Hatred Day

by T S Pettibone

  “The sweetness is to mask the taste of the wortpods.” Neko crouched on the table. He removed a pair of red goggles fixed with a series of square lenses from his harness and strapped them over his eyes. “Alright, Snofrid. Magic can’t enter a mind by force; for this to work, you must willingly let me enter.”

  “I know,” she replied. “I’m clearing my thoughts right now.”

  “Then let’s begin.” He flipped a switch on the side of the goggles, illuminating them, and set his hands on either side of her head. They were freezing. Gooseflesh sprouted along her arms, which she smoothed away with a shudder. “Do my hands make you uncomfortable?” he asked.

  “Not at all. They’re just cold.” Closing her eyes, she made an effort to concentrate. As she laid down the walls of her mind, a fountain of green light unfurled from her head, causing her ears, nose and mouth to itch. She lifted her chin, trying to watch him work, but it made her eyes throb to look straight up. He moved closer and closer, until the tips of his green hair poked her eyes, forcing her to close them. Lycidius’s heady rainwater scent made her highly aware of how close he’d come. She loosed a rickety breath, wanting him to leave and stay at the same time.

  Ten minutes dragged by. Twenty.

  The strings of her patience snapped one by one, making it difficult to fake a calm bearing. The only hints she’d received about Neko’s findings were scowls, grunts and glowers. But maybe the lengthy timespan was a good thing.

  Another ten minutes passed before Lycidius spoke. “You’re making a face, Neko. What have you found?”

  “The problem isn’t what I have found, it’s what I haven’t. Look at this.”

  “What do you mean, Neko?” Snofrid gripped the sides of her cushion.

  “Give me a moment, Snofrid.”

  “I can’t see her mind,” Lycidius said, glancing at the light beaming from her head. “We tried before and I failed.”

  Snofrid was unconvinced. There was no way she could’ve been stupid enough to allow any person, other than a doctor, to see her thoughts. She had no idea what was inside her mind. As far as she knew, it held incriminating information. “Why did I let you see my mind?” she asked.

  “To win a bet.”

  “It matters little, for I’ve seen all I can,” Neko assured, sliding off the table. He held off, perhaps to spare giving Snofrid only bad news. “Before I give my analysis, I must know if any spells were raised over Snofrid before her memory loss.”

  “No,” Lycidius said. “She took my bottled Slumber Spells to sleep, but that’s it.”

  Neko’s eyes tapered. “Slumber Spells wouldn’t have caused the problem, or perhaps I should say problems.” His tone grew apologetic. “I’m very sorry, Snofrid, but thirty-nine percent of your memories are gone.”

  Her jaw dropped. “Thirty…” Distress started as a warm flicker, before it exploded into bitterness, clawing at the heart of her hope. Gone. Thirty-nine percent of her life had vanished like dust blown off an empty street. She cupped her mouth as remnants of the De-Fogger Draught pitched up her throat and faced Neko. “They were destroyed?”

  “No. As far as we know, magic can’t destroy memories,” he reassured. “I believe someone stole your memories. But as I mentioned earlier, this person couldn’t have taken your memories unless you’d given them access to your mind.”

  Snofrid couldn’t blame anyone but herself. She clearly had been stupid enough to allow other people apart from Lycidius and Neko access to her mind.

  Neko removed his goggles. “Strange as it sounds, your remaining memories are in a dormant state. Tampering with them may lead to additional damage. The wisest course of action is to wait for them to wake on their own.”

  Snofrid had no concept of how long that would take: weeks, months or even years. Everything she knew was faceless, everyone she met was nameless, and every object she saw was colorless. She needed her eighteen years to give her sight. Her lost experiences were a platform of confidence she needed in order to stand as a whole person. She feared hesitation would rust her from the inside out if she didn’t find some means of clarity.

  Then it came to her.

  Like a small piece of paper slipped into her mind, a possible solution came: a Mania Mirror. For centuries, her kind had used the mirrors to reflect memories of the person who gazed into them. Raising her head, she let her eagerness hover on the edge of maybe. “What about a Mania Mirror?” she asked.

  “A Mania Mirror will fail if the spell on your memories is too powerful,” Lycidius told her. “But that doesn’t mean it’s impossible.”

