Fire, Ruin, and Fury (Embers Saga)

by Matthew Taylor

  He could leave the ministry. He’s not even holy. I mean, he just fucked a man, and he wants to keep it secret. How righteous can he be?

  Ben felt a tinge of resentment toward Alias, but he barely recognized it in the spin of conflicting emotions that was already wearing him out.

  There’s no future in this. The sooner you get away from him, the better off you’ll be. After this trip, I’ll avoid any assignments that’ll lead back to him.

  Ben knew he was lying to himself. He would pine for more chances to be with Alias, and he would leap at any opportunity.

  Tired of himself, and even tired of Alias, Ben climbed out of bed, pulled on his coveralls, and followed Felipe out of the room to help finish preparing for their trip. Felipe offered him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

  Alias came out to the waiting trucks some time later. Ben decided that Alias was already savvy to the perils ahead of them, so he spared Alias the story of his most recent trip through the badlands. He gestured for Alias to climb into the cab of his truck, so at least he could look out for him and, assuming they would be on speaking terms again soon, possibly repair some of the damage.

  Chapter 30: Broken Hearted

  (Emily Goldbloom)

  Emily Goldbloom stormed out of the Silver King Cathedral, headquarters of the PetrolChurch, Alias Goodwell in hot pursuit. Her lungs ached from quick-stepping through the heavy air, the teary breakdown welling in her chest, and her growing panic at the thought of Alias seeing her distress. She felt herself losing her composure as he called out behind her, pleading with her to stop, but she was determined to get away. She soon heard him sigh her name one last time—resigned and at a greater distance—and she knew he had given up.

  She turned a corner, and then another, just to be sure she was alone. She ducked into a narrow alleyway between two dilapidated buildings—a place she would never normally enter for fear of the methylhol addicts who hid in such spots. She had gone as far as her burning lungs would tolerate, so she found a small pile of concrete debris, sat down, and let loose a torrent of tears.

  She sobbed uncontrollably until her eyes burned and her body convulsed with painful hiccups. She drew a deep breath, trying to settle her heaving chest, and questioned the outpouring of emotion.

  Stupid girl, she admonished herself. You weren’t even with him. And you knew—Jasmine told you so.

  With that thought, the shock and pain of betrayal had formed a pit in her stomach, she realized her crying jag had deeper roots. She was tired. Tired of traveling. Tired of working all day, every day. Of a lifetime anxiously waiting for her mother’s next mood swing. Of always being the responsible, dependable daughter. Of being the minder of a drug-addict mentor. Of wishing and hoping that true love would one day find her. And tired of the gnawing certainty that this was her life, and it would be this way until the day she died.

  She tried to force thoughts of gratitude into her head, as she always did on the rare occasions her emotions overcame her.

  We always have enough to eat. That alone, she knew, was more than most. We have steady work, and enough money for the things we need. The comforting image of her father’s adoring smile prompted her to wipe the dampness from her cheeks. You still have Grimm, I guess.

  Grimm Lockheart, whose family also worked for Shay’s burgeoning business, was infatuated with Emily, and while she regretted that she couldn’t reciprocate, she appreciated that someone found her so appealing—even if it wasn’t Alias or Carson Schmidt. She had her cousins—a blessing she hadn’t even known she needed until they joined the family.

  You’re relatively safe. Again, she knew that was more than most.

  Her heart still ached, but her hiccups were finally subsiding when she realized that she lacked the satisfaction that comes from true confidence. The kind of confidence she saw in her father and Shay. In Jasmine, despite her fears. Even in Victoria, as confused as her cousin often seemed. It was the confidence that comes from standing up for yourself. She had never insisted on even a small break from her responsibilities, and while she loved her father—and winced at the thought of disappointing him—she knew she had to stand up to him. She had to demand a little time free from toil. Free from dirt and grime. Free from her mother and Dorian Lee. She had to assert herself for time to explore relationships, instead of hoping someone would stumble upon her and sweep her away. She needed to be brave.

  It starts today, she resolved. She would relinquish her childish fantasy about Carson. She would overcome her disappointment at finding Alias in bed with someone else, and she would resist the temptation to forgive him.

