Fire, Ruin, and Fury (Embers Saga)

by Matthew Taylor

  Patrick then made his way to the kitchenette, reaching out to the small table—still littered with bottles—to stabilize himself up for a moment. He closed his eyes, drew a cleansing breath, and commanded his stomach to behave. Opening his eyes again, he noticed his shirt in the hallway, near another pair of men’s trousers crumpled on the pocked linoleum floor.

  Oh. Yeah.

  He staggered back to the bedroom, padded quietly past the bed, and bent over to shake a single foot, peaking out of a lump of sheets and clothes beside the mattress.

  “Alias, wake up,” he whispered. Alias didn’t budge, but the woman next to him stirred, opened her almond-shaped eyes, and offered him an inviting smile. Patrick replied with a half-grin and a wink. He shook Alias’ foot again, more forcefully in hopes of better results. Alias withdrew his foot into the bedding, but Patrick was encouraged. He dug into the heap and shook Alias’ foot wildly.

  Alias rolled over, sleepily sat up, and smacked his lips on his own putrid cotton balls. He rubbed his bloodshot eyes and blinked rapidly to bring Patrick’s face into focus.

  “C’mon, Errol Flynn. Time to scoot. You can sleep it off in the car,” Patrick urged. The woman with the beautiful almond eyes rolled over and caressed Alias’ shoulder, bidding him to stay.

  “Let’s go Holy Boy,” he whispered to ward off any temptation Alias may have felt from the young woman’s touch.

  Heaven forbid she’s actually willing to overlook his breath—or mine for that matter.

  “Coming,” Alias croaked, flopping onto his back.

  Unconvinced, Patrick waited at the foot of the bed to ensure his friend wouldn’t succumb to the temptation of sex or sleep. He gave Alias a gentle kick for good measure, almost losing his balance in the process. Alias shot him an annoyed look, as Patrick leaned over and offered his hand to help Alias make his ascent. Alias reluctantly abided, and Patrick pulled him to his feet.

  The woman with the almond eyes, seeing her opportunity escaping, lay her head back down on her pillow and closed her eyes, resigned. A brief wave of guilt rolled over Patrick.

  I don’t blame you for trying. It’s as close as you’ll get to an escape. But you should know better, and we gotta go.

  “I feel like ass,” Alias groaned, wavering on his feet.

  “You smell like you’ve been eating ass,” Patrick japed, happy to feel the guilty feeling abate. Alias looked back at him, unamused. “Not a morning person,” Patrick relented. “Whatever. We need to find our face-plats and get back.” They searched through the dim morning light as the morning sunshine started streaming through the curtains, illuminating the drifting dust particles in the air.

  They didn’t have to search long. The lights on both headbands began to blink red and chime persistently on the kitchen table. Eager to avoid the prolonged goodbyes that would come from waking last night’s company, they swiftly shuffled to the kitchen and scooped up their headbands. While Alias smartly turned it off, but Patrick foolishly answered the call, revealing the face of his father’s Chief of Security, Chadwell “Bully” Bladstone. Anticipating what he was in for, Patrick quickly flipped the headband’s audio-phones into his ears to keep the noise of the berating to himself.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Bully chaffed. “Yer really some kind of retard, aren’cha. Do you have any idea how pissed off your father is?”

  “We were just—”

  “Shut the fuck up, Boyo,” Bully growled, red-faced. “I know full well what you two dipshits were doing. Fucking commoners in town? Prob’ly company employees, eh? The whole province is on the edge of a nervous breakdown, and you two run out to get some poon.”

  “How bad?” Alias mouthed to Patrick, raising an eyebrow in commiseration.

  “They flew down this morning from Harrisburg,” Patrick replied, covering the mic. “They’re sending a jump-ship to get us.” The two stood in silence, a dozen worrisome thoughts going unsaid, before Patrick’s stomach tumbled and growled. They made their way down the tenement’s dilapidated stairway and out the front door, his head pounded as the morning sun loosed a bead of sweat on his church. He’d forgotten how much he hated the muggy heat this far south.

