The Lavender Menace

by Tom Cardamone

  His grin fell away. “That was civil disobedience.”

  She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll have to send someone else.”

  “Have you got another Hillman prize winner here, Louise? Because if you do I can’t see them.”

  Again, her eyebrows raised; she said nothing. With a heel-clicking turn, she looked at Edward.

  “Stone.”

  He blinked at her. “Yes? Sorry?”

  “You’ve got good experience with metahumans. And you’ve got a valid passport.”

  Edward’s mouth opened, but before he spoke there was a humourless laugh from Gerry.

  “Eddie Stone? Eddie Stone? From the hero gossip column?”

  Louise closed her eyes a moment and pressed a fingertip to her forehead. “Gerald, can I see you in my office, please?”

  The door slammed behind them. With slow steps Edward made his way to his desk and sat down. There was a soft tinkle of voices around him. He turned on his computer, typed in General Snow, Prometheus Isle.

  Louise’s office door showed two silhouettes through watery glass, like puppets in a shadow play. He glanced back to his screen. Gerry’s voice cut through the door.

  “—my career is fine, Lu. I’m thinking about us, about the Herald.”

  He focused on the screen. There was a propaganda picture of Prometheus Isle, all greenery and carefully restored buildings—there, crowded up against it, a blurry cell phone snapshot of a headless corpse. He read:

  Since General Alberic Snow seized power two years ago, all Promethean media has been under tight state control—

  “Because this isn’t a goddamn puff piece!”

  Too loud. Gerry always spoke too loud.

  “No, no, that’s not what I meant! I’m just saying–”

  Edward kept himself still, concentrating on the soft click of his finger against the mouse, on the words scrolling by on the screen. He felt the weight of eyes on him.

  —metahuman Elisa Reid (also known as ‘Paragon’) speaking for the League of Metahuman Peace Officers, says the League will abide by UN directives regarding Prometheus Isle, but warned of the risk from unaligned, or ‘vigilante’, metahumans—

  “Come on, Lu, be serious. Think of his safety. He’ll be lucky not to be shot on sight.”

  Her reply was measured, muffled—there was a burst of laughter from Gerry.

  “Just as long as he knows he won’t get airlifted out if he breaks a nail.”

  —the extent of General Snow’s powers are unknown, but they are known to include near-invulnerability, enhanced reflexes, and telepathy, perhaps with minor ‘mind control’ elements. In addition, his scientific acumen has allowed him to—

  The door to Louise’s office slammed open. Edward forced himself not to look up. He heard Gerry breathe out sharply, heard the sizzle of a match as he lit a cigarette. He ambled over to Edward’s desk.

  “Look,” he said, and took a drag. “Look. You’re a little out of your depth here, but Lu tells me we’ve got no one else that fits the bill. So I’ll brief you. Even prepare a list of questions. We can share the byline.”

  Edward breathed out slowly. “Awful generous of you, Gerry.”

  “Come on, Ed.” His smile was distant. “You do all right on the freak beat, but this isn’t Captain Rainbow or Rat-Girl talking about how their grannies inspired them and where they get their tights, or whatever. Let me help you.”

  Edward stood up, and smiled. Gerry leaned backward, just a little, lips twisted, as if he tasted something spoiled.

  “Thanks very much, Gerry,” Edward said, keeping up his well-crafted smile. “But I think I’ll be all right.”

  The presidential palace was a great, squat folly, a remnant of the old regime. The old monarchic crowns and devices had been buffed from its façade, but the rest of it was untouched—a museum piece, draped in the severe white banners of the militants. They were gathered at a dining table that could have seated a hundred; a handful of journalists, and a few Promethean nobles turned hardline loyalists—allowed to keep a measure of their former power.

  The General, of course, sat at its head. Watching.

  The mood was sober. Normally, any four of the guests together—at least the journalists—would have been drinking and arguing in an eyeblink, but here, each sommelier and butler carried a sidearm. They looked down at their empty plates, trying not to notice all the gleaming guns.

