by T. C. Edge
I don't back down. It's an empty threat. "No you won't," I say casually. "You're not going to lay a hand on me."
"What did you say?" he says, eyes bulging.
"I said, no you won't. Do you want me to repeat that again? What is it, three times to get through that thick skull of yours?"
He puffs like a bull and grabs the bars of the cage, pulling on them so hard they even bend a little.
"Nice, keep going," I say. "Just a bit more and I'll be able to slip out."
His expression reddens with a fury that must be such a burden to the man. He stares at me with those too-big eyes of his, glowing a darkened shade of brown, as if begging for me to issue another insult or glib remark. I think better of it this time. He knows, really, that he can't touch me, but at the same time, there's only so far you can push a man before they snap and say 'screw the consequences'.
Eventually, he draws his meaty fingers back off the slightly-bent bars, and takes a short step back. "Not. Another. Sound," he says, speaking with a sort of controlled anger.
I lift my hand into the air.
He takes a breath. "What?" he growls.
"Er...him," I say, nodding to my grandfather. "I was only trying to get your attention, that's all. I'm not trying to make a fuss. He's...not well," I say. "He needs medical attention."
The soldier stares over at Artemis, a heap of unconsciousness in the corner. Something tells me he couldn't care less.
"He's being kept here for a reason, obviously," I say. "I don't think the Overseer, or Herald Kovas, would like it if they found out he'd died on your watch. Wouldn't look good on you, would it?"
His eyes change subtly, realising I may be right. He passes me another fierce glare and then quickly stamps away and back out of the door, shutting me back into the putrid, gloomy cell.
I wait for a while, the minutes adding up to something approaching half an hour, before eventually the door opens again. Once more, the same soldier steps inside, trailed by a bedraggled old man with a once-white coat, now stained and dirtied beyond all previous recognition. He announces himself with a deep, unpleasant cough, the sort that starts from way down in his lungs, spluttering as he shuffles inside. His eyes turn around with a note of aversion as he scans the interior. For a man like this to look upon my new abode like that says a hell of a lot.
"That one," grunts the guard, pointing towards my grandfather's cell.
I watch as the old man - who I assume to be a medic of some kind - drags his old body towards the cell, glancing at me curiously as he goes. The guard opens it up and he steps inside.
"I'll be outside," the large soldier says. "Knock on the door when you're done. And don't speak to that one." His eyes flick to me. I give him a smile in return.
I stay where I am, standing at the bars as I watch the old medic kneel down - which he does with some discomfort of his own - and begins checking my grandfather over. My immediate impression is that he doesn't really know what he's doing. At the least, he seems unsure of how to proceed when the injury or ailment isn't immediately obvious.
He coughs again, quite violently, managing to just about avoid sending the upcoming spray into my grandfather's face. He turns to the side and holds up his hand, all but emptying the inner lining of his throat up into it. It's quite disturbingly unpleasant.
"Nasty cough you've got there," I say to him, refusing to stay silent. "You...all right?"
He glances back towards me from the shadows. His eyes then flick towards the door.
"Ah, don't worry about that bonehead," I say. "He can't hear a thing. Trust me, I know."
The old man wipes some remaining spit from his chin. I'm sure I can see some blood mingled in there with it. Then he lifts a smile. "I wouldn't care so much if he could," he says, his throat sounding hoarse and painful. He coughs again, finishing the job, and then stands weakly to his feet. "You can probably tell I ain't long for this world. That lot don't scare me."
"What's wrong with you?" I ask.
"Ah, this and that," he says. "Enough to kill me, that's for sure. Be dead in a month or two I reckon. Can't intimidate a dead man now can you."
"Are you sure about that?" I question. "I've seen what these people do. Two months is plenty of time to suffer."
"I've suffered enough," he says, the content of his words quite dark, yet his tone rather light. He has a disposition that reminds me of old Merk the sailor, actually, and something of a crooked smile to match. "And they don't care about me. Why waste time on a dead man walking."
