Born Hero

by S A Shaffer

  “I nearly put hole in your canine. Perhaps you should use leash.”

  “That docile beast couldn’t hurt a child if it were pulling its tail. All size and no bite, I’m afraid. Come, Rupert, let’s see Corvin to his ship.”

  David watched through his bushes as the dog pranced by, ball in mouth, beside the pair of men. David didn’t stir until he heard the odd buzzing of the Armstad stealth vessel dissipate into the distance. Only then did he emerge from his hiding place and scuttle across the estate. Speaker Walker had long since retired in his mansion, and the guards were still conversing at the estate’s front gate. He crawled on his belly all the way back to the place where he had dropped over the wall, only to realize he couldn’t leave the way he’d come. No vine clung to this side of the wall. He’d have to find another way out of the estate.

  He breathed a few times, reminding himself not to panic. He looked around the perimeter of the wall until he saw a viable option. A tallish orchid tree stood a few fathoms down from where he sat, and it had branches that extended over the wall—the only problem being that it stood in the middle of a lawn. If he crouched, he could hide in the evening fog as it churned a few feet off the ground, but once he started climbing, he’d be exposed. David army-crawled across a garden, squishing perennials as he went. He wondered which guard would be reprimanded for trampling the cutting bed. When David reached the lawn, he slid on his belly across the grass, using the fog as a blanket. He arrived at the tree a few moments later. Its many roots sprouted from the trunk and wormed their way across the grass in a chaotic pattern, growing with unparalleled patience. He popped his head through the fog, eyeing the guards. Both were distracted by their discussion, but one would be able to see him climbing if he happened to look in the right direction. David decided he’d have to risk it.

  Taking hold of the lowest branch and stepping on a root, he hoisted himself up into the foliage, trying his best to stay on the side of the tree opposite the guards. The orchid tree was in bloom, and its dinner-plate-sized blossoms wafted fragrance around him as he climbed through its bowers. He grimaced with each step along the branches as the supple tree shuddered and shook. He shimmied down the branch that extended to the outside of the estate, metal fingers scoring the wood. It bent at a precarious angle as he slid to the end and dropped over the other side of the perimeter wall. The last thing he saw before the wall obstructed his view was a puzzled guard observing the quivering orchid tree.

  David broke into a sprint the moment his feet felt the ground. He didn’t stop until the mansion was long out of sight, and even then only because his lungs were burning and his gimpy leg ached. He made his way to the boutique shopping center in the middle of the park and was lucky enough to catch an air-taxi. Its pilot was making one last round before calling it an evening. David jumped into the taxi and stretched out on one of the benches to catch his breath.

  During the ride he pondered what he’d overheard, especially the part about a marriage between the royalty of Berg and Viörn. That was impossible, wasn’t it? They’d been enemies for more than a hundred cycles. It was just another ploy by Speaker Walker to cement his position. But the Armstad messenger, Corvin—if that was indeed his identity—he was real enough, and he seemed to believe what he was saying, even if he looked and acted like an assassin. Why would he lie? Armstad was still Alönia’s greatest ally. Unless he didn’t represent Armstad? He might be a lone faction.

  Perhaps David was viewing this whole incident from the wrong angle. What if Speaker Walker and the Armstad assassin weren’t spewing false facts, but rather their perception of the facts was built off a false premise. Perhaps they were so ingrained in their political ideology that they couldn’t see the truth of the matter.

  David cradled his head in his real hand as he pondered on. Speaker Walker and the rest of the Pragmatics complained of Alönia’s weakened military state and had been for cycles. Perhaps that was a valid concern once—thirty cycles ago, yes, but now? The Outlanders were all but gone, minus a few Prowlers working as mercenaries obviously. The Bergs and Viörns had been peaceable for the past sixty cycles without a single act of aggression. If they were massing ships near the Armstad border, perhaps they themselves felt threatened. Armstad was the most sophisticated country in all the Fertile Plains, and they boasted a sizeable standing army for their small population. Maybe Berg and Viörn perceived Armstad might as backed by Alönian power. The point was that a Pragmatic would assume the worst when faced with such facts and jump to the conclusion of imminent danger. An Equalist assumed the best in people. An Equalist believed that people’s intentions were basically good, even if sometimes misguided. To an Equalist these facts were nothing more than Viörn and Berg making an effort to heal old wounds and rebuild the armadas they’d once boasted.

  David sighed. He liked that perspective much better. The common decency of humanity gave him more comfort than the depraved nature. On the other hand, he wondered how his father and grandfather would view these facts. Speaker Walker’s comment about David’s grandfather did not go unnoticed. What would the hero of the Protectorate War do in this situation? David knew the answer to that question; he’d heard it a million times while growing up: Look where no one else is, and you will never be surprised.

  So where was no one else looking?

  MOVEMENT IN THE SHADOWS

  It was finished—finally finished. No more trains to the Seventh or expensive taxies to and from Capital Orbital. David had his very own airship transportation facility boasting a nonstop flight from the Third straight to the orbital.

