Hatred Day

by T S Pettibone

  “Tip One from Someone-Who-Wants-to-Please-You,” he offered. “The last bookworm didn’t choose her questions well and Poppy Van Todder found her Door to Submission.”

  “I still don’t know if you’re Poppy Van Todder or if he’s someone else,” she pointed out.

  “That’s your question?”

  “No,” she burst in. “My question is: what’s a Door to Submission?”

  “Exactly what it sounds like, little Japanese bookworm.” He winked, and then stretched back in his chair, wallowing in his victory. “That was your last question.”

  “You manipulated me.”

  “Solution: Don’t be easily manipulated.”

  She rose to her knees in frustration. “Whatever you think you’ve found out about me, you’re wrong.”

  “I’m never wrong, bookworm.” His skull teeth cracked in a grin. “Rule One from Someone-Who-Wants-to-Please-You: The next time a stranger offers you free information, you should take care to know who he is.” He tipped the goblet. “It’s been a pleasure pleasing you. May we meet again.”

  The book slammed shut, locks clicking in place.

  Snofrid stared at the book’s cover, blinking in confusion. You should take care to know who he is. She had no idea what this meant. Except maybe that he wasn’t Poppy Van Todder. Or was he manipulating me again? Flipping the book over, hot with annoyance, she scanned the fine print at the bottom:

  Inborn Imported: A Short History of Mystery

  Narrated by:

  Current Mystish Governor of Court One, Dhiacula Sykiss

  Penned by:

  Dhiacula Sykiss under the pseudonym, Poppy Van Todder

  “Shoot me,” she breathed. If she’d known he was a Mystish Governor, she would’ve asked far different questions.

  Turning the book back over, she searched for the orbicular lock and sighed. After a moment of denial, she laid down the book in defeat. In meeting Governor Dhiacula, she couldn’t say her surprise trumped her disappointment.

  Where the lock had been was now the icon of a black poppy.

  Through the Memory Glass

  Tuesday, 10 Days until the Hunt

  Snofrid found Desya’s loaded Glock in the bathtub beside a bottle of tea tree oil. Picking up the gun, she rubbed the soap scum off the grip with a hand towel. He seemed sidetracked so often that it wasn’t surprising to find his bluecoat gear in the most bizarre places around the house.

  Hearing him call for her, she hastened down into the kitchen. He was leaning against the stove, clipping on his duty belt and blinking sleep from his eyes.

  “Thanks, Sno,” he sighed. “General Babbage would make me polish his boots with my hair if I showed up to work unarmed.” Desya groped his belt and his mouth twitched guiltily. “Shoot. I’m missing my Taser flashlight.”

  She consulted the clock, certain he was going to be late. “Okay, think, Dez. Do you have any idea where you left it?”

  “No…but check the futons in the washitsu.” He laced on a pair of combat boots, aiming a worried eye at the clock. “Just don’t shock yourself, because it has a spastic handle. I’ll look in the ima.”

  “No, I already looked in the ima for your gun. The Taser’s not there. You should check in the basement.”

  She slipped on a pair of mittens and then tiptoed into the washitsu, a Japanese-styled room where they received their guests. As she reached to flip over the futon cushions, she noticed a shrine on the fireplace mantle. A bamboo incense stick was burning on the censer, as if someone had lit it only moments ago, and an assortment of silver picture frames glistened in the lamplight. She immediately understood that the photos were memories.

  Needing a closer look, she picked up a weathered photo of Ryuki, Desya and herself posing beside the polar bear exhibit at the Hollowstone Zoo. She couldn’t fail to see how happy she was with her toothy smile and frilled pink dress. The three of them appeared to be people from a different time, a better time.

  As she set down the frame, a smaller picture caught her eye: it was of a Japanese girl sitting in an outdoor garden beside a bed of frosted beryl barb flowers—Inborn flowers that blossomed continuously throughout the year. Snofrid cupped her mouth as she realized the girl was Lorna, her biological human mother. But she was young, no older than Snofrid was now, and there was a haunting sadness in her face, like she had a secret. On her ring finger was a gold band jeweled with sapphire teardrops, all set like a beryl barb blossom; the picture had been taken after she’d married Snofrid’s Inborn father.