  Emboldened, Emily activated her wrist-plat, though she paused in remembering it was for work and emergencies only. But she wouldn’t be deterred, and she took another deep breath to steel her nerves. Again aware of her perilous surroundings, she lowered her voice and lowered the volume on her wrist-plat.

  “Operetta, new message.”

  “Greetings, Emily Goldbloom,” the OmniComms avatar replied. “Can I interest you in a special offer on—”

  “Message to Alias Goodwell Junior,” Emily insisted, her annoyance with the incessant commercials eclipsing the remnants of her sadness. “Encrypt and code ‘personal’. Flag as urgent.”

  “Message to Alias Goodwell Junior,” Operetta answered. “Encrypted, personal, urgent. Please begin when ready.”

  “Alias,” Emily began. “Operetta, correction: “Dear Alias.”

  Best to be civil, she thought, considering the possible blow-back from Jasmine and the dreadful realization that she would almost certainly cross paths with Alias in the future.

  “I’m not sure where to start, so forgive me if this is rambling, but I feel I have to address what happened today.” Emily felt the anger of betrayal tugging on a sense of fairness. “Whatever was between us—and I’m not even sure what that was—it can’t continue after this. You’re free to make whatever decisions you think are best for you. But I have to do the same, and it’s clear I have to find my happiness elsewhere. I wish you the best.”

  “. . . And the best for your family too. We’ll see each other again, I’m sure. For my part, it’ll be amicable. But anything beyond a civil acquaintance will never be possible. I hope you understand that, and you will respect this as my decision.

  “Operetta, end message and send.”

  “Message sent,” Operetta answered sweetly. “I regret your disappointment, Ms. Goldbloom. Perhaps you would find comfort in a new—”

  “Operetta, Close,” Emily grunted. Her wrist-plat went dark, and Emily felt a surge of power and energy surge through her entire body.

  Things’re gonna be different, she said to herself. While she wasn’t one-hundred percent certain of that, it was enough to get her off the heap of rubble and walking briskly back the autocar still waiting for her back at the Silver King Cathedral.

  Chapter 31: Wooden Finger I

  (Paul Lancaster)

  Paul Lancaster sat down with a wince and keyed his passcode into the V-plat to make his first call home in weeks. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, temples, and neck with the damp cloth he’d been given by a man he had only ever known as Brick, the lead medic in the Coit’s M.A.S.H. Paul hadn’t been able to get word to his family since shortly after he was arrested and thrown into the stockade. He was certain they were already sick with worry, and now they’d take one look at him—a banged-up mess—and things would be worse.

  And to think, just two days ago I’d’ve had almost nothing but sunshine and roses to report. Released from the stockade . . . Charges dropped . . . Reassured of their residency rights. Healthy, if not happy.

  Paul’s release from the camp’s stockade had been wholly unexpected, especially with the unceremonious way he’d been detained—along with Charlie Turner, Gajah Mada, and half a dozen others. All the computer records exonerating them had mysteriously disappeared, no one had been able to explain in any detail why they were being accused, and of course, there were no lawy
ers anywhere near the Coit.

  It was a set-up, he fumed every minute behind bars, though he couldn’t fathom who would do such a thing, or why.

  Less than a week later, though, all the detainees had been unceremoniously released. They (though he still wasn’t sure who “they” were) revoked his flight duties, but he found himself right back to work—mostly digging—with the black ants as if nothing had happened. Paul had insisted that his company commander offer an explanation upon their release.

  “Your case is pending further review, I’d keep my pie hole shut,” came the reply from Sargent George Fernandez.

  At least I don’t have to fly, he consoled himself, and he was overjoyed to be back in the company of his comrades. Phil Kim and Mauricio Gonzales greeted him and Chris Parmooch cautiously when they arrived back at their tent camp—at least until they went inside, where Phil and Mauricio embraced them like brothers.

  The next day’s trudge up the hill to the Head for breakfast was almost energizing. At each juncture, Paul welcomed his comrades, especially Gajah, who had proved to be excellent company during their incarceration. Gajah was unflappable through it all, and he was a font of interesting stories about the High Times, and the history before that. Much of it centered around India, about which Paul knew nearly nothing. The stories, along with Gajah’s universal humanism, kept Paul’s anger somewhat in check.

