knock it off before I really hurt you.”


  I take a shallow breath, tell him I’m sorry, but a bug tried to crawl in my mouth. This produces a laugh and his hand loosens slightly. I could break his grip, spin around, and catch him in the crotch with my knee then smash his fat face against the table’s edge. But I still wouldn’t know why Aífe was murdered or what happened to Donael. I center myself like I taught my men to do before an attack, to project a calm surface even if it is raging beneath, in order to fight wisely.

  “You weigh too much for this,” I tell him, maintaining as level a tone as possible. “Can you get off me?”

  “Are you going to calm down?”

  I exhale through my nose, feel dust and grit scatter, then nod. He releases me. I push myself off the floor, working blood back through my extremities. When I finally stand, he’s staring straight at me. No, not at me. Over my shoulder.

  “Is everything all right, gentlemen?” Doctor Mebeth says.

  “Fine, sir.” Walleus brushes dust from his knees.

  My heart pounds so hard at the sight of him I expect it to crack my ribs. I can feel his neck in my fingers. This demon who destroyed my life.

  Walleus looks at me. “I was telling Henraek how bad I could beat him at football, is all,” he says.

  “You play?” Mebeth says to me. He even sounds interested. I imagine kicking his severed head up and down the pitch, catching it on my chest the way Concho Louth did.

  “He used to. In the park. Years ago,” Walleus says, his brow furrowed while giving me a nudging look. “Though you’d never be able to tell by how hard he’s breathing now.”

  “Do be sure you two don’t slide tackle the patrons, yes?” He gives an airy wave, then leaves us. We watch him proceed into the back.

  “You want to end up in a stochae?” Walleus said. “Ignoring Mebeth is a good way to do it.”

  “He was there,” I say, my arms aching to pummel Mebeth. “When Aífe got shot. He walked inside the café. Then that rat-faced bastard who got his legs torn off in Amergin blew open her head.”

  “Whose memory was it? One of Riab’s people? You know his dad could put down a bottle on his lunch break, so he might not be the most reliable source. Was he drinking again?” He gives me a condescending-parent look. “Were you?”

  “No, I wasn’t drinking. Who, isn’t important. I know what I saw.”

  “It’s important if the memory is tainted,” he says. “And if someone had shot her, I’m pretty sure I would’ve been one of the first people they’d tell. Rub it in that the rebels were losing and ‘Aren’t you glad you’re with us now?’”

  “Can you even tell when you’re lying?” I say.

  “Goddammit, I’m not lying to you. Really? To hell with you if that’s what you think.”

  I give a gruff snort, my way of conceding the point without actually having to do it.

  “But it doesn’t matter, Henraek. Knowing why something happened doesn’t make it not happen. It doesn’t change anything.”

  “It does for me. They told me both of them died in the riot. But Aífe didn’t. She was murdered. Which means Donael–” I cough, choke, as all the possibilities flash through my head, reliving the sensations of the weeks after I’d heard, of my body trying to cleave itself in half. I shake away the feelings. “Someone lied to me, Walleus.”

  “Yeah, well, welcome to the Tathadann.” He squints hard, as if he hadn’t meant to say that aloud, then pulls a flask from his jacket and offers it to me. I’m tempted, but it’s still afternoon and this day is shaping up to be a long one. “Why was she in the same place as Mebeth?” I nod behind him. “She went to meet him.”

  His eyebrows rise. “And I thought her marrying you was a risky decision.”

  “He was our doctor before he went Tathadann. She went to see him a couple times. Like a counselor.” I loosen my collar, trying not to vomit at the thought of Mebeth knowing intimate details of my personal life. “But I don’t know why she’d seek him out.”

  He stifles a laugh. “Maybe because he was her doctor.”

  “But he’d gone Tathadann by that point in the memory.”

  “People do all kinds of stupid, horrible things for all kinds of stupid, horrible reasons when they’re stressed. Like not going home for days without telling your wife.”

  “Are you insinuating I did that?”

  In lieu of answering, he sighs again. “Maybe she was trying to score. Maybe she was blackmailing someone. Not to speak ill of the dead, but Aífe had kind of a vindictive streak in her. Didn’t mind doing what needed to be done to get what she wanted.” Another belt, shorter this time. He screws on the top, sighs, gestures absently with his hands.

  “Aífe wouldn’t blackmail anyone,” I say.

  He exhales hard enough to make the papers flutter. He fidgets with his flask, then another sigh. Sighing was his tell, back during the Struggle. He’d make himself seem put upon to deflect attention. What are you hiding, Walleus?