  There was a sound; half the table jumped. It was Tim Carvell, clearing his throat. “Well,” he said, “I guess no one tries to rob the wine cellars.”

  A nervous thrill of laughter passed around the table. Edward tried to catch Carvell’s eye; the writer wore a frantic kind of grin.

  Snow cocked his head. He’d not joined with the laughter, but his pale eyes seemed amused. An armed society is a polite society, I find. But… ah. Here comes the first course.

  He tracked the progress of his staff over folded hands. They slid silent and efficient, every button of their uniforms gleaming. Snow waited until every plate was heaped and every wineglass full. Then he took off his half-mask.

  Below the patrician arch of his nose he was skinless: it was as if the meat of his jaw has been stripped away, leaving only bone and teeth. He was half a skull.

  One man—Edward thought it might have been Cal Ingram—made a soft, retching noise in the back of his throat, quickly stifled.

  Bon appétit said Snow, and his lipless mouth grinned—but then, it grinned constantly.

  After dinner, Edward tried to catch Carvell, to talk to him—but they were separated by uniformed attendants at their sides.

  “Sir?” His escort was a young woman, with a port-wine birthmark on her cheek. She touched him lightly, at the bend of his elbow. “Come with me, please.”

  He glanced down at her gun, gleaming in its holster. “Do I have a choice?”

  Her lips showed the ghost of a smile. “Always, sir.”

  His room was no worse, and no better, than any midrange hotel. It was cream-coloured and generic; there was even a small picture over the double bed, a workmanlike charcoal showing Mount Prometheus, the volcano at the center of the island, coiling smoke into the sunset.

  He sat down on the edge of the bed. The mattress was ergofoam: one of Snow’s inventions. It gave gently under his weight, then recoiled to prop him up. Back home, ergofoam was banned—officially—but no few managed to get their hands on a pillow or mattress here and there. Gerry Gates had boasted more than once about his own ergofoam chair.

  He laid down for a moment, cradled by the mattress, and half-closed his eyes. An image flashed behind them: General Snow’s skull-grin.

  An hour or so later, he woke to a soft knock on the door. Sleep had snuck up on him, stuttery and dreamless. He dragged himself upright.

  “Who is it?”

  The door opened a crack; there was no lock. Carvell’s face appeared there, grinning, a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

  “Can I come in? I don’t have much time.”

  Edward rubbed the sleep away from his eyes. “Time…?”

  Carvell came in and leaned against the door. An unlit cigarette hung between his fingers. “Well, I had my ‘interview’. Two questions I managed, before I got the boot.” He brought the cigarette to his lips, and laughed. “Trying to quit.”

  “So, what do you mean, you ‘don’t have much time’?”

  “They’re hustling us back to the plane, one by one, when he’s done with us. No more presidential hospitality, I’m afraid. I told my minder I had to take a leak. Took seven doors before I found you.”

  “What–”

  “Look.” He talked around the unlit cigarette. “They scan you for recording equipment. But I slipped this through. A meta friend of mine made it. It records his telepathic voice.”<
br />
  He reached in his coat—took out something small and sleek and white, like a tiny egg. Two steps, and he was sitting beside Edward; his hand slid into Edward’s coat, and dropped the egg into his pocket. The touch was warm and startling and too quick; Carvell had an illusionist’s hands.

  Edward sucked in a breath. “Why me?”

  “I like you.” Carvell’s smile was quick as his hands. “I like your work. You did good stuff, before you joined Louise Moorcock’s rag.” He paused. “And still… you never mock. You never go cheap.”

  A sour indignation rose up for a moment—did he know how he had to fight for every column inch, did he know how many times he’d heard can you just freak it up a little, or remember, people like to laugh at these guys—. The little white egg felt like a stone in his pocket.

  Carvell straightened up. “Ask the bastard about the daily executions,” he said. “Ask him–”

  He cocked his head. There were footsteps coming closer, and someone calling out his name.