  Reaching the top of the Head and making ready for his first breakfast in their posse’s circle with his friends since his arrest, he noticed Michael Newstock—McNutsack—already working tirelessly, tapping away on his computer tablet and barking orders to the cargo lorries. The trucks rumbled up the shaft, shaking the earth and kicking up plumes of pinkish dust into the morning air. For the first time, Paul watched the trucks coming in the same way he figured McNutsack did: a well-oiled machine. A lifeline of everything they needed, including the occasional comfort items. Paul broke off from his group and ambled over to McNutsack to take in the sight of the trucks coming in.

  He thought it might spark a new bond with the outfit’s slave driver, but he was mistaken.

  “What the fuck do you need, Lanc-o-shyster? One-way trip back to the clink? Can’t you see I’m busy here? Get’cher grub and get to work.”

  Paul turned to depart with his tail between his legs, when McNutsack shouted out, “What the fuck—Get these fucking trucks fucking moving!”

  With a start, Paul watched him stomp off across the Head in a huff, unleashing a stream of profanity at the trucks, now backed up on the single road to the drop-off area. Paul shielded his eyes from the morning sun to see the commotion aggregating at a truck that had stopped, backing-up all the vehicles behind it.

  McNutsack, well past enraged at the ongoing disruption to his operation, spun around and signaled to Paul to fetch a nearby billy-goat ATV and come take him the rest of the way to the traffic jam.

  With his new-found enthusiasm to help, Paul jogged over to the nearest vehicle, hopped on, and started out over the expanse of the Head toward McNutsack, who was still shouting obscenities and furiously waving his hands to get things unclustered.

  Paul decelerated, however, and became increasingly tense at the intensifying honking and shouting near the truck and the convergence of MPs—lights flashing—on their own billy-goats. McNutsack stopped dead and turned around to signal again for Paul to come get him. Paul responded by hitting the accelerator, watching intently as the stopped truck’s door flew open, and a young woman emerged from the cabin.

  “Allahu Akbar!” she exclaimed. “Death to the infidels!" The nearest guard, visibly panicked, aimed his rifle, and shot her in the shoulder. The young woman nearly flew back into the cabin, but she clung to the truck’s open door and regained her balance. She stood up straight and defiant, a satisfied smile on her face. She then reached into the sky, revealing a remote in her outstretched hand, and the truck went up in a balloon of fire.

  The blast heaved her rig twenty feet into the air, incinerated the nearby guards, and sprayed flaming metal all over the Head. Paul was knocked off his vehicle, but not before seeing flying debris cut McNutsack to pieces. Hitting the ground, a pain of a hundred burning daggers stabbed into Paul’s body, and he gasped for breath.

  He perceived only phantoms of the events that followed. Sirens. Airships landing and taking off, buffeting his sprawled-out body with furious noise and wind. Sparks drifting and embers tumbling through charcoal smoke. Shadows running, shouting, screaming. Then darkness.

  Paul woke up before dawn, disoriented and confused. He pulled himself up to sitting on the bed, fighting past his pulsing headache and the stabbing sensations radiating from beneath the gauze bandages taped to his body.

  I need to call mom and Vic. …What time is it? …Where’s Charlie? …Where’s Gajah?

  He forced himself to his feet and staggered into the aisle in search of . . . anyone. Trying be quiet, he called out in a loud whisper, but he got no response. He turned around looking for an exit, when a medic intercepted him and took him by the arm. The man routed Paul gently—but uncompromisingly—back toward his cot.

  “You pulled out half my stitches, you stupid fuck,” Brick rasped in a whisper. “Very nice. Maybe I'll hold back on the pain killers while I stitch you up again, so you remember when I tell you to stay in bed.”

  “Thanks . . . Th-thanks, Brick. …Wah-wait. Where’s Chris? Charlie? Gajah. …Where’s Gajah?”

  “They’re all OK. Better’n you, in fact.”

  “How's McNut—Captain Newstock?” Paul asked, correcting himself.

  Brick shook his head and put a consoling had on Paul’s shoulder. “I heard you were right there.”