  “Mania Mirrors are rare entities,” Neko mused. “But I know of a hawker who may be able to get us one. However, he’s a booty-pincher, so it will cost no less than fifty-thousand silvers.”

  “A booty-pincher?” she asked.

  Neko arched a brow. “That means cheapskate.”

  Snofrid rose to her knees, too high on hope to feel disheartened by such a minor inconvenience. Even if the hawker demanded a steep price, she was willing to pay whatever she had in exchange for a glimpse of her past.

  The Butcher of Hollowstone

  Sno, get a move on,” Desya hollered from the kitchen.

  “I’m almost ready,” she called as she weaved her hair into a fishtail braid. Done, she zipped up her hooded toggle coat and shimmied down the loft ladder into the kitchen.

  Desya was waiting for her by the antechamber, her satchel and gasmask on the tips of his fingers. He looked winter-proof in a wool overcoat and a black beanie and had a guilty itch in his step. “Sorry, Sno, I didn’t mean to yell. It’s—”

  “It’s all right, Dez. Are you and I driving together?”

  “Yeah, but we need to scram or the traffic’s gonna be nasty.”

  They traded the warmth of the kitchen for the chill of the garage. The open door invited in snow flurries; the glacial pre-winter cold burned her skin like sand paper.

  “Where’s Lycidius?” she asked, noticing that his Steelrunner was gone.

  “In the sky waiting for us.”

  Shivering, Snofrid hopped into the jeep after Desya. Once heat was fanning on her face, she said, “Do you mind if I ask you something about Lycidius?”

  “Not at all,” Desya said, strapping on his seatbelt. “Ask as many questions as you need, Sno.”

  “We’ve obviously lived together for a while, so why aren’t we friends?”

  “You guys used to be really close actually.”

  “So something happened then? We fought?”

  Desya fired up the engine with a shrug. “I have no idea, Sno. One day you just weren’t friends anymore. If you want to know what happened, you’re gonna have to ask him.”

  She wanted the explanation now. A part of her felt outraged that something had broken them apart; then she wondered at herself. She didn’t even know him. Curiosity aside, it seemed best to figure things out after they’d safely left Hollowstone. “All right,” she said. “Let’s get to the city square before the train comes and goes.”

  The drive to the city square evolved into two hours of honking battles and bumper cars. Desya proved his skills as a bum-rusher in the parking garage. Way at the top of the 87th parking platform, the people in the city square looked as small as stars in the ether. Snofrid kept close to Desya in the mad dash of people and even closer to her satchel after a snide-eyed boy made a reach for it. They suffered a smelly, jam-packed elevator ride to the street before whizzing through the security gates. One of the benefits of Desya’s job was line-cutting privileges. In a gunshot of time, he jogged toward the loading docks to buy provisions for their trip to Alaska. This left Snofrid, with Lycidius in tow, free to browse the thousands of stalls in the city square. In Lycidius’s own words, he didn’t want to leave her alone in case Lucian made an appearance. She didn’t argue.

  The city square was crazier than it had looked from the sky. Humans of all ethnic groups swarmed the streets and flooded in through the gates, decked out in face glitter, cost
umes, and festive hats. Clearly, Desya hadn’t exaggerated when he’d said Hatred Day blew over quickly. Here and there, people donned turbans, corseted dirndl dresses, flower-patterned kimonos, cowboy hats, sequined sari dresses, or black Hijab veils. Loudest of all were the frat boys, with writing on their bare chests. One read: Kiss me, I won’t even remember.

  The coming of the Moonlentar Express equated to a holiday even though it came to Hollowstone once every month. The energy was frantic. Security guards kept the cheering crowds in check as famous musicians, illusionists and acrobats performed incredible acts on raised stages. Families camped out on the platforms under sun umbrellas, the children laughing or whining for attention; parents pushed their toddlers in strollers through the shops and fashionable-looking people walked dogs down the sidewalks. Fortune tellers predicted fates in closed tents, mimes in striped shirts slunk through the crowds like jailbirds, and lines of hypnotic belly dancers reeled in university boys.