  He felt giddy despite the raging Prumuveour Season wind that blasted him as he stepped out of his apartment’s steam shaft and into the bustling morning street a full hour later than usual. The new direct flight cut his commute time in half, allowing sixty extra, beautiful minutes of sleep. The prospect was even more welcome considering the past week’s all-night antics. As David rounded a corner, he pushed through a crowd of workers walking in the opposite direction—workers, in the Third … all of them commuting in for their first day at Public Pharmaceuticals. There were thousands of them, all holding their coats closed as the wind ripped at their clothing, and they were only a small percentage of the facility’s workforce, the rest being brand-new citizens of Braxton’s Third District. The facility itself looked spectacular, not a spot of dust left from the old airsail company. The remodeled factory had a modern twist, with its glass-and-steel dome surrounded by the original structure’s brick walls, all washed and sparkling after its facelift. Everything was coming together perfectly.

  As David pushed his way past the crowd of workers, he looked up and saw half a dozen shiny, new airships fighting the wind as they soared to and from a couple of glass spires that poked up over the top of the industrial district’s decrepit old buildings. When he stepped around the next street corner, he saw it: the transportation facility. It was a crystal palace, all steel and glass. The circular structure had four train lines leading up from four different directions, servicing travelers twenty-four hours a day from all corners of the Third. Each train rolled into a glass station extending off the side of the main airship facility, providing cover for the passengers as they walked to and from airships. The airships docked at one of the thirteen spires poking up from the circular facility. Each tower represented a different house destination, all listed on the great steam projector in the facility’s foyer.

  David crossed the street to the transportation facility and walked through the gleaming metal doors. While the outside of the place was sparkling steel and glass, the inside featured copper stairs and arches leading to dozens of different steam lifts, each rocketing travelers to the tops of the towers, where they would await airships. The polished metal floor bore David’s reflection when he looked at it. He almost felt guilty as he walked on it for fear his shoes were dirty. He scanned the steam projector’s daily flight schedule where it sat in the middle of a fountain that he could just hear bubbling over the sound
of the busy station. Today, Capital Orbital’s direct flight left from Tower 4.

  David climbed the stairs, running his hand along the cold metal railing. He reached his steam lift and stepped into the glass cylinder alone, having the entire lift to himself. Evidently not many people commuted from the Third to the Capital Orbital—big surprise there. As the glass cylinder rose in its glass tube, he could see the entire inside of the transportation facility before his lift passed through the ceiling, and then he saw the whole industrial district sprawling out in front of him. As he watched, raindrops tapped at the glass with a persistent rattle. It started slow, but this was Prumuveour Season. In no time the large drops seemed to reproduce and multiply into a torrential downpour, washing down the glass steam lift in a consistent stream. David smiled. It was almost like a christening for the new facility.

  He walked into the office an hour and a half later, a broad smile on his face. He was so thrilled that he failed to notice the commotion around him until after he’d gulped down a cup of tea and settled into his chair. Mercy caught his eye as she ran back and forth from her desk to the file room, arms full of accounting papers and ledgers. David shook his head and looked around the rest of the office. Bethany sat at her secretarial desk next to Blythe’s double doors, matching one list of documents to another. Francisco pushed a dolly bearing boxes of documents out of deep storage, lining them up by date across the carpet.

  David wrinkled his nose and asked, “What’s all this about? You all look as if we’re under investigation.”

  “Nearly so,” Mercy said as she tossed David the morning paper from her desk. “You really should get in the habit of reading the paper if you want to become an expert aide.”

  David caught the paper and flipped to the front page. His elated mind had a hard time comprehending the grandeur of the main article, but upon the third time reading the title, he understood the general commotion in the office.

  CENSUS FRAUD

  Citizens of neighboring districts report offers of monetary compensation to register at the Third District in next week’s census.

  So that was their latest ploy. Only thirteen days until the census and the opposition had apparently decided on one last-ditch effort to thwart Blythe.

  David looked back at Mercy, who was just then sifting through another box of documents. “What’s being done?” he asked.

  “The Census Oversight Committee has ordered us to present our financial records for the past five cycles. They also asked for a list of our primary benefactors and donors, but Blythe is disputing the legality of that request.”

  “Is that where he is now?”

  Mercy nodded as she flipped through an armload of documents and checked them against a list.

  David rubbed his face with his palms, stamping down his excitement and preparing himself for a long day’s work. “Okay,” he said. “Give me the most recent financials. You work from the past forward, and I’ll work backward.”

  “Agreed,” Mercy said as she looked up from her ledger.

  “Here, pass me that box, Francisco,” David said.

  Mercy looked relieved as she let out a sigh and put a hand on her chest before she went back to her documents. She appeared unusual this morning, unnerved in the extreme. Evidently this audit was more threatening than David thought.

  The work was slow, tedious, and more boring than a conversation with Francisco. In two hours’ time David had worked through three boxes, and he was still searching records that he had signed less than two months earlier. However, all work halted when the main office door flew open and then slammed shut. Bethany squeaked as she sat bolt upright, the noise pulling her from her afternoon nap.