  “See you on the plane, Stone,” he said, grinning, and slipped out just as quick as he’d arrived.

  He heard the march of footsteps back and forth—once, he thought he heard Patricia Lean’s voice, rising in one of her shrill execrations. Then it was quiet, until they came for him.

  He passed through a line of scanners, and a tall man swept every curve and plane of him with a black, pulsing wand. His eyes watched the on-and-off blink of its single green light. Carvell’s gift remained snug in his pocket, unfound.

  Before they let him into the old throne room—of course, Snow was quartered where the murdered king once ruled—a woman with a clipboard read off, in a thick accent, a list of rules, topics he was not to broach. He barely heard them; the blood in his ears rushed louder than her voice.

  Then they pushed him inside. There were no minders, no mediators. He was on his own.

  The great marble throne was empty. Two chairs of equal height had been set, facing each other, with a small table between then. In one of the chairs was General Snow, masked and immaculate.

  Welcome.

  He rose, and held out his hand. Edward hesitated for a moment before extending his own. The ruler of Prometheus Isle had a firm, friendly grip.

  Please, sit. He indicated one of the chairs.

  Edward sat down. It was a little too narrow for him. He squirmed into a comfortable position. He felt naked without a notebook in his hand.

  “So.” He grinned nervously. “How do we start?”

  You ask me questions, of course. Snow sat down opposite him, hands lightly folded. He seemed amused. Isn’t that how it usually goes?

  “You’ll have to forgive me,” Edward said. “I’m not used to interviewing dictators–”

  He swallowed reflexively. For a moment, there was a chill silence. Then, Snow laughed. His telepathic laughter was like fireworks, like biting down on something bright.

  Fair enough. He crossed his legs. I’ll readily admit I am a dictator, but I also see myself as a liberator. The lingering suggestion of a smile danced in his pale eyes. I hope you will come to understand that.

  Edward coughed. “The free world doesn’t seem to see it that way.”

  The ‘free world’.

  The phrase was loaded with a palpable contempt, sour as bile in Edward’s mind.

  I call it the sick world, where children starve, in tents and in fine cities; where blood and money run like twinned rivers. Here, it is simple. I am the only atrocity I will permit within my borders.

  Edward had read the analyses, the pseudonymous blogs and thick grey-jacketed tomes. Narcissistic, grandiose, god complex—the words came to him easily, so easily that he had to bite his tongue. They were all true, they were all incomplete. Snow’s colourless eyes fixed him like twin needles.

  On Prometheus Isle, no one is without the necessities of life. No one is forgotten. Our crime rate is the lowest in the world. I admit, we are no democracy, but must democracy be the only way?

  Edward took a steadying breath. He felt the subtle weight of Carvell’s egg in his pocket. “And how would you respond to the claim that Prometheus Isle has executed more of its citizens on average than any other country in the world?”

  Snow laughed; this time, it did not arrive in Edward’s head like a recalled song. It was a real sound, a harsh, lipless guffaw.

  I would say it is true. I do not suffer fools.

  Edward stared at him. For a moment, the words would not come. Then: “You execute people for being foolish?”

  Come now, Edward.

  It was the first time the General had used his name. It sent a shiver through him. It was like feeling a soft whisper in your ear, then turning to see no one there.

  I am trying to make a better world. I do not have the time to find a cure for ignorance, beyond a swift and sharp one.

  Edward’s mouth had gone very dry. “And what counts as ignorance?”

  Snow moved in a blur. There was a clatter as his mask fell to the ground, a moment after his lipless mouth came level with Edward’s eyes. He was leaning down, one hand on either side of the chair.

  His fingernails, Edward saw, were black—the colour and sheen of chipped obsidian. Then Snow’s hands were on him, pressing on his chest, and his skull-teeth were very close to his cheek. Edward could feel the subtle pulse of breath on his skin.

