by Edward Nile
Samuel was taken aback. "Do you really think I'd spearhead such a plan? Do you honestly believe that I, your husband, would push for something so horrid?"
Leanne averted her gaze, bit her lip. She looked back to him, weighing, pleading with her eyes. "I don't know, Sam. I don't know how I could ever be sure. But even if it were Salkirk and Davids who put you to the deed, that was still you in that Warsuit. And even if I love you, I don't know if I can ever forgive that."
He took a gulp of coffee, if for no other reason than to mask how much the words stung. For every brief moment of joy, we cause each other so much more pain, he thought. If you'd let me, I'd free you from this, my love. I would free you from me. But I can't. Not if there's even the faintest glimmer of a chance for us. Because I'm weak.
"If you feel so strongly, is it truly so far-fetched to think other rebels, ones that have no attachment to me, would attempt to take my life? Or," he continued, a thought coming to him. "Do you doubt it because the rebels you are in contact with deny being involved?"
"Sam, don't—"
He slammed his cup down, sloshing hot liquid over his hand. "You are, aren't you? Still connected with the Industrialist cells, hiding your friends from the state's justice. Hiding them from me."
"I have not, nor will I ever, done anything to hurt you, Samuel," she cried. "You have to b—"
"Don't tell me what I have to believe, woman. Someone died for your last betrayal. I was a fool to think after that, after the war, you might have learned better. You have no idea the effect your conniving has caused, whether Quarrystone would have even happened if you hadn't helped the Ironshield escape!"
"Don't you think I know that?!" Leanne pushed off from the table and stood, causing her cup to topple and shatter against the floor. "Don't you think I spend nights awake, thinking about what I did? I go over and over it in my mind, Sam. What would have happened had I just stayed out of things. And I feel their blood on my hands. Sometimes I swear I can smell it. Maybe that's why I'm here. Maybe that's the only thing keeping me by your side." She clutched at her temples. "As mad as it is, I wonder if the only reason I stay is that I tell myself I'm just as much at fault as you are." She headed for the door.
"Leanne, wait."
"I need to lie down," she said. "Unless you want to have me arrested again?"
"I... no," he sighed. "Fine, get your rest."
Minutes passed after she left, during which Samuel stared at his coffee, watching it cool. He'd have to do something about his wife. Somehow he'd have to pick a side, between love for his country and love for her. It was a choice he never imagined he'd have to weigh, when they married in the fire and chaos of the Revolution.
A shoe crunched on the remnants of Leanne's broken cup.
"Another day in paradise?"
"Not now, Edmund," Samuel squeezed his eyes shut, knuckling his forehead.
"I found something for you, about this little trinket."
Samuel opened his eyes at that. Paulson placed the Industrialist pin on the table, then scooped up Leanne's chair and sat in it. The man didn't look like he'd slept, but he never did. Still, Samuel thought he detected a deeper exhaustion in his old friend. Perhaps he was just projecting. "You find out where the bastard got it?"
"Better." Paulson snatched Samuel's coffee and helped himself to a sip. "I found the man who made it."
"Well, that is impressive," Samuel said, and meant it. "How'd you manage that?"
"I've got an old friend who knows a thing or two about metallurgy. Once she took a close look, it wasn't hard to narrow down who had the right alloys and molding equipment."
"Alright, let's pay them a visit." Samuel started to stand.
"That'll be easy," said Paulson. "I took the liberty of having him brought here."
Samuel paused. "Of his own volition, I'm sure."
His secretary shrugged, drinking more of his coffee. Paulson didn’t even like coffee.
"God damn you Edmund, I'm in the middle of a campaign here."
"Don't get your undergarments in a twist, Sam, I'm no amateur. Made it as discreet as possible; no one saw a thing."
"That somehow fails to make the fact you kidnapped a citizen without due process any better."
"Without due process? Goodness no. The man owes years of back taxes for undeclared work he's done, and on paper that's why he's been taken in."
"So, we can add forgery to the bill, Savior above, Edmund." Samuel shook his head, at a loss for how to react. I'm glad you're on my side. He didn't want to imagine Edmund Paulson as an enemy. "I don't know if I'm paying you too much, or too little."
"Oh, don't worry about that. Remember, I handle the bank runs, too. In fact—"
"I’d rather not know," Samuel interjected, holding back a chuckle. "You think the man will talk?"
"Doubt it, but I didn't bring him here to talk." Paulson dropped a sugar cube into his mouth and leaned back. "I brought him here to tell us who his friends are in a way words can't."
"And that way would be…?"
"To see who cares enough to try freeing him."
Samuel's eyebrows shot up. "If you were as discreet as you say, they might not notice he's gone. Whoever 'they' are."
"And that, dear Senator, will also tell us something. If no one notices he's gone, it means he's not being monitored. If he's not being monitored, he's either not important to your enemy's plans, or your enemies lack the resources to keep track of their assets. Either way, we'll learn things without him having to say a word. Of course, if we can make him talk, that'll be good, too.”
Samuel did chuckle, then, though there was little mirth to it. "Then I suppose we'll give that a try."