  “Sno, I found it,” Desya hollered.

  Snofrid stuffed the picture frame into her sweater and then returned to the kitchen. Desya was shutting the refrigerator. Her jaw dropped at the sight of his Taser flashlight in hand. “It wasn’t in there, was it?”

  “Yeah, by the wasabi mash. Sorry, Sno.” He slung a duffle bag over his shoulder. “I have to run. Don’t forget about the Sterling shipment. We have to get it out by today, or they’ll get a full refund.”

  “I know, I finished the forms last night. And I have the numbers of the loaders.”

  “Awesome.” As he paced toward the genkan, she sat cross-legged on a cushion at the table. “Wait, one more thing, Sno.” Desya peeked around the door, his tone grave. “If you need to go out, don’t go alone…or at least, don’t go downtown. Chief Stoker has bluecoats doing Halo scans now, and sometimes the Halo camouflage draughts don’t hold up.”

  “Okay. If I have to go somewhere, I’ll ask Lycidius to come along when he gets back from Neko’s house.”

  He nodded. “Stay safe, Sno. I love you. See you tonight.”

  She sat in silence until the garage door squealed shut. His absence left the kitchen feeling like a deserted bar, a cheery place that was now glum and full of absence. Loneliness blew in around her with only the squeak of Threearms’s wheels to fill the emptiness.

  Unbuttoning her sweater, she pulled out the photo of Lorna. In all likelihood the picture held hints about her past life, clues which she had only to decipher. But the longer she looked, the more her mother’s tender dark eyes drew her in. Snofrid bit her lip, wondering what had happened to sadden her so terribly.

  With little more than two hours until work, Snofrid finished up a research paper for Dr. Cricket. Her old self might’ve found the class fun, but she found it grueling; there were other things she’d rather be doing. She didn’t dare brush off the work though, because failing to hand in assignments could be viewed as out of character; humans were supposed to be unaffected by the quarantine.

  She was writing on the preservation of near-extinct beast species in their natural habitats and, oddly enough, Fergus Dripper had been her leading source. Apparently, he had top connections in the Union Houses of Science and Research. She found in her files at least a dozen messages from him, all opening with the salutation: Hey, Snowball, get a whiff of this.

  Her mind slogged through beast facts until morning sunshine lit the kitchen. During this time, she noticed her phone had filled up with messages from contacts she couldn’t match faces to. Most asked why she was ignoring them, or why she hadn’t joined the Hatred Day protests, or why she’d skipped out on some music festival. She assumed the majority of them were human, which dulled the pride she felt at being so universally missed. She worked her way through the inbox, excusing herself with the explanation that she was recovering from an injury and then rose to get ready for her shift at the War Lobby.

  As she packed up her laptop, Lycidius strode in from the genkan. She wanted to smile as he entered; the house again seemed full. A padded sniper case was slung over his shoulder and his right eye was vivid, like a patch of blue sky. He carried the scents of wet bark and rainwater with his steps—he’d most likely been staking-out Neko’s house from the forest.

  “You were gone the night before last,” he said, laying the sniper case on the table. “Where?”

  “I didn’t go far,” she assured, fiddling with the zipper on her computer bag. “I was down in the woo
ds.”

  “Next time, tell someone when you leave.” His tone was firm, but gentle. “If you get caught, there’s not much I could do to help you.”

  “I know I should’ve told you, but I’m still curious—did you follow me around all the time before I lost my memories?”

  “We’ve looked out for each other since we were young. With the quarantine there’s a greater need.” He grabbed a towel from the countertop and scrubbed the rainwater from his hair, eyeing her hands. “You used to do that before.”

  “Do what?”

  “Pull on your sleeves when you were nervous.”

  She glanced at her sleeves, her skin warming. She hadn’t thought about it earlier but was curious how many traits of her old self she’d retained. Was she a wholly different person now or just a few shades different? “I should get to the War Lobby.”

  Lycidius dropped the towel with a shake of his head. “You’re not working today. I brought the Mania Mirror and you’re going into it right now.”

  “Now? But Desya said it would take time to prepare.”