  Blythe entered the office wringing his hands and growling something under his breath about a “two-faced Oversight Committee” and “soft-handed sops.” He paced back and forth, venting steam, until he dropped out of exasperation into an armchair in the middle of the boxes of records.

  “How long will these people accuse me of villainy?” Blythe said. “When will I be able to help the needy, feed the hungry, and heal the sick? I’ve just about had enough of these power-mongering overlords.” He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, breath whistling between his lips.

  “The donors?” Mercy asked.

  “We are ordered to produce all political donation records along with names. It’s an unquestionably illegal directive, but what can I do? The more I fight it, the more I’m perceived as having something to hide. And in the end disclosing my supporters won’t really harm anyone.”

  “But why would the Oversight Committee want donor records?” Mercy asked. “The campaign office was accused of census fraud, not the donors.”

  Blythe shook his head. “Only a fool would bribe the populous with his own campaign funds. The committee intends to search the financial records of every one of my donors. Oh, that will include employees. All of your financials will be searched as well.”

  Mercy stiffened at that, and David knew why. A search of her personal life inevitably meant a search of her parents’ lives as well. That was a thread she hadn’t tugged in a few cycles. The financial inspection didn’t bother David much. It would only take five minutes to sift through a cycle’s worth of rent and Charra gruel receipts.

  “How long do we have to present the records?” David asked.

  “The committee is sending a team down at close of office tomorrow. We have until then.” Blythe sighed again. “Well, we have a long few hours ahead of us. I will start collecting all my personal records. You all should finish with the campaign finances and then begin on our donor lists.” He stood and straightened his jacket before walking into his office.

  David watched Blythe disappear behind the door before he turned back to his records. Everyone else was already sifting through documents. Even Bethany busied herself turning pages in a folder, though anyone who watched her could tell she wasn’t reading a word of them. He made a mental note to check over all the material Bethany reviewed. As the hours flew by, so did the pages of financial records. David worked tirelessly until midday. Blythe was kind enough to order lunch for them all. But after the short respite they were back at it. The only transaction that surprised David was the cost of office supplies. He was shocked how many reams of paper their little office could go through in one month. As the day came to a close, he looked around and saw that only two boxes remained. That meant they would probably finish the campaign transactions today, leaving the donor lists for tomorrow. The knowledge gave him new vigor, and he pulled open a box and began sifting through the files as fast as he could. In thirty minutes he and Mercy had finished, everyone else having retired for the evening.

  He slumped down into his chair, knocking his arm against the desk. He watched a few sections of newspaper flutter off the side with dazed eyes. “I’m going to think twice from now on before I make any office transactions,” David said with a groan as he bent over to pick up the newspaper pages that had fallen.

  Mercy laughed. “Well, maybe you should stop writing everything down and then we wouldn’t have nearly as many records. She sat on the edge of her desk and crossed her legs beneath her billowing white dress covered in red flowers.

  “Ha-ha,” David said in a mocking tone as he glanced through the newspapers he’d knocked off the desk. “At least half of those transactions were …” But he trailed off as he read the page in his hand.

  “Were … what?” Mercy asked.

  But it didn’t penetrate his focused mind as he read a short notice. It was out of the same newspaper Mercy had tossed him that very morning, only this notice was in the obituary section, buried behind the countless stories on Blythe and other political or sexual scandals. His jaw hung open and his eyes went wide.

  “Hello? … David, what is it?”

  He didn’t answer. He re-read the notice and then turned the page to see if there was any more. “Mercy, did you see this?”

  “See what? What are you looking at?” Mer
cy hopped off her desk and walked toward him.

  “It’s Samantha Samille. … She’s dead.”

  Mercy froze in place. “What?” She ran the last few paces and leaned over David’s chair to read the notice.

  David silently read the short notice again, hoping it would penetrate his dulled wits this time:

  Ms. Samantha Tori Samille

  Lived 3221-3241

  Beloved Daughter of Richard and Angelica Samille

  May She Rest in Peace

  “You’re sure that’s the same Samantha?” Mercy asked.

  “Positive. The first time we met, she filled in her date of birth as this cycle. Never forgot her file after that. I wonder how she died. I’ll bet she was murdered.”

  “David! How can your mind arrive at such vulgar results so quickly?”

  “Just think about it. Our last secretary was—”

  Mercy held up a hand to cut him off. “I don’t want to think about it. I want to go home and soak in a hot bath. I want to unwind after a difficult day. I don’t need any more horrifying thoughts to think about right now.” She stalked away from David’s desk. Her voice sounded choked and her faced looked pained.

  “Right. I’m … I’m sorry, Mercy. I just never stop thinking, and this obituary raises too many questions.”

  Mercy turned away from him as she nodded and collected her coat. “Well, you think on it, then. I’m going home like a normal human being and resting.”

  She offered him a forced smile before she slipped out of the office, but she didn’t fool him. This news was as troubling to her as it was to him. Murder was the only possible reason behind Samantha’s death. Two of their secretaries dead within a few months of each other? David fidgeted for a moment before he got up, walked over to Bethany’s desk, and keyed up the phonograph. As he dialed the operator, he realized that this was Samantha’s old desk. A shudder ran through his spine.