  “Are. You. Scared?”

  Snow’s voice was soft, words carefully chosen. They hissed out from between his teeth.

  Edward felt his heart massive within him, beating out a march in double time. “Yes.”

  “Hhh-hhh-whhhhhy?” That word came out rough and halting. A fleck of spittle landed on Edward’s cheek.

  “Because–” He swallowed. “Because you could kill me.”

  “Yessss.” But not, came his mental voice, cool and restrained, because of the way I look, yes? There you are: ignorance, shown by its counterpoint.

  He moved again, with lightning grace, and retrieved the mask. He stood by the window, now, gazing down on the courtyard. A quick adjustment of his uniform, and it was as if he had not moved at all. Then he opened his hand: resting there on his palm was Carvell’s egg.

  A bead of sweat, cold and slick, made a slow journey from the nape of Edward’s neck to his lower back.

  No need for such aides-mémoire. Snow closed his fist, and with a quiet snap crushed the thing to bits. You’ll remember this.

  Edward’s voice was small but steady. “Are you going to kill me?”

  Hah. He plucked a speck of dust from his coat. You have only been a little foolish. Besides, it would be such a waste.

  “A waste?” He blinked up at Snow.

  You and me are more alike than you know. He took a few slow steps closer, and brushed the edge of a black fingernail against Edward’s cheek. We are… rare beasts.

  “Alike…” Edward laughed shakily. “Pardon me for saying so, but I’ve not led a coup lately.”

  Perhaps you should have. He tilted his head. Do not think my rule so terrible, Edward. Here, the men who beat Andy Flynn would never have raised their fists again. Here, Tonia May Greene’s killers would have been brought to justice.

  At that, Edward went still. He slowly rose from his chair. “How dare you.” His voice came cold and flat; his fear had gone, leaving anger in his wake, so fierce he nearly shook with it.

  I am only telling the truth.

  “I’m done with this.” He turned away. “Send me back to the plane, General.”

  Of course. He sounded almost sad. I will send you back immediately.

  Edward’s shoulders shook. Snow had no right. Andy, Tonia—those were his friends. His failures. He hadn’t been able to save them, and no hero had stepped forward in his place.

  But first.

&nb
sp; Look at me.

  There was something almost hesitant in the thought-voice, something like a shyly dangled lure. Edward clenched his fists.

  Look at me.

  When he turned to face Snow, a shock went through him; it drowned the buzz of his anger like a thunderclap. Held between the general’s careful fingers was a flimsy, cobweb-thin old paper. The headlines were blurred, the pictures grainy. He knew it, though. Knew it like a bad dream.

  Don’t you think I would have found out everything about you, before inviting you into my home?

  “You didn’t invite me,” he said, voice distant. “Your embassy sent–”

  Don’t be a fool. I knew who the Herald would send. I wanted you, Edward Stone. The others are mere distraction. I wanted—

  —this.

  He threw the ancient paper at his feet. It fell open. Edward kneeled down, and saw his own photograph—editor in chief, it read. What a joke. Beneath him was Tonia, in shadowy profile. She always hated having her picture taken.

  Their edition ran to a hundred on a good day, if they could afford the prices at the copy shop. Slogans were pasted haphazardly across every page: Queer/meta solidarity! Resist the superpowers-that-be! They were going to change the world.

  He was still on his knees when he felt Snow’s gloved hand on the back of his neck, stroking him like a cat. A proprietary touch. The words below him swam in his sight.

  Did you think it had all been lost?

  “It was a long time ago.”

  And you all had different names, then.

  Of course. And in his own picture, he’d worn a mask—looking more like a thug than a hero, but God, his eyes were so young.

  You had your powers muted, didn’t you? It’s an easy procedure, if the subject is willing. Easy, and easy to reverse.

  “They were not useful to anyone.”

  Oh, I don’t know. I could find use for them, those powers of yours.

  “I couldn’t fight.”

  I could teach you.