I smile at him, as he draws out a handkerchief - or rag would probably be more appropriate - and sets about wiping his hand and mouth. He moves out of the gloomy cell and into the faint light, revealing his aged figure in all it's feeble glory.
"So, what's the verdict?" I ask, my voice concerned. "Is he all right?"
"Far as I can tell," the old man says, nodding. "He's suffered a bit of a bang on the head, got a nasty bump and a bit of a cut. I suppose it knocked him out. He'll wake up soon enough, I'm sure."
"That's it?" I ask. "Just a bump on the head?"
He shrugs, confirming my suspicion that he's not exactly well trained. "That's my diagnosis, girlie," he says. "Take from it what you will. I ain't really much of a doctor, to be honest."
"Really?" I say. "You do surprise me."
"Ah," he says, "I see. A nice bit of lip on you. That's good. Good to stay upbeat even in the worst of circumstances."
"This isn't my first rodeo," I say. "Second time under lock and key with the likes of this lot."
"Oh?"
"Long story," I say. "I'm guessing you're not one of them, by the way you speak. You're from the Fringe, aren't you?"
"Indeed I am, missy, and proud of it. Name's Ralph, sort-of medic to the workers 'er. No formal training, mind. Just plenty of experience."
He reaches through the bars and offers his hand. I look at it, wondering if it's the one that he just coughed all over.
"Oh, right, sorry," he says, withdrawing it, and proffering the other.
I take it happily and shake. "Nice to meet you, Ralph," I say. "I'm Brie. Proud Havenite and, currently, de-powered hybrid."
He purses his lips. "Oh? Do tell? I mean, it's obvious enough you got some power to you. Why else would you be here otherwise? No, wait," he says, as I'm about to answer. "Let me guess. You're a...a...a Phaser. Phaser and something different. Like mental, you know. Telekinesis?"
"Close-ish," I say, smiling. "Phaser, yep. Though, we call them Dashers here. I'm also a Hawk, or what you'd call a Farsight. And a Mind-Manipulator. Or telepath."
"Ooooh," he says, nodding his admiration. "Quite a nice little concoction you got there." Then he frowns, coming to some realisation. "Ah, so you're..."
I nod. "I'm a prize, apparently," I say. "This Prime of yours very much wants to meet me, or so I hear."
"He ain't my Prime," Ralph grumbles. "Done nothin' for me in my sixty odd years. I swear no allegiance to him."
"Them," I say, knowing the Prime isn't one, but two people, a man and a woman. And, at the same time, wondering just how the old man before me is only sixty years old...
"Right, them," Ralph says, correcting himself. "I used to buy into that nonsense, but I'm too long in the tooth for all that now. Just wish more of my countrymen were the same."
"And they're not?" I ask. "Not many across the Fringe think as you do?"
"Hard to know, really," he says. "Depends where you're talking. Where I'm from, plenty think like me. Elsewhere, it varies. But I'll tell you this, there are more people than Olympus realises who don't believe in all their lies. They're just good at pretending is all. All it'll take is some catalyst to spark them off. I've been sayin' it for years. The Fringe will rebel one day soon. I can feel it in my bones." His eyes drop as he lets out a sigh. "Just a shame I won't be around to see it."
"You never know, Ralph," I say. "Stranger things have happened. I'll bet you've been saying you've got a couple of months to live for a while."
I scan his increasingly cheeky expression. "I'm right, aren't I?"
"There's...some truth to that," he admits. "I just feel like the end is creeping up on me all the time. Maybe death's just slower than I thought. Ain't no Phaser, that's for sure."
I laugh at that, and he does the same. Though, quite appropriately, his laugh evolves quickly into another short bout of coughing.
When done, he looks up at me.
"You know, you remind me of one of our lot here," he says. "You're about the same age. Got that same kind way about you."
"Amber?" I ask, poking into the dark, though with some certainty of who he's talking about. "The Fire-Blood."
"You know her?" he asks, sounding surprised.
"I've met her a couple of times, you'd be surprised to know. Saw her just this morning in camp, actually. She doesn't seem like she fits in."