  In the back of his mind, Patrick had known that taking Alias out to the Arlington City District was a bad idea. The timing was terrible. New flotillas of migrants from Africa and the Pan-Islamic Caliphate had landed in Newport News, Baltimore, Newark, and Boston. Their coyotes were more canny and heavily armed than usual, breaking through the Commonwealth’s weak coastal guards, skirting the sea-mine barriers, and setting the migrants loose to disperse into the urban shanties. News of dysentery and tuberculosis followed, adding to the ongoing battles with tick-sickness, cholera, and West Nile 247. Despite the government’s efforts to cover-up or downplay the troubles, people were on edge.

  It was time for the Ellies to be more discreet in their custom of using their money and power to bed commoners. Unstated protocols dictated that periods of instability be met with a public image of the Ellies as benevolent rulers. The Baumgartens, de facto rulers of the Mid-Atlantic Province, were to set the example for the Ellies in their sphere of influence.

  Then there were the risks to himself. Any excursion without guards was imprudent. Marauders would consider Patrick a prize for ransom. Urban urchins would kill him for his shoes. Rival Ellie houses with spies in the province would be tempted to take a shot . . . or arrange some unfortunate accident. Then there was the constant fear of rioting in all urban areas. Even the Mid-Atlantic Province, usually among the more stable in the Commonwealth, had the air of a powder keg. And there were the subtler risks of being in public with Alias, what with the increasingly cut-throat feuds boiling among the Big Five churches and smaller religious sects.

  Alias was making fewer trips to the Mid-Atlantic Province since his crash, though, and the stresses of the PetrolChurch were taking a toll. At the same time, Alias was finally loosening up—less suspicious of Patrick and his father and more open to having a good time. Patrick couldn’t be sure if it was the near-death experience, getting more accustomed to a decent lifestyle, or the need for release from a dour, religious life. He didn’t really care; Patrick also needed some levity in his life. So, when he heard that Alias was coming to survey the old courthouse complex in Arlington for the site of a new church, he couldn’t resist making the trip from his family’s Harrisburg estate.

  Bully unexpectedly insisted that Alias activate his face-plat, join the conversation, and get on the ship with Patrick. Alias reluctantly obliged after trying to demure, citing his tardiness for an appointment at the church site.

  “Oh no!” Bully growled. “Yer comin’ with us, Sonny. The Senator wants you to see the conference. Says you need to understand this clusterfuck and think about your place. Fer my part, lookin’ at the state of ya, I just want to see ya suffer.

  “So go splash water on your face, puke up your guts, or whatever you need to do, but you’ll be in the jump-ship in five minutes, or so help me God, I’ll rip your ring-pieces out and strangle you with ‘em. Can’t land where you are, so get to these coordinates, sharpish.”

  Patrick could barely contain his laughter at his friend’s shared misfortune. He activated GEO and led the way through the sleepy streets to the disused Route 50 highway. The roar of engines echoed through the streets as they arrived on the embankment. Alias looked pale and anxious, and Patrick’s churning stomach and clammy palms left him thinking he looked no better.

  “I need to take a shit,” Patrick finally blurted, shattering the tension. Before they could finish their chuckle, they started down the steep hill to the old pavement, where the airship waited, its whirring engines somehow projecting his father’s impatience.

  Patrick expected a lot of heat from his father, as he and Alias made their way to the ship. Oh fuck ’em, he tried to convince himself. One night out won’t be the undoing of anyone.

  They climbed into the raven airship and were aloft in seconds, ranging out ove
r the remnants of Arlington’s ancient skyscrapers along the old highway, which trailed away into the swift and stewing Potomac River. The columns of fallen bridges reached helplessly from the churning, brownish water. The sight always choked him up, and he tried to empty his mind and cocoon himself in the rushing wind and furious noise. He cast a quick look back at Alias, who was consumed by sight of the ruins of Washington, DC.

  “Hard to believe that was once a capital,” Patrick said into the comms mic. “Most people don’t know it was really on its way out before the radiation bombs. Alias said nothing. “The sea had swelled the river, and they’d been fighting for decades to keep it dry, but they were running out of money when the blasts hit. …The explosions only contaminated part of the city, but that’s when they let it go for good. The water took the old metro lines and underground parking garages first. Undermined the foundations, so the buildings started to collapse. Most of it was gone in just a few years.

