by Edward Nile
"Commander, GET OUT!" The rebel veteran let out a bellowing cry. He scooped up the fallen whiskey bottle and flung it at Dieter.
James heard two shots ring behind him as he ran out of the tavern.
He hurried around the dingy brick building to the small side door which led to the rooms above. Before going in, he looked back, double-checking that he wasn't followed. All James saw was an empty alley sprinkled with dirty snow beneath the light of a cold moon.
James entered his one-room apartment to be greeted by a flurry of blonde hair.
"I heard gunshots," Anabelle whispered, squeezing James tight. "I thought... I was afraid that..." She trailed off and backed away, catching sight of James' uncovered saber, and the rent in the scabbard held in his other hand.
Where fear and relief had been, a dead expression instead passed over James' wife, her eyes going blank. "We need to run again, don't we." It wasn’t a question.
"I do." James moved past her to get at their dresser. The room was cramped, with nothing farther than a step or two from anything else. Their bed sat in one corner by the radiator, while a small sink stood across the room.
He threw a few changes of clothing onto the bed, then scooped his rucksack from the small closet.
"What do you mean, you do?"
"I mean it's too dangerous, this time." He thought about that nameless veteran whose body was no doubt going cold downstairs. "I can't put you at risk."
"Oh, now you say that." Annabelle threw up her hands. "I've always been at risk, James. What's different now?"
"I'm not being an idiot, that's what's different."
"I'll believe that when you throw that vile sword into a river." Annabelle crossed her arms. "Someone saw it, didn't they? Someone found out who you are."
James shoved items into his pack. "I had bad luck with the name I took. Military tracked me down. It had nothing to do with the saber."
"Oh! That's much better," Annabelle snapped. "So now the name I took as your wife is known as a fraud. Just like everything else in our lives."
"Listen." James took his wife by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. "I'll make this right, 'Belle, I promise. But you need to trust me right now." He kissed her and returned to his packing. "People will ask where I went," James said. Tell them I headed to Gorrad."
"You said you didn’t have any contacts left in Gorr—"
"That's the point, 'Belle. I won't actually be there, but someone questioning you will believe it. It was the Northern capital during the war; it makes sense. After a week or two, send a note to Richard King in Helmsburg."
"Where on earth is that?"
"A town to the southwest. Don't use my name."
"What am I supposed to call you?"
"Stick with Ben, that's the last alias I gave my friends there. When I make it to Helmsburg I'll get the letter and send instructions on when and where to meet me."
"James, why don't we just leave together?"
"Because a man just took bullets trying to help me!" James shouted. "Because there could be more on the way, and I don't want you getting in the crossfire. Because this isn't a fucking game." James shoved his way to the desk they shared, laden with Annabelle's knitting. Pulling a drawer open, James tossed assorted papers aside until he found a stained wood box.
"What if... What if they hurt me to find out where you're really going?"
James opened the box, shaking his head. Inside was his machine pistol. He loaded a magazine in and pocketed two spares. "They won't know you lied until they look for me. By then, you'll be at your parent's estate."
"No," she shook her head. "You've lost your mind if you think I'm going back to them. After what I did—"
"Screw your pride, 'Belle, it's the only way you'll be safe!" James holstered the gun and strapped it on under his jacket, then threw his rucksack over his shoulder. He was about to say his goodbyes and leave, but caught sight of his saber, still on the bed. James wished he could chuck the thing in a lake, or bury it somewhere. God knew he'd tried to work up the nerve. But he couldn't do it. Thinking fast, he wrapped the saber in a thin blanket and tied the bundle closed with torn strips of linen from the bedsheet.
"James, could you just stop and talk to me about this?" Annabelle begged, her voice thick. "I don't want to be alone."
He pulled his wife into a hug, allowing her tears to seep through his shirt. "You won't be. At least, not for long. I promise." James rained kisses on her. "Don't leave right away," he said, breaking away from a particularly deep kiss. "Wait until a day or two after you're questioned. The last thing you need is to look like a fugitive yourself. Still got that pistol I gave you?"
Annabelle nodded, still weeping. "I can't use it, though."
"Yes, you can. I showed you how." James brought her hands to his lips. "I pray to God you'll never have to but I believe you can, if the need comes."
A shout sounded from the alley outside their window.
Shit. "Darling, I have to go."
Annabelle sniffled into his chest. "Don't die," she begged.
"That's the idea."
People in neighboring rooms were poking their heads out into the dimly lit hallway when James left his room, looking toward the staircase that led outside.
"Aye, Ben," Grovitch, an old man who lived across the hall, said. "There trouble at the tavern tonight?"
James shrugged. "The usual." He strode toward the stairs.
Two soldiers stood crammed shoulder to shoulder at the bottom of the steps, their long raincoats covering all but the tops of their uniform collars.
"That's him!" One of them exclaimed, lifting a pistol.
James drew his own weapon, thumbed it to automatic, and let loose a burst. One man went down, while the other cursed and backed out of the door.
His ears ringing, James moved to take his first step down, but the remaining soldier poked through the doorway pistol first and fired up at him.