  “Like I said.” Cobb clicks at him and he nods, says give me a minute, then turns back to me. “Where was this again?”

  “That café near Clodhna. Why? Did you hear something?”

  “I’m trying to help, Henraek,” he says. “Did you see anything else? Who else was there?”

  “Mebeth and the rat-face. I didn’t see anyone else.” I try to keep the edge out of my voice.

  “Right, Toman,” he says. “You know they gave him a little market to say sorry about your legs? Figured an Amergin mob wouldn’t go into Macha, especially not so close to Clodhna.”

  Near Clodhna. Fifteen minutes from the Gallery. Maybe there is someone looking out for us.

  “What’s the address?”

  * * *

  I stomp down the street, my fingertips aching to wrap around Toman’s neck and squeeze – not enough to kill him, but enough to sate my desire to make him hurt – then drain him of everything he has. I have a mind to do the same to Mebeth, even if it would be signing my own death warrant in a way that even six-years-ago-Walleus couldn’t save me from.

  I glance up at the numbers on the buildings, passing regal apartments with gold banisters and marble steps and regularly bleached exterior walls, all-glass clothing boutiques with mannequins whose clothes are worth more than I am, home electronics stores that project life-sized holograms out over the street so that it looks like the city is under constant attack by dinosaurs and robots in order to lure customers in.

  I come to the address. I double check the numbers on either side and across the street. This is in fact the correct one. And I’m standing in front of the only burnt-out carcass of a building in this entire neighborhood.

  14

  Walleus

  It’s the small moments that matter. The everyday sounds given new significance. The slide of the shades as they close. Corn kernels exploding and tumbling down into the bowl. The soft patter as Donael pours on his special recipe, which tastes a lot like sugar with some butter but I think he grabbed the garlic-salt shaker instead of regular salt. Cobb still spills half of it on the couch and flicks kernels onto the carpet, so at least someone’s enjoying it. I pretend to be enthralled with the movie so I won’t hurt Donael’s feelings by not eating it.

  With Greig and Morrigan crawling up my ass and Henraek yesterday, chasing things he doesn’t need to find, I make the executive decision to take the morning off.

  Which makes it perfectly OK to eat popcorn for breakfast while watching a movie.

  I tell Donael to pick something out while I make a call, then raise Stilian.

  “Please tell me you’ve found something,” I say to him, walking into the kitchen for some privacy.

  “Boss, it’s millions of memories to go through. Not to mention parsing the pre-Morrigan memories from the Promhael-altered ones.” He lowers his voice. “And I can’t really tell them what I’m looking for other than the general categories. It’s going to take a while.”

  “Then categorize faster. Call me when you find something. Soon.”

  I drop the pho
ne on the counter, pause, then pick it up again and dial.

  “Is Toman dead yet?” I say when Belousz answers.

  “It takes time, boss.” He sounds out of breath. “I don’t have boxes of bomb parts sitting around my kitchen.”

  There’s murmuring in the background.

  “Who are you with?”

  “No one you know.” He clears his throat. “We fought together. He’s helping me cobble together a clusterbomb, so it looks like an accident. It’s surprisingly hard to make something look crappy on purpose.”

  I sigh and press my fingers against my eyes. “Hurry it up, OK?”

  When I return to my boys, I find the movie is paused.

  “I told you that you could watch,” I say.

  “You took a long time,” Donael shrugs. “I didn’t want you to miss anything.” I pull them both close and hit play.

  The couple in the movie spread out a blanket in a field and unpack a wicker basket of food, him feigning romance so he can get into her pants, unaware of the werewolf who will ambush them in less than two minutes as they begin to reveal their true selves to one another. Donael asks why they’re eating on the dirt. When I tell him they’re having a picnic, he returns a dumbfounded look.

  “Communing with nature, Donael. Getting out of the normal routine and doing something different. Expanding your horizons.”

  “Do they eat the animals?” he says.

  Cobb clicks. I return Donael’s look, thinking the animal’s about to eat them.

  “I don’t get it,” he says.

  I pause the movie. “You don’t know what a picnic is?”

  He shakes his head. Cobb mimics.

  “We’re going to fix that today.”

  * * *

  At lunchtime, I take them out back with a blanket, some sandwiches and apples. It ain’t the Great Outdoors, but I don’t feel like driving all the way out to the mountains to eat. Plus, I’ve got a comfortable lounge chair on the patio; I’ve eaten meals on the dirt enough for my lifetime.