  “That one was the Lincoln Memorial,” he pointed. “The broken shaft over there one was for President Washington. …And that one out there was the old Capitol building. This one down here was called the Pentagon, headquarters of the military—once the biggest building in the world. Wasn’t part of the old city, but they abandoned it too when they moved the capital.”

  It’s in all the standard history lessons, Patrick remembered. Maybe not. It occurred to him that he had no idea what kind of education Alias had received in the badlands. They got their own ruins out there too, though. Whole cities. Patrick had seen some of them with his own eyes. Kansas City. Dallas. Oklahoma City. But as haunting as all the crumbling cities were, this one always struck Patrick as especially sad. Only Manhattan rivalled it in Patrick’s mind.

  Alias didn’t even look back to acknowledge Patrick’s lesson—completely fixated on the vision—when the airship let out a whine and tilted left to follow the river upstream towards the local base of the provincial militia. Its massive walls looked like a scar on the belly of the earth, and Patrick couldn’t help but wonder what Alias thought of the spectacle of raw power standing over the sprawling shanties.

  Climbing out of the ship, Patrick figured his father might actually say nothing at all when he arrived. They’d had the why-can’t-you-be-more-responsible talk only a week before, so Patrick guessed his poor judgment wouldn’t muster much more than a disappointed sigh today. Plus, Bully had already had another go at Alias and Patrick as soon as they got into the airship. A stream of high-decibel profanity had left its mark on the two hungover partygoers.

  Patrick was grateful that Bully permitted his desperately needed pit-stop to unleash his bowel’s unmitigated rage.

  “See you in an hour!” he joked to Alias, shutting the door of the nearest restroom behind him. He emerged fifteen agonizing minutes later to find the red-faced Bully standing in the hall, arms crossed. Alias emerged from the restroom down the hall, looking peaked.

  “Idiots,” Bully grumbled. “C’mon, let’s go.” He shot a nod at Patrick. “Comb your fucking hair.”

  Bully ushered Patrick and Alias to their chairs, conspicuously taking a seat between them—well within hitting distance. The Goodwells and the Gang of Seven were already in place, and their tardiness didn’t go unnoticed. Patrick’s father shot him a stink-eye, akin to what Alias was getting from his mother on the other end of the conference call.

  Patrick tried to tune into the conversation as best he could. Alias’ father did most of the reporting, based on what was happening at the churches, and Patrick wondered if Alias was catching on that his family was essentially a network of spies for the Ellies. Most of it they already knew. Rioting in Los Angeles and the fires in the Rocky Mountain Territories. Dusters and haboobs sweeping the Desert Plains Territory. Low grade unrest in the MACs, now swelling with migrants and refugees. More interesting were the atmospherics they gleaned from his parishioners’ anecdotes—a truer barometer of the hostile sentiment growing among the masses, or at least the fringe elements.

  That inevitably led to reviews of security, including discussions of hijacked shipments—even the off the books one. Rashid had started using the Gang of Seven as a mechanism to deconflict the Ellie’s contraband activities, though the discussion was visibly maddening to the Goodwells.

  The Big Five churches featured more prominently recently, especially after Alias’ crash, the arrest of several ranking clergy members by the secret police, and the public assassination of one of the PetrolChurch’s Ministers. The Goodwells suffered the Ellies’ black-market discussions in trade for an audience to their steady drumbeat for more security.

  The Gang of Seven accommodated many of the Goodwells’ demands, if only because the PetrolChurch was becoming a special interest item for the Chief Regent. No matter the disputes or rivalries among the Great Families, the Chief Regent would frown upon anything but mutual assistance when things were bad, and the church had proved itself to be a valuable instrument. Violence was down. Absenteeism was down. Protests were down. Pharmas sales were up, as was productivity.

  The meeting passed as they all did. A mind-numbing show of political acrobatics among the Ellies, each carefully avoiding collective action or mutual aid, usually because of what they termed “unfortunate logistical constraints.” Though Patrick found the meetings discouragingly futile, he was so desensitized that he had taken to doodling on his wrist-plat until they were over.