  Wooden stalls, shaded by white cotton canopies, enclosed the square. Paper lanterns floated in the lanes above the canopies, under which local and foreign traders exhibited their chattel. Snofrid had never seen such commodities and had a hard time resisting a shopping spree. She found exquisite batik cloth and ornate shadow puppets from China—the puppets gave her a nostalgic feeling, maybe because she’d played with them when she was younger. There were clay moqueca pots from Brazil and elephant djembe drums, bone-tooth necklaces, and wooden masks from Africa. She went on to see tree-pattered Persian carpets from Iran, dyed tenugui towels from Japan, sparkling shamballa bracelets and wool Jamawar shawls from India, silver fox ushanka hats from Russia, and beaded ornaments from Thailand.

  Snofrid reveled in the festive aura as if it were the last day of her life. She tasted Belgian Craft beers; modeled kimonos; greeted people she didn’t recall, but who apparently knew her; and drew swirling chalk designs on the streets. Lycidius followed her at a short distance, never speaking, though his eyes were fixed on her at all times—as if she might vanish should he look away. The skilled way in which he tailed her made her think that shadowing her was something he’d done often. It was mildly off-putting.

  After ditching a clown who wouldn’t stop dancing circles around her, she stopped to watch a troop of fire-eaters. She had seen no sign of Lucian Lozoraitis. Perhaps he’d given up trying to kill her for a while. That was probably wishful thinking, but it was enough to satisfy her for the time being. As a last hurrah, she sent one of her college professors into a dunk tank. As 11:00 a.m. drew near, she and Lycidius made their way toward the loading docks in search of Desya.

  “Sno, we just got in a new travel promotion!” A young man in a blue suit waved at her from a Skyline Air stall. “Three minutes. Come on, I’m bored to tears back here.”

  “Not interested, Lochan,” Lycidius said, and then guided Snofrid from the area.

  Snofrid glanced over her shoulder at Lochan, knowing why Lycidius had refused the man’s offer. Lycidius had already secured them passage to Alaska through the Doubloon Raiders. The shady sky-pirates practically charged body parts for a ride, but they were known to have no problem with providing passage when it came to Inborns.

  Rotary blades buzzed suddenly in her ears and she gazed skyward. Through the glaring sunlight, she counted thirteen drones whizzing below the clouds. Four news helicopters lagged in their wake, filming the festivity from the air, and, occasionally, a fighter plane jetted past. This seemed peculiar. Scanning the rooftops in a full circle, she spotted sniper teams positioned on every building. Such high security doesn’t seem like standard protocol, she thought. Perhaps the police department was simply taking precautions after Hatred Day.

  “Attention traders,” an automated female voice announced over the sound system. “Please form orderly lines before each drop station. Those who refuse to cooperate with trading policy will be denied service.”

  Rumbling engines again drew Snofrid’s eyes to the sky, but this time, she saw something else entirely. A ship designed like a dais soared overhead, shading several hundred yards of the square. It took a position near the wall screens and young girls with baskets tossed fistfuls of flower petals over its railings. The petals fell like painted rain across the people’s gawking heads. Snofrid, certain that this was Chancellor Leathertongue’s entourage, faced the wall screens just as the cameras panned to Parisa Namdar. The crowd jumped with feverish cheers.

  “Parisa, we love you!” girls claimed.

  “Parisa, you look like a goddess!” more flattered.

  Parisa gazed upon the multitude with glittering eyes. She did look like a goddess in her dazzling tulle gown of pale feathers and golden rhinestones. Her bronzed skin gleaned with shimmer powder that was as vibrant as her aura. Black hair ruffled at her waist, tousled by the breeze, and a pair of metallic wings inlaid with pearl sprouted from her back. She was closely guarded by soldiers in black graphene armor.

  Parisa held her chin high as she addressed the people. “It’s a great honor to be tasked with initiating this month’s Moonlentar Trade,” she declared, her voice sweet and sultry. “Hatred Day’s losses have been great, but let today be without grieving. Gentlemen, drink hard, and ladies, put on those little black dresses I know you’ve all been saving and rock this year’s new Louve Gasmask Collection!”

  “Marry me, Parisa!” a mime demanded. The crowd broke into cheers.

  “Open the crates, loaders,” Parisa charged, with a twirl of her fingers. “This month’s Moonlentar Trade has officially begun!”