  Paul pushed the image of McNutsack disintegrating from his mind, and feeling his wits returning, launched a battery of questions.

  “How long have I been out? We’re still in the Coit? Why are we still here? Are they gonna pull us out? When can I see Charlie? Where’s Gajah?”

  Without a word, Brick took out a syringe and plunged it into Paul’s arm. A warm rush of oblivion flowed through his body. Brick blurred in his vision, and Paul submerged into a peaceful, gooey dream.

  Paul woke up again a few hours later to find Brick still doing his rounds for the wounded patients on the cots lining the hallway.

  “There’s my man,” Brick said cheerfully at seeing Paul awake again. We need to heal you up quick, Lanc-o-shyster,” he continued. “Don’t matter what they think you might’ve done before. They’re gonna be desperate for flyers now.”

  Paul laid his head back down on his pillow. What a shit-show, he despaired.

  “I need to call my family. Let ‘em know I’m OK before they see the news and think I went straight from the stockade to the morgue.”

  Brick nodded and shined a light in Pauls’ eyes to suss out his condition. “We’ll get you a comms link as soon as we can.” He lowered his voice. “The Coit ain’t done fucking us yet,” he said. “Three relief teams got hit at the same time as you—one at the kids’ hospital in the village. Now every aid mission’s gonna require a goddamned armada.”

  Paul felt jab of angst at the mental image of the children, many of whom he had personally helped feed and clothe. His mind jumped to the sight of the villagers, who would soon be sick and emaciated without aid. Then to the hazy vision of his comrades being attacked again and again as they tried to do their jobs. He winced again to repress the image of McNutsack being blown up in front of him.

  “But nevermind that now,” Brick added, seeing the consternation on Paul’s face. “Nothin’ you can do but relax and heal up. We’ll get you back out there in a week or so.”

  “Well, that’s something to look forward to,” Paul groaned. “Beats jail, I s’pose,” he quipped.

  “Let’s not get carried away,” Brick acknowledged with a macabre half-grin.

  It was two more days, though, before Brick delivered on his promise. “Kohler!” he called to a nearby nurse after inspecting Paul’s wounds. “Take Lan
caster here up to the comms center—gently.”

  “Shut the fuck up!” shouted a voice from a cot down the hallway. “I’m trying to sleep here, Brick, you retard!”

  “You shut up, Kalanski,” Brick barked, “or I’ll rip your sutures out and choke you with ‘em.” Brick turned back to Paul with a satisfied smile.

  “Go call your family, but I want you back here stat. An’ don’t fuck up my stitches.”

  “Shut - The - Fuck - Up!” Kalanski shouted again.

  Brick rolled his eyes. With Paul on his feet, getting an assist from Kohler, Brick patted him on the shoulder and shuffled down the hall to deal with his more irritable patient. Kohler helped Paul into the side car of a billy-goat just outside the M.A.S.H. and started up the painfully bumpy trail from the hospital to the comms center, every divot and pot hole sending a shock of pain through Paul’s body.

  Paul was sweaty and a little woozy by the time they arrived. He looked like death warmed over, and he could sense it. Inside, the air was close and hot, and he felt an unusual dread as he waited for the call to connect.

  He considered disconnecting the call and going back to the hospital, but he recalled Shay telling him to call often—especially when he didn’t feel like it.

  “There’s no such thing as too much face-time with your family,” Shay had insisted, “when you’re in the shit. Butchya don’ always see it that way when your there. That’s when the darkness gets its claws in ya. An’ it don’t let go for years. Fer some folk, never.”

  To Paul’s surprise, his dread evaporated almost instantly when he saw the keen smiles of his mother and sister.

  “Hey there, par’ner!” Victoria beamed, clearly determined to be positive. As his image became clearer, their expressions became more grave, and Paul was just as shocked to see their faces, gaunt and tired.

  “Paul, what happened? You look horrible—”

  “Yeah. Thanks, Vic,” he retorted. “You two look great, though,” he joked. They were unamused, and his mother’s glare told him to explain his state without any more delay. He paused, unsure how to explain it in the least alarming way. “There was an incident—but don’t worry,” he added urgently. “It looks worse than it is. Really.”