James flattened himself against a wall. Chunks of plaster rained on his head.
"Ben? Savior above, what's happening?!" Grovitch cried from down the hall.
"Just stay inside and shut your door!" James fired another burst as the exit below started to open again, punching several holes through the peeling wood.
Keeping his weapon pointed at the perforated door, James sidestepped his way down the stairs, his back pressed against the right-hand wall.
The door creaked, moving about an inch.
James shot at it again, wincing at the ringing pain in his eardrums. Clutching the gun through the recoil left his arm feeling weak. Without a stock attached, the weapon was difficult to control at its automatic setting. Effective in narrow spaces such as this, however.
As James passed the dead soldier on the steps, he bent at the knees to take the fallen man's weapon, careful to keep his own gun raised.
Once at the bottom, James breathed deep, and pulled the door open with his foot.
The second soldier lay twitching on the pavement, pulsing gray matter oozing from a jagged hole in his skull. His eyes roved about, unfocused, until they met James'.
He didn't know if it was possible, in the state the poor wretch was in, but he really seemed to be looking at his killer. Looking, and silently pleading. Those wild eyes continued to flit about as the main thrashed. That one look might as well not have happened. Maybe it hadn't.
He did his duty. "I'm sorry." James set his gun to semi-automatic fire, and planted two rounds in the fallen man's chest. The shots echoed down the alley. Somewhere, a dog barked.
More shouting from around the block as people reacted to the gunshots. There was no telling how many soldiers Prentiss had brought to apprehend James. No telling how many hours or, more likely, minutes he had until local constables and military started to scour the town for him.
So, James ran with everything he had.
Chapter 14
Aldren Mal wove his way through the throng outside the Edinville Speaker’s Hall.
Whate
ver these streets were like by day, tonight they’d turned into a maze of kiosks and hastily erected podiums from which campaigners extolled the virtues of their chosen candidates or the evils of their opponents. Hundreds of small flags waved, bearing the diagonal red slash symbolizing Redstripe, Samuel Mutton’s Warsuit, decommissioned after the end of the Civil War. They clashed with the gold and silver starbursts waved by Elliot Salkirk’s supporters.
Men screamed in each other’s faces, letting spittle and foul words fly freely. Others took it to blows before ever-watchful constables leapt in to break them apart.
Aldren paid particular attention to those as he elbowed his way through dense clusters of people, all the while with deft fingers collecting pocketbooks and watches from those who looked like they could afford to lose them. What he was paid by his military contract was fair, but Aldren never kept a penny of it. Let Ma have it, he always thought. I can fend for myself. He joined a group of young men jumping and pumping their fists in the air, shouting “red or dead!” He’d have chanted just about anything to make his way through the hubbub.
Flipping a gold ring in the air and catching it, Aldren whistled a tune as he progressed ever closer to Speaker’s Hall, a large open-roofed stone structure with pillars intricate enough to rival any cathedral. This place reminded Aldren more of a fighting colosseum than a debate hall. Which he supposed was fair, considering the public animosity between the two senators.
The Quarrystone Massacre. Aldren thought back to the newspaper he’d read on the train. Is it true? Was it all his doing? If so, Aldren was working for a mass murderer.
But hopefully not for much longer.
Please, be a dismissal, Aldren prayed. A dishonorable discharge. Expulsion for mental incompetence. Whatever reason you want. I don't care, so long as I get out of this job.
"What's the big hurry, handsome?" A trio of women in thick makeup and too-little clothing flocked around him, filling the cool air with the sharp scent of perfume. Between that, the garter belts on their scandalously exposed legs, and their bosoms straining the fabric of undersized dresses, Aldren didn't have to guess twice as to their profession.
Sure, that's what gets me hard, he thought. Politics. "You girls look cold."
"Bet you can warm us up." A black-haired prostitute stroked Aldren's chest and licked red lips.
"No time, sorry. Important business." Aldren pulled back. From up close, the makeup didn't do her any favors.
"Oh, you're much too young to be so uptight." She leaned in, exposing more cleavage. "A couple minutes, that's all it'll take me to loosen you up."
"I can finish you off in one, Darlin’." A blonde with piled curls all but elbowed her aside, reached around Aldren, and clenched his ass. This one had to be his mother’s age, at least.
Suppressing a shudder, Aldren made a few silver marks appear from his sleeve and flipped them into the air. "Catch!" He darted away as the working girls scrambled after the falling money.
Can't cry over stolen milk, wasn't that one of Ma's sayings? He'd have to ask her when he visited, which he was sure to do the moment Sam Mutton released him from duty. After Tanner's report to the senator, Aldren had no doubt that release would happen tonight.
I'll fix up that porch and help her grow her sweet potatoes, Aldren thought. He hated the idea of farm work, but it sounded like a dream compared to what he'd just been through in Dalbrook. Even if he wasn't relieved of duty tonight, Aldren would take prison over being in a Warsuit's crosshairs ever again.
Speaker's Hall loomed above Aldren as he ascended the short ring of steps surrounding the building, slowed down by the thickening crowd.