"No, not really. She fights for us, she does. Us lot from the Fringe. She'll do great things if she puts her mind to it. Though, not sure if she's still about. Last I saw, she was heading off with her friend Jude and a bunch of other slaves."
"That's why she was here," I say, half to myself, nodding along. "To get her friend out."
"Ah, so you know."
"Bits and pieces," I say. "You're saying she escaped with him?"
"Last I saw of her, yeah. She might have headed back into the battle, I don't know. I...hope she's all right. Her and the boy. Sweet couple, they are. Hope they're happy, whatever happens."
A creak on the door draws our attention. I hear muted footsteps, muffled voices. Ralph quickly steps away from me and back towards my grandfather, dropping as quickly as he can to his knees. He does so just in time as the door swings open.
And, through the doorway, a new figure steps.
My lips coil at the sight of him. Squat, thickly built, bald head and grimly unattractive. There's an unevenness to his facial features that tells of many fights over the years, his nose slightly out of place, several teeth missing, his eyes a little lopsided, one a centimetre or so above the other. Being ugly, however, is one thing. That's not something he can change. It's the expression he holds on that unpleasant visage that most grates on me. A sneer that seems unwilling to climb from his face.
One I'd dearly like to wipe off it.
Herald Kovas steps into the prison, the bright sunlight outside slightly doused now by a covering of cloud. He regards me with that sneer, and then turns his eyes on Ralph, kneeling beside my grandfather and pretending to make himself useful.
"You," Kovas grumbles. "Get out. Now."
Ralph, though defiant in his own way, turns as meek as a mouse as he nods, stands, and keeping his head low, shuffles past Kovas and towards the door.
He's stopped by the Herald's hand, falling down on his old shoulder as be passes by. He turns to Kovas with a timid expression. Kovas's is quite the opposite.
"You treated that slave-boy, Jude, did you not?" he growls.
Ralph dips his head, nodding. "Yes, Master Herald," he croaks.
His chest lurches, suggesting another coughing fit it on its way. He manages to hold it down through sheer will and necessity.
"And so you're aware that he escaped?" Kovas goes on, looking down at the old medic. "Him and a host of other slaves?"
"I...I heard something about that," croaks Ralph.
"I'm sure you did," Kovas hums, his face forging into an ugly grin. He stares at him for a while. An uncomfortable quiet descends on the room. "He...won't get far," he continues after a while, his voice brightening as his eyes turn to me. "No one is permitted to leave this camp without approval. And anyone caught with prior knowledge of that fact..." He lets the threat hang in the air for a while. "Well, I'm sure you can guess."
He lets go of Ralph's shoulder, the old man all but stumbling to the floor. He stands there, instead, fixed to the spot, his back slightly bent in submission as he cowers in the Herald's shadow.
"Do you enjoying torturing sick old men, Herald Kovas?" I say, feeling no compulsion to wilt as Ralph is. "Make you feel better after being beaten on the battlefield?"
He bristles at my words but doesn't react. His eyes turn towards Artemis, his body now more comfortably laid out in his cell, kindly repositioned by Ralph.
"What's the verdict with him?" he grunts, drawing Ralph's eyes back up.
"Er...just a bump on the head, sir," Ralph says. "I...think."
"You think," laughs Kovas. "Of course. Not the smartest people you Fringers."
"Well then why the hell was he sent in here to perform the check?" I growl. "Don't you have fully trained medics here?"
"They are tending to others right now, child," grunts Kovas, turning back towards me. "Your grandfather isn't of the highest priority to us." He smiles. "Yes, we're fully aware of your link to this man," he continues. "I suppose the Overseer used him as a partial lure, bait for you to bite. His plan worked well, I'll give him that."
He draws the sort of breath of a man who's enjoying himself, and turns back to Ralph. "You can go," he orders. "But, not too far now."
I see Ralph glance back nervously at the words, before shuffling off through the exit.
Kovas watches with an evil sneer before turning to face me again. He regards me for a long moment, his expression contorting gradually into one of distaste. His head begins to shake.
"Tell me, Brie," he says. "How exactly did you know of our strategy?"