*
Aldren leaned out the opening of the gas-powered trolley and looked out at the Talenport dockyard over the roofs of the sloped city. A few new structures had been built, taller than any he'd seen before. Other than that, it was still the city he'd always called home, its bay still a bustle of ships, small fishing boats chugging alongside massive ocean freighters, sending clouds of smog to roll above, prematurely staining the afternoon sun red, diffusing the day into a pinkish haze.
Same as when Aldren had left to fight for the South, save for one difference. Some of these ships flew Lytan flags.
Talenport's new demographics became more and more pronounced the deeper into the city Aldren went. Xangese shoppers and merchants bargaining in the marketplaces, some stands and shops openly displaying their nation's flag, a swirling pattern of serpentine dragons in red, forming the shape of a golden sun in their midst.
Lytan troops played checkers outside a coffee shop, in full Imperial blue for all to see. Last time Aldren saw this place, Arkenia had just been backing out of a war with Xang. With the Civil War pouring salt into the wounds of the Revolution, the South hadn't dared accept Imperial ships or troops for fear of stoking Industrialist suspicions about the nature of the deal Lytan brokered between Arkenia and Xang. That was, of course, until Talenport did accept Lytan supply vessels on President Davids' orders.
Had that not happened, the Civil War might have continued to this day, and Yannick might still be alive. That one decision, when leaked to the North by Aldren's brother, caused a domino effect that ordained the bitter conflict’s ultimate fate. With Lytan ships moored in Talenport, a central point of Arkenian trade adjacent to the capital, the Industrialists -or at least factions of them- considered the War Codes null and void. To the North, the acceptance of Imperial aid constituted as interference by the Empire, something the South had promised they would never allow. To the Industrialists, the South had shown their hand as Imperial traitors, colluding with the colonial power the nation had fought to free itself from.
So the Industrialist army, under the command of the Ironshield, breached the War Codes in turn, regulations their generals had bristled at being forced to obey from the start.
That bit, Aldren remembered quite vividly. After that, and Retribution's attack on Edinville, it should have
come as no surprise that the South would escalate the conflict further to gain a decisive victory.
Still, the North must not have expected their enemies to go as far as they did.
"Pardon me." A well-dressed man sporting a mustache that would put ol' Sam Mutton's to shame hopped onto the trolley and moved to squeeze himself past Aldren.
"It's my stop anyway," Aldren muttered and stepped off the slow-moving vehicle, pulling his cap down over his brow as he walked across the street. A hefty wallet, that one had. By the feel of it, more than enough for Aldren to grab something to eat while he made his way to the docks.
Whistling, he let his feet carry him downhill. As Aldren turned a corner, he happened to lock eyes with someone. An eastern woman in a simple brown dress and tan coat, a gray scarf wrapped around her neck against the chill air. Hadn't she been on the same trolley as him a moment ago?
Aldren kept up his whistling until he'd made it half a block down the street. He ducked into the first shop he came across and looked out through the display window.
The woman crossed the street and continued on her way without sparing him so much as a glance.
"Noodles?" An elderly easterner asked from the counter. It was then that Aldren smelled the sharp spices. A goddamned Xangese noodle house. He didn't mind the stuff, once in a while, but in Dalbrook Aldren had had enough of it to last him two lifetimes.
He slid a few paper marks from Mr. Mustache's wallet across the counter. "You have a back door?"
Aldren passed through the steamy kitchen, coughing into his coat at the strong odors. By the looks of the prep tables and cooking implements, he was doubly glad he wasn't eating here.
The door slammed shut behind Aldren, leaving him in an alley next to a reeking dumpster. He let out a steamy breath. Just being paranoid, he thought. But paranoia was healthy, in his line of work.
Aldren traversed back lanes until he reached a busy market avenue. Stopping by a clothes stand, he threw some marks at the sharp-eyed salesman and switched his black wool coat for one of dark brown, tossing the old one to a homeless man sitting on a pile of newspapers beside a closed shop front.
"God bless you sir!" the bedraggled man cried when he discovered Mr. Mustache's wallet in one of the pockets.
Damn. Aldren had forgotten about that. Oh well.
He traded caps with a mannequin at another stand and made a sharp right turn down a side street when he caught sight of a pair of patrolling constables. His letter from Samuel Mutton would keep Aldren out of prison, but the delay an arrest would cause could saddle him with a worse punishment than the thievery.
The city only grew busier the closer to the docks Aldren came. Foot traffic, along with horse-drawn carts and carriages, contended with more motorcars than Aldren ever thought he'd see in his life. Judging by gaps in the cobblestones, Talenport would have to figure out a better method of paving their roads to support the increase in motorized transportation. If municipal bureaucrats were at the helm of the decision, that could take years.
Guess it's a good thing you and Ma are settling into the country life, isn't it? he told himself.
Aldren's shoulders tensed as he passed a group of Lytan soldiers, the plumes on their helmets bobbing with each step.
Why am I nervous? he wondered. I didn't fight in no Revolution. What did he care what Arkenia used to be called, or under what flag it stood?