  Snofrid kept on toward the trade docks. She tried to imagine having been friends with Parisa and couldn’t. She seemed worlds away from the one Snofrid existed in. By the way the humans adored Parisa, Snofrid figured she’d done important things. A feeling of insignificance too difficult for Snofrid to ignore bubbled up. She recalled Lucian’s words to the train attendant: Like the civilians on this train, you don’t matter.

  She finally reached the private loading dock where Desya and swells of other shoppers purchased crates of goods from supply trucks; anti-gravity braces were strapped to the shopper’s arms, increasing their strength by five times.

  “Hey, Sno,” Desya called, adding a crate of barley to their stock. “Did you grab me some Sake?”

  “Ginjo.” She handed him a glass bottle from her satchel with a smile. “They had Junmai, but I figured it would chill too much on the way.”

  “This is awesome. Thanks.”

  “From nothing.” She looked up the crate towers, which stored a medley of seeds and grains. “How much will you buy?”

  “Enough rice to last a year. Maybe a crate or two of millet, but that’s about it.”

  “Rice and millet in Alaska. At least we’ll have plenty of fish.” She made a mindful glance at the snipers on the roofs. “Did you know about the Stellar Ops units?”

  “No, actually. There wasn’t any chatter, so it must be off the record.” He stuffed the bottle in his coat, then added, “It’s probably just a precaution, but still, it might be best to stay in the area.”

  “I will,” she promised, and stole a side-glance at Lycidius. He was talking with a scrawny girl, maybe ten years old, with her brown ringlets twisted up in Bantu knots. Snofrid guessed she was African American from her chocolate skin. The girl laughed shamelessly, tipping her head all the way back, as if she were about to howl, and clasped her hands, which caused a chorus of jingles to sing from her gold arm-bangles. Dressed in a jade parka and trousers, she had a spring to her step, which made Snofrid think she might shoot off into the sky at any moment.

  “That’s Jazara Popplegoom,” Desya reminded, jerking his thumb at the girl. “She’s like you and me…but a little more like you.”

  Snofrid took his insinuation to mean that Jazara was a Mystish Inborn. But, apart from rare instances, all pure-blood Inborns were white-skinned. “Does Jazara have black skin because of mutation?”

  “No.”

  Snofrid tensed, suddenly aware that Jazara had
black skin because she’d been born from one human and one Inborn parent: she was a halfbreed. She glanced the girl’s way again, afraid for her, because being a halfbreed was far worse than being a vagrant. Not only were halfbreeds shamed and expelled from Inborn society, but most of them were hunted down and executed by Halfbreed Hunters—Inborns who considered halfbreeds to be abominations. Swallowing hard, Snofrid asked quietly, “Dez, do any of the Inborns in Hollowstone know what she is?”

  “No,” he whispered. “She poses as a human.” He put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it. “Don’t worry about her, Sno. Jazara doesn’t look at herself as different from us. Oh, and by the way, she’s claimed you as her big sister.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Watch out, though. She’s kind of a nut.” Desya picked up another box, then cleared his throat. “Did uh…Parisa talk to you?”

  “No. But why would she? I thought she cut ties with us.”

  “She talks to you every once and a while. It’s me and Lycidius she’s dusted off.”

  “I’m sorry.” Snofrid held off from saying what she truly thought. It seemed like he was still hurting. “How long were you together?”

  “A long time, since we were kids, actually…but I didn’t date the glitter-puff, I dated the other one.”

  Snofrid’s brows sprang upward. “There are two?”

  “No.” He let out a short laugh, but then his manner grew regretful. “I meant she used to be different. The old Parisa smuggled abandoned babies off Gehenna’s field of exile. It’s like her heart got sucked out or something. She’s got stacks, but she hasn’t even lifted a copper to help our old friends in the slums.”

  Snofrid pursed her lips, feeling a sudden blister of shame. “It’s okay if you want to say it, Dez. I know I was a booty-pincher, too.”

  “Maybe. But I have no idea what a booty-pincher is, Sno.”

  “It’s a money-grubber.”

  “Ah.” Desya tugged her braid like a church bell. “You’re not, but you do got a skill for getting guys to buy you stuff without asking. Especially Lycidius.”