"Hall's full, mister." A guard forestalled Aldren with a raised hand at the entrance.
"I'm here to see Senator Mutton."
"No, you're not."
Aldren let out a huff. "I've got a letter, one sec—"
"Get your hand out of your pocket!" The guard drew his club halfway from its holster.
"You wanna root around in there yourself?" Aldren extended his hip toward the man.
The guard scowled. "Slowly."
Aldren dug out the letter and handed it over. Samuel Mutton's seal was on the bottom left corner beside his signature.
The guard went over it with narrow-eyed scrutiny.
"Need to teach you the alphabet, or should he have finger-painted it so you'd understand?" Aldren wasn't in a patient mood. "Here, I'll pantomime for you."
"Pantomime this." The guard flipped Aldren off with one hand and shoved the letter back at him with the other. "Get a move on." He jerked his chin back and stepped aside.
"Lo and behold, another breakthrough in inter-species communication. Good boy." Aldren tried to clap the guard on the shoulder and earned himself a slap on the hand. "I get it, you want to be the man," he said without skipping a beat as the guard shoved him along through the ever-denser throng. "Maybe you can buy me dinner after you're finished pawing at me."
"Do you ever shut up?"
"What can I say, I get nervous on a first date."
"I'll club you. By God if you don't button your trap, I'll club you."
"Easy where you prod that stick of yours. We're in public, after all."
Aldren's escort let out an inarticulate growl.
Smirking, Aldren decided to quit while he was ahead.
They passed through the packed lobby into the main chamber, where a sea of people milled about between the two opposing stages.
Salkirk’s platform sported a backdrop of twin Arkenian flags flanking his own family’s gold and silver starburst against a blue background, while Samuel Mutton’s stage was draped merely in the Arkenian red and blue. Mutton had been making a very public point, so Aldren heard, of renouncing the title of Striker Crimson, and Redstripe’s legacy. Which, of course, didn’t stop his more zealous supporters from waving about the Redstripe symbol, a simple crimson streak cut across a dark blue field.
Everywhere cameras flashed as reporters did their best to capture the moment in black and white for the papers. No doubt they’d describe an electricity in the air, or whatever those types liked to call that excited buzz unique to large gatherings. So many voices spoke to one another at the same time as to turn the noise into something inhuman, like one writhing, amorphous beast had slithered into Speaker’s Hall to rumble to itself.
“You should smile a little, for the cameras!” Aldren called over his shoulder.
“What’s that, shit?” The guard growled in return.
“Nevermind.”
Aldren let himself be prodded and pushed along the edge of the packed space. He and the guard were allowed through the fenced-off stage side.
Mr. Stickforbrains, as Aldren had chosen to name his escort, didn’t leave Aldren’s side even then, pushing him along through a curtain and into a large canvas tent erected behind the stage.
"Stop right there." An older, burlier guard blocked their path. "Has this one been searched?"
"He's got a letter, Sir," Stickforbrains explained.
"That's nice. Has. He. Been. Searched?"
"Didn't even cop a feel," Aldren said. "A real gentleman, this one."
"Back to your post, Franz," the senior guard commanded. He narrowed his eyes. "And fix your lapel, you look slovenly."
Stickforbrains, also known as Franz, looked at his right shoulder, where the lapel hung loose. He felt along the fabric. "The hell... the button's missing!"
"That's going to be a write-up. Now, back to your post."
"But sir! I—"
"Franny, ease up," Aldren said. "You don't want to come off desperate." He could practically hear the man grind his teeth.
"I'll write you!" Aldren called as Franz took his leave.
The senior guard wasted no time patting Aldren down.
"You've got surprisingly gentle hands," Aldren said.
This one didn't have the saintly patience of his subordinate, and drew to his full height, raising a hand to slap Aldren quiet.
> “No need, Kinley. I’ll take it from here.”
Kinley turned to the tent's partition, where Edmund Paulson held the canvas aside.
"Fine." Kinley's voice was stiff.
Aldren caught a brief glimpse of the senator -he’d recognize that mustache anywhere- poring over a stack of papers in another section of the tent.
“This way.” Paulson held open the curtain to another section. Hesitantly, Aldren stepped through. When Paulson let the canvas drop, it cut out some of the light from without, though it did little to muffle the sound of the gathered masses.
Not a reassuring start. Aldren had thought -hoped- he’d be meeting with Sam Mutton himself. He’d been looking forward to a reprimand followed by a canning. Both were still a possibility, but something about Mutton’s secretary always put Aldren on edge.
Aldren stepped through the partition. Paulson let it drop behind them, cutting out some of the light from without, though not doing much against the sound of the crowd.
Whereas Aldren’s glance at the senator’s compartment yielded a mirror and wash basin, a large table laden with paperwork, inkpots, and other assorted minutia, his secretary’s portion of the tent was rather spartan. Small, it was furnished with a simple table and two wooden chairs. On the table was a decanter of some amber-colored liquor, two glasses, a manila envelope and a leather folder.