Aldren had never much cared about nationalism. He'd never considered himself a patriot, one way or another. But uninvolved as he liked to be, he supposed there'd always be that grain of mistrust all Arkenians were raised to feel toward the Empire. Wars were like stones thrown into the lake of history. Their ripples stretched on long after the guns went cold.
Others seemed less perturbed about the uniformed men. This must have become a common sight over the past year. Patriot or not, Aldren didn't know if he liked that.
Laughing among themselves, the Imperials admired a group of fluttery-eyed ladies who were anything but dressed for the weather, and paid Aldren no mind as he shuffled past.
Mechanical lifts rolled up and down the docks, loading and unloading ships under the shouted commands of dockmasters. Loudspeakers set on tall posts announced the arrivals and departures of vessels by their numbers for the benefit of workers and passengers. Men with clipboards hurried between rows of crates to itemize every shipment, while laborers broke down pallets and loaded the smaller boxes onto the backs of trucks.
Meanwhile, groups of hungry-eyed youths sat around run-down benches and begrimed staircases, smoking as they watched the ceaseless tedium with rapt attention.
Aldren remembered spending many an afternoon doing the same, when he was a child. He'd introduced Yannick to his friends and taught him the unwritten rules of the city.
A pair of boys wandered from the group, arms over each other's shoulders as they seemed to whisper to one another.
Deciding to watch the show, Aldren leaned against a wall and crunched into a pilfered apple. Next to him, the fish market gave off a strong stench. It smelled like home.
An inbound loader shot the two a suspicious glare, but they didn't look at him or the boxes he was untying.
No, that was for their friends.
The boys swarmed over the pallet the moment the man turned away, a half dozen scrawny, dirt-faced miscreants. They sheared away the twine binding the boxes together with expert speed. By the time the hapless man turned from the rogue pair back to his work, they'd already liberated three boxes and were scurrying off into the shadows of a narrow alley.
Shouting, the man ran after them. The remaining two boys each made off with a box before he came to his senses. He kicked the pallet with an angry shout that was lost in the bustling din.
Aldren tossed his apple core aside with a chuckle and wiped his hands. Well, at least some things don't change.
He steered clear of other such groups. A few boys stared his way and visibly dismissed him. Apparently, living in the sticks the last couple years hadn't softened Aldren enough to paint him as a target. That was good to know.
He glanced up at peeling signs on wooden posts, looking for the dock number that matched his ticket.
There, dock seventeen, a gas-guzzling cargo ship doubling as cheap transportation. Aldren got in line behind the other shuffling passengers. Already he could smell the briny tang of the sea carried on the wind, laced with harsh fumes.
Chunks of algae and smoke-stained sea foam sloshed with the black water lapping against the stone edge of the bay. The side of the freighter, called the Salty Hound according to the peeling black stencil across its rust-spotted gray hull, looked like it hadn't been cleaned in a decade, its underside encrusted with barnacles.
On a government job, the least Mutton could have gotten me was a decent ride. Nothing too fancy, but a ship with clean beds and a bar didn’t sound like too much to ask for. He'd be lucky if this beast had any beds at all.
Aldren passed his ticket to a bored-looking shipmate and ascended the creaking ramp.
Within the tight halls below deck, a child cried to his mother, tugging at her ruffled skirt. She shushed him, rocking an infant against her shoulder. They found their cabin and passed through its squeaky door.
Aldren slipped his way between fellow passengers, nose wrinkling at the smell years of enclosed humanity exacerbated by perpetual damp created.
At least it's not the lower levels, he thought. Aldren wasn't comfortable with being stuck in the bowels of a giant metal tombstone floating on ocean depths.
He tried to imagine himself on solid land, even as the sea's subtle sway made the world feel like it was in perpetual, if subtle, motion. It would only get worse once the Salty Hound set off.
He found the tarnished door to his cabin. Inside was a narrow cot, with a tiny steel sink and toilet across from it. No toilet paper, and Aldren didn't look forward to feeling that frigid steel against his rear end.
He threw his bag onto the cot, followed by himself. He'd slept on
sidewalks that felt softer. Cleaner, too. Using his rucksack as a pillow, Aldren tipped his hat over his eyes. The ship rumbled into motion, and Aldren let the sound, and the Hound's gentle sway, rock him to sleep.
The world beyond his porthole was dark when Aldren woke. He sat up, feeling his stomach contents slosh in time with the subtle motion of the waves far below. The ceiling spun above him, its brown stains forming dizzying spirals.
Aldren flopped over and fell to the hard deck. It bucked this way and that under him.
Feeling weak as a newborn, he crawled to the toilet and pulled himself up by its clammy seat. Aldren started spewing before he could get his head over the bowl, splashing steamy vomit over the seat and onto the floor.
He groaned as another wave of agony shot through his stomach. Throat already burning with the horrible acid sharpness, he retched again. Chunks of half-digested food floated in the orange-hued fluid forming a cloudy mass in the toilet water. The sight and smell of it made him hurl once, producing stringy bits of bile and not much else.