“Gosh, Poesy!” Mack blushed. “Didn’t know you valued my opinion so much.”
“I don’t,” Poe said dismissively. “But for some unfathomable reason, Jean does. Your use is informed solely by hers. We tread dangerous waters, and do not need unnecessary people weighing us down.”
Poe didn’t care if his words caused Mack any harm. He switched vantage points to survey their surroundings; that their camp was isolated was its sole value. It was otherwise indefensible and easily breached. Linger too long at one post and another was exposed; it was how the schoolgirl had gotten through, to the Guardian’s annoyance.
“I’d kill her now,” Poe stated. “No sooner than she gives us what we need, I would separate her head from her body.” He paused, then added, “It would be a clean death.”
“I don’t think she’d like being dead very much.”
“She knows where we are, what we are,” Poe retorted, turning to confront Mack. “I would as soon kill her as I would Taryl Renivar’s daughter. We play a dangerous game by keeping such people alive.”
“So, why don’cha?” Mack asked. Poe ignored him to focus on surveying their surroundings. “Kill her, I mean.”
“I don’t wish to incite my companions needlessly. She lives because Flynn requires it and, like you with Jean, I find him too useful to needlessly toss aside. You are all means to my intended end, and I will honor our companionship to that extent.”
“Oh…”
“What?” Poe asked impatiently.
“Just thought maybe you’d learned to think better of killing random folks is all.”
Were it only that simple. Poe recalled the dreary woods preceding Heaven’s gates, that dim morning when he’d awoken and at last appreciated the damage he had wrought. So many bodies mutilated and scattered, decay having long since taken them. A terrible understanding of what he had been doing for years finally dawned, how in following orders to guard the gates, he had fallen too deeply in love with his work.
Guardian Poe could never undo what he had done. The blood would stain him for life. “I have changed,” he assured Mack. “I am no longer the man who tried to kill you at Heaven’s gates. I am a more purposeful killer now, and no longer do so blindly.”
“But yer still a killer.” Mack unconsciously rubbed his own chest, where Poe had speared him not so long ago.
“I am,” Poe nodded. “I’d have rather not been the monster I became. But, if a monster I am, I’d prefer at least to be a useful one.”
*
If Leria had known where Crescen was staying, she’d have led Flynn and Jean right to him and washed her hands of them both. This desire made her uncomfortable, and she feared one of her companions might suspect her, see through her, which in turn fed a fear that she might say the wrong thing.
“I’ve never played hooky before,” she commented with a nervous laugh. “Feels like a waste, you know? Just going to my house.”
“Never had a school to play hooky with.” Jean’s gruff reply made Leria cringe uncomfortably. Even in the back pathways she felt exposed; she was still in uniform at a time when she was supposed to be in class, and on any of the main roads she’d be caught right away. Losing her companions would injure any chance she had of leaving Breth behind.
Beside her, Jean walked with a mountain of confidence, and it wasn’t hard to see why. The uniform she’d been wearing had concealed some considerable natural muscle. She’d traded her skirt for a pair of weathered black pants, her buttoned shirt and tie for a set of suspenders and a crop-top featuring the faded logo of a forgotten rock band called the Zero-Zero-Ones.
“You always take such a long walk home?”
“There’s not really a train station close by,” Leria lied.
She didn’t announce their arrival, but quietly peeked in first to ensure no one was home. Once satisfied, she let them both in. “My room’s down the hall,” she said, pointing.
“Then let’s get to work,” Flynn said, but Jean didn’t hurry to follow. She looked around the barren apartment at the few holographic monitors embedded in the walls, projecting scenic images to make up for the lack of décor.
“Feels kinda homey,” Jean admitted. “Sort of place where you could be gone tomorrow and no one’d ever know you were here.”
Leria said nothing, but found Jean’s assessment strange.
Flynn was waiting for them in the next room, and he looked at Leria expectantly from where he sat on the end of her bed. She felt like she was performing for an audience, and as she sat down at her computer, she wondered what Rina might say if she knew the sort of people she was harboring.
“Where should we start?” she asked cheerfully, and set to work as Flynn began making suggestions. She was diligent, constantly adjusting the search parameters and translating what she found.
It was also a facade, for beneath this helpful persona, she was beginning to weigh the implications of Crescen’s offer. If Leria considered her future alone, it was a no-brainer; her prospects beyond school were severely limited. But accepting would mean leaving behind her parents, her friends; people like Rina. She also strongly suspected it would mean not saying goodbye.
Several hours later, the nets Flynn had cast had repeatedly failed to conjure up anything concrete. She had filtered through centuries of content when at last he hit his palm to her desk and let out a resigned sigh.
“Run a search for Einré Maraius.”
Jean began to speak, but trailed off into a self-suppressing cough. Leria had no clue who this Einré person was, but nonetheless complied. After several searches under different spellings, still nothing came up, and Flynn was unable to spell the name in a way that could translate to Brethian script.
“I don’t think we’ll find anything,” she told him honestly.
Flynn closed his eyes and took a deep breath. At last, he issued one more command. “Run a search for Taryl Renivar.”
Leria looked to Jean, who this time let nothing slip, only leaned against the wall, seemingly bored. Once more, Leria searched, filtering through recent decades into centuries before finding something buried that made her crack a smile.
“The Arm Maker,” she chuckled.
“The what?” Flynn asked, intrigued.
“It’s an old story, an urban legend, really,” Leria explained. “Back when laws were changing—the restrictions on upgrades being done away with—I guess this story began floating around about the Arm Maker. They said when you got something cut off—y’know, arm or leg or whatever—the Arm Maker would leave a replacement.”
“Leave it?” Jean asked. “Where the fuck does someone leave a replacement arm?”
“I dunno,” Leria shrugged. “A chair … on the bed? Wake up and I guess—poof! There’s an arm just like the one you lopped off?”
“How did Taryl Renivar’s name even come into this?” Flynn asked.
Leria opened up an old article dating centuries back. The only photo attached showed an older-looking man—all skin, which was fairly common at the time—at a podium, addressing a crowd. There were many people protesting the changing laws, and they surrounded the man, obscuring him.
“I’m not saying it’s the same guy—I might be spelling it wrong,” Leria explained. “But this Taryl guy gave a speech, proposing that if there were a way to get their original parts back, people should be willing to reattach them.”
“Yeah, just what I was thinkin’,” Jean rolled her eyes. “I see an arm just sittin’ on my rocking chair, first thing I think is let’s graft that bitch right on!”
“So Taryl Renivar’s name was rolled into this story?” Flynn asked.
“Yeah, but—look, like I said. It’s an urban legend, like the Death Train or the Contagious Eye or Mani Dani. Just stuff kids talk about to scare each other.”
“Maybe…” Flynn sounded less convinced. “Where were these protests held?”
A pit formed in Leria’s stomach; she smiled for them, of course. She had hoped to control the f
low of information, and hadn’t imagined Flynn might glean something of substance from a tale so trivial. Leria reluctantly pointed out the region of Teusne, uncertain what Flynn knew of the surrounding territories.
It shouldn’t have been enough to go on, but Flynn pondered the information, not sparing a word as he drifted in thought. Leria sat quietly, unsure what was going on, until he lifted his head as though waking from a nap.
“Ya got somethin’?” Jean asked.
“I’ve sensed something in that direction…. It’s faint, incredibly so, but at this point—”
“Best bets, yeah?” Jean nodded.
If Leria had just set them on course, she might have shot her one chance. She didn’t know how, but she would have to find Crescen.
*
Leria avoided asking any personal questions, having concluded it better not to know more about her current acquaintances than necessary, and once their business with her was concluded, she saw them off, promising to help them depart Annora. As soon as they were gone, she took off, revisiting the places she’d encountered Crescen before.
She was rounding a corner when she happened to collide with someone who had a sturdy frame. It’s—! No… Leria realized quickly that the body she’d encountered was too small, too artificially soft, to be the man she sought.
“Sorry!” Leria panicked a little in embarrassment.
“It’s fine. It didn’t register on any relevant level.” Leria’s classmate, Zoë Hecrest, stood rigid, her head cocked only slightly to make eye contact with Leria. “I keep my tactile receptors off. Nothing hurts.”
It was a strange admission, and Leria was tempted to ask why. Zoë’s face betrayed nothing, but her downward gaze brought attention to Leria’s own artificial leg, with its subtly mismatched complexion. It had not been so long ago that Leria had first walked into school on that leg, while Zoë had arrived encased in a whole new body. It seemed stupid to ask once Leria remembered that; after all, they had both gotten on the same train.
Leria followed Zoë onto the main road, and they drifted along as Zoë continued to talk. “I sat by the window, waiting to return home. Yawning. Sunlight heating my skin. Sweat beads on my lower spine, then … pain.” Her body showed no reaction, but her voice trembled momentarily on the last words.
“That’s no reason to stop feeling—” Leria started.
“It’s an unwelcome memory,” she replied. “It brings nothing but hurt. The sense of every part of me breaking almost at once. Metal twisting. Piercing. Crushing.”
At first, Leria had no words, and Zoë solicited no response. When she realized they were nearing a local train station, Leria knew she might not get another chance like this. “I’m … sorry to hear that.” And it was true—the artificial leg that had been forced on Leria’s body without regard to the chance she might heal naturally was preferable to how she could have ended up.
Zoë turned to Leria with an utterly artificial smile. “Don’t be. I’m mature and sophisticated now. It’s childish to stay attached to such things.”
And with that, Zoë walked off, boarding a departing train. Part of Leria yearned to follow, but she shook in fear at the thought. Yet if she wanted to leave Annora, she would need the courage. The hand that touched her shoulder then, large and warm and human, served at least to console her that facing her fear of the train could wait a little longer.
She had known Crescen was close for several blocks. It seemed important to finish things with Zoë and, considering the nature of their business together, she didn’t believe he would run off. Still, a sigh of relief escaped her just the same because, until this moment, she’d remained undecided.
“I was worried I’d lost track of you,” Leria told him.
“It was necessary to keep my distance. They are not a dull bunch—the beast in particular has a way of drawing truths out if he suspects something. Better not to tip his keen senses.”
“I don’t think they know anything about you, but…” Leria was reluctant, but Crescen waited patiently for her to continue. “I … I may have set them further on course than I intended.” Leria told Crescen of the urban legend of the Arm Maker and the protests on Teusne centuries prior. He listened patiently, nodding in understanding. “It was amazing though. A bit scary, but meeting people from other worlds … finding out that such people exist—!”
“You’ll find many others like them, in Yeribelt,” Crescen explained. “People from throughout the stars gathered in supplication to the Living God. Not some hollow deity whose prayers carry as much weight as dust on the wind, but a tangible being of presence and promise.”
Leria tried to comprehend the idea. “It’s weird to hear it described like that. No one on Breth worships anything.”
“You will see the kindness borne by a well-founded faith,” Crescen promised. “In all honesty, I would sacrifice an arm and a leg in service to my god. What I offer you is the chance to get yours back.” She noticed the newly fitted prosthetic hand at his side. “When the Living God is free, he can restore what was taken from you. From all of us.”
Leria nodded, her throat becoming dry. She swallowed, then asked, “What can I do to help?”
*
Mack folded up his uniform and placed it in the box. The creases were uneven and it wasn’t shrink-wrapped like when he’d found it, but it seemed a good gesture before returning the uniforms to the store from which they’d been pilfered. Back on Earth, he and Jean would have left their unneeded gains for someone else to find; it was Zaja who insisted they at least return what they hadn’t used. Mack opted to go the extra mile.
As Jean gathered the remnant bits of trash and tossed them into another box, he recalled the look of her in uniform, skirt and all. “Shame we couldn’t stay longer, eh, Jeannie?”
“Naw…” she inattentively replied. “Stayed long as it is. ’Bout fuckin’ time we got on the road again.”
Jean had never liked lingering in one place for long, and their present home was showing fewer and fewer signs that it had ever been lived in. Mack had hoped to the steer the conversation in a positive direction, but found himself sitting on a box, wondering what to say.
In the next room, Poe and Zaja were sparring, the former teaching the latter how to wield a stick in lieu of a sword, but she was struggling to deflect his every strike. Poe easily broke her defense and poked her in the chest, and Mack instinctively touched the scars near his own heart, knowing beyond doubt that he should be dead.
“You know,” he commented, “I heard back on Earth that kids used to gussy up and dance whenever the school year ended.”
Jean stopped what she was doing and stood up, scratching her head. “Dance? For what fuckin’ reason?”
“…mating rituals?” he suggested. Jean stifled a chuckle, then returned to her cleanup. Mack went on. “Don’t think they do that here, though. Buuuuut … if they did, who d’ya think ya’d have gone with?”
Finally, she stopped what she was doing and turned to him, cracking a smile. “Fuck that. You know me. Ain’t my kind of scene.”
“But if you had to?” Mack pressed.
Jean’s amusement faded. “Like I said: I wouldn’t.”
It was Mack’s cue to drop the subject, one he’d gotten before on far less direct lines of questioning. He never fully knew what Jean really felt, her point of view on their relationship. Still, he kept his composure, sharing a winning grin that made Jean relax. Underneath it, he was heating up, beading with sweat as the evening weather cooled.
“And if it was me askin’ you, Jeannie?”
Mack was surprised at his own bravery, even as his voice trembled, his teeth rattled, and a hollowness swelled in his heart from the fear of rejection. And Jean looked down at him, her face settling on surprise before descending to contempt.
“…the fuck you gotta go and…” Her voice had come out bitter and low, her eyes forced violently shut. Jean’s hands clenched into fists at her side, and her breath seethed rhythmically.
>
The moment Mack saw her reaction, he regretted saying anything. “Sorry, Jeannie—”
“Yer fuckin’ sorry?!” she demanded. “Like that clears the air, like you never said a damn thing in the first place? I ain’t stupid, Mack. I know where yer goin’ with this! I just thought it was a line you were smart enough not to cross!”
In the other room, the sparring had ceased. They had drawn the attention of both Zaja and Poe, the latter clearly not caring and eager to resume practice. From the corner of Mack’s eye, he saw Zaja shake her head and toss the stick back to Poe, leaving him alone. As Mack’s throat went painfully dry, the clatter of sticks striking poles in the next room filled the air, making it harder to think.
“I’ve trusted you, all this time!” Jean yelled. “I kept ya close ’cause I knew you could respect my goddamn boundaries! Yer my best buddy and I thought I was real fuckin’ clear in the past that that’s all I’m lookin’ for!”
“You’ve gotta want somethin’ else eventually, right?” Mack asked, trying to ease her temper.
“Even if I did, it wouldn’t be with you,” Jean snapped. Grunting out a breath, she tried to calm down. “Yer a great guy Mack. Fun. But were I lookin’ to cozy up—which I ain’t—you’ve got nothin’ I want.”
Mack couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t make things worse. Even mutual silence couldn’t erase this moment between them. Bowing his head like a scolded child, he startled when Jean kicked the box of trash she’d collected, spilling the mess across the room.
“AUGH—FUCK!”
In that moment, she brought her hand up like she was ready to bring the whole building down around them. Mack braced for the worst, but Jean elicited a guttural grunt, then clenched her fists as she tried to soothe her temper.
“Gonna step out,” she muttered, turning decisively to the door. Mack was compelled to stand and reach out for her, but Jean stopped to let him know, “I ain’t goin’ far. Just need to cool down. Won’t do anythin’ stupid.” She tried to smile, ease his worries. “Promise.”
The door slammed loudly and Mack stood alone, the rhythm of Poe’s practice flooding the otherwise silent air. With little else to do, he turned upright the box Jean had kicked aside, then gathered up the mess she’d left behind.
Killers, Traitors, & Runaways: Outcasts of the Worlds, Book II Page 7