  “It will take time, that’s why we’re starting now.” Hauling open the refrigerator, he began heaping food into his arms. “The mirror could keep you under for hours…sometimes they lay up people for days. You need to eat and drink as much as you can before going in. If you’re still in there tomorrow, I’ll put you on an IV drip.”

  She set down her computer bag, suddenly energized. “Okay. What should I do?”

  “Eat this.” He dumped a stack of bento boxes into her arms. “Go put on loose clothes, and make sure you use the bathroom.”

  “What if I’m under for weeks?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’ll think of something.”

  She pursed her lips. “Uh…actually, don’t. I’ll leave a note for Dez.”

  In her loft, she changed into the softest pajamas in her drawer. Then she used the restroom, scribbled a note for Desya about keeping Lycidius away from her bathroom needs, and plopped onto her bed. She ate through the bentos and followed it with cabbage rolls, pickled vegetables, cubed tofu and broccoli, and braised kale with bacon and potatoes. The hollow void in her mind might be filled—or, at least, the majority of her memories could return. Her entire body itched with longing at the idea. She’d no longer need to rely on others for explanations, like why she’d dated Atlas Bancroft; why people she couldn’t remember were familiar; what had happened between her and Lycidius; and how she’d ever willingly lived in Gehenna. Most importantly, she’d know who she’d been before all of this had happened.

  “Try to eat it all,” Lycidius said. He slid a wooden trunk through the doorway. “And make sure you hydrate.”

  “Wow, the mirror is huge.” She drank a glass of water and watched him finger a cork that was in place where the trunk’s keyhole would have been. “No wonder it cost so much.”

  “Some Mania Mirrors are bigger than this house. This one was made with eighty-five kilos of asrul dust. Eighty-five kilos weigh one-hundred and eighty-seven pounds. The dybbuk scales, sivariel metal and memory crystals make it over two-hundred and forty-three.” He laid a pillow on her legs. “Lie on your back. Even though you heal, we need to minimize the stress put on your body.”

  “You’ve really thought this through.” She left her water glass on the nightstand. Resting her head on the pillow, she positioned herself comfortably; her belly was so full she felt like a stuffed animal. “I know there’s a chance it might not work,” she said, staring at the Japanese lanterns on her ceiling. “What then?”

  “Then we’ll try something else. Daringly dared, half of it won, Snofrid.”

  She tilted her head toward him, certain now that she hadn’t learned the saying from Atlas. The way Lycidius spoke her name was caring, almost tender. “When I wake up, I might remember you.”

  He halted, as if something very specific had just occurred to him, and then dropped into a crouch at her bedside. “If it works, you’ll remember all of it. The bad and the good. But…” he chewed his tongue barbell, his expression conflicted, “look, whatever you remember about us, know that everything we decided has a reason behind it. It was and still is for the best.”

  Snofrid couldn’t explain it, but she suddenly felt a deep sadness. It was the kind of sadness one might experience from recalling a former suffering—still bitter, but eased by time. Clearly, her past self regretted the decision he was referring to. “I’ll try to trust in all the decisions I made,” she said.

  He nodded, looking even more conflicted. He glanced at the trunk. “I should open it now.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Do it.”

  “Make sure you’re ready. There’s no going back after I pull out the cork.”

  “I know.” She looked in his bright eye, needing the comfort it offered. “But I’m sure.”

  He tugged out the cork.

  Snofrid, fisting her blankets, watched glass tentacles wriggle out of the hole. They dove onto the mattress, clinking, and latched onto her arms. “Oh, they’re cold,” she breathed.

  “They’re memory crystals. They need to be chilled or the glass will warp.” He got to his feet and crossed his arms. “But they won’t work if they sense fear, so calm down. I’ve gone into a Mania Mirror before. It’s not as bad as it seems.”

  “Did it work?”

  “No.”

  She faced the ceiling, hoping she’d have better luck. The tentacles glided up her shoulders and suctioned to her temples. She blinked, seeing grey shapes in place of the ceiling lanterns. “Okay, something’s happening.”

  “I know.” He leaned over her face, so close his breath tickled her forehead. “Your pupils are dilating. Stay focused and look directly at whatever shows up in front of you.”

  The room burst into brightness.

  She squinted, trembling, and shielded her face with her arms