  Only two things made this meeting different and more engaging. The first was his own body in full revolt, threatening to erupt from both ends. The second was Alias’ fascination with the aristocrats’ discussion.

  Then to Patrick’s horror, when the topic switched to famine along the border between the Desert Plains Territory and the Meso-American Republic, Alias stunningly interjected.

  “The church can help with that.” The Gang of Seven went completely silent, but Alias was undeterred. “I could get there by tomorrow, and we could transfer two-thousand kilos to Austin in a couple days,” he pressed.

  “That really won’t be necess—” started Governor Mosino, who remained lukewarm to the PetrolChurch, despite the many benefits it was showing in his domain.

  “It’s really no problem,” Alias interrupted. Patrick’s stomach was now doing summersaults. “The supplies were slated for the outbreak in California-Sur, but that’s mostly under control now, so we can route them south instead. We can get a jump on the new churches there while we’re at it.”

  Patrick cast a wary eye at Bully, who sat stiff as a board, not knowing what to say or do. The pall of silence hung over the conference again. The churches in that region were still only on the drawing board, and for good reason. One group or another was always in open rebellion, and lawlessness made security almost impossible. Minister Goodwell’s face was reserved, but his mother and sister were visibly unhappy with Alias’ proposition.

  Ohhhh shit, Patrick thought to himself.

  “I think it’s a very generous and timely idea, Alias,” Ashley Templeton interjected. “This is exactly the kind of thing the church was set up to do. Do you have the vehicles you need, or would you need our help? We’ll send three thousand kilos of supplies, and I’ll speak with Sherman about doubling your security detail.”

  Patrick despised Templeton’s enthusiasm for the PetrolChurch. It was one thing to go along with the scheme to pacify the Chief Regent and create more interdependency between rival families. But he thought Templeton was shamelessly using the scheme to curry favor with the Chief Regent and the others in the Gang of Seven.

  “We’ll provide air escort for your ship and fund an additional three-thousand kilos of supplies,” Patrick’s father added, though his glare at Alias was unmistakable.

  Wait, what? Patrick stammered in his head. We have to look like we’re participating, and I’m all for security for Alias, but we need the supplies here.

  Mosino looked furious at the idea of more intervention by other families into his sphere, though the absence of security was always an
invitation for unwanted help from the other Ellies.

  “Of course, I’m sure the Federal Treasury will contribute to the costs as well,” Thomas Baumgarten suggested. “Perhaps the Chief Regent would make a contribution as well.”

  “As you know,” Josephina Thomson replied, “the Chief Regent is a supporter of all these efforts. However, the federal coffers are committed to other challenges at the moment.”

  Ali Ibn al-Rashid, the designated peacekeeper of the Gang of Seven, squirmed in his chair.

  Committed to making himself richer, Patrick fumed.

  “I guess we’ll find a way to cover his share—again,” Thomas Baumgarten added flatly. Patrick was surprised at his father’s intrepid questioning of the Chief Regent in front of the others, but he admired it nonetheless.

  “Wonderful,” chimed Rashid, eager to let the matter pass. “I will report to the Chief Regent that the group will work together with the church to deliver relief supplies.”

  Patrick couldn’t help but wonder how the Chief Regent would reply to actual cooperation among the provinces.

  He’ll either love it or feel threatened by it.

  At the end of the meeting, Patrick and Alias filed in behind Thomas Baumgarten and Bully. Patrick’s father slowed enough to let Alias catch up, displacing Patrick to follow behind them with Bully.

  “That was very foolish, Alias,” Patrick’s father sais quietly. “Suggestions like that, in a meeting like that—however well intentioned—will get you in trouble, or worse. I won’t even start, for now, on why you’re scouting a church site in my province without my express consent. It’s not something I’m inclined to tolerate, but outbursts like the one you just had have caused more pressing matters.”

  “Yes Sir,” Alias replied, penitently. “I’m sorry, Sir.”

  Having Alias on the line with the Baumgartens was publicity enough without him volunteering to go straight into Mosino’s sphere. The governor of the Desert Plains would likely see the church aid mission as a bid by the Baumgartens to infiltrate his territory. Thomas Baumgarten despised Mosino, but he worked diligently to keep Mosino neutral in the larger rivalry with the Templetons.