I combat his expression with a counter of my own, raising a smile as I look at him. "I saw it," I say. "I read it like a book."
He glares right at me. "You read it," he growls. "And in whose mind did you excavate this information?"
The great figure of Herald Perses lifts before my eyes, lying on the gurney down in the City Guard infirmary. As far as I know, they still think their former leader is dead. As far as I know, my grandmother is still intending on using that advantage somehow.
Best if I don't reveal it.
"Yours," I say, thinking quickly. I deliver the word with a smile, knowing it'll be the most biting revelation of all. "I saw it in your head, Herald Kovas, when we met upon the plains. That was our plan all along. And it worked like a charm."
He takes a fierce step forward, banging his forearm against the bars. They clang and rattle, a shrill sound in that cell. "You lie!" he says. "I'd have known if you were rooting around in there."
"Then you really don't know me at all, do you," I say. "There's a reason the Overseer is so eager to bring me to your Prime. It didn't take much, really, Herald Kovas. You were distracted enough by my grandmother's goads that I could slip in and out unnoticed." I lean forward condescendingly. "You really should learn to stay more calm. It's hardly befitting of a leader to act like a petulant brat, is it?"
"And you'd know, would you?” he growls. "You'd know what it is to lead?"
"Doesn't take an expert to see how not to lead," I retort. "Your army is weak, and that comes from the top down. And soon enough, the Neoroman juggernaut will come sailing here to crush you. Oh, they're coming," I say, enjoying making him squirm. "The reinforcements that arrived this morning were only the tip of the iceberg. Soon enough, you'll be swamped."
He begins to slowly draw a smile at that, a confusing reaction to me. Whether he can see through my lies or not, I can't exactly tell anymore.
"You know, I'm not entirely sure I believe you, girl," he says, taking a step back. "But, either way, it matters not."
He begins moving back towards the door, hanging just ajar and letting the sunlight spill in. He stops before leaving and turns back to me.
"We won't be here much longer," he says, preparing to slip through the door. "If your Neoroman allies come, they will land to find us gone."
8
Kira
"Darling, are you sure that's sensible?"
The question comes from my husband-to-be. It's an understandable one, given my state of weariness, and the amount I've already been put through today. In truth, though, I still feel fresh. If this yo
ung slave-boy Jude only left the Olympian camp this morning, he can't have gone far, especially laden down with a troop of two or more dozen as he is. They will run fast, and hard, and try their best to disappear, but without any enhanced abilities to speak of, they will not be able to outrun me.
"I'll be back before you know it," I say to him. "You'll hardly know I'm gone with the negotiations ongoing with Neorome. One night, tops, I promise. I'll be back by tomorrow morning at the latest."
"Don't make promises you can't keep, Kira," Dom says. "You can't know for sure how far these slaves have gone. Or how long it will take to bring them back."
"Yeah. Them," I say, muttering the word. I had counted on only having to fetch Jude. Collecting up an entire band of foreign slaves isn't going to be so easy.
Dom takes a breath, turning his eyes across the control centre within the City Guard HQ. He's been given a private office from which to work, Merk ably assisting him and making himself useful. Or a nuisance, depending on how you look at it. The old man stands outside now, giving us some privacy. He stares out across the bustling floor, seeming to enjoy every facet of life here, ever curious to see and learn more.
Today, I know, it is the presence of Rhoth and a few of his Fangs that has particularly caught his attention. They were captured by the Olympians a week or so ago, and subsequently broken out by Brie and Captain Marcus, all on their own. Oddly, her breakout of the Fangs has made the prospect of her own deliverance much more difficult. The enemy will be more wary of such a thing now.
There is some morbid irony in all that.
"And I suppose you have to leave right now?" Dom asks, still looking out..
I nod. "Best get it done. The sooner I leave, the easier it'll be to track them."
"Then I want you taking a protective cohort with you," Dom says, looking at some of the Imperial Guards outside, stationed around the command centre.
"They'd only be a hindrance," I say. "I need to be as quick and quiet as possible, Dom. I work better tracking when I have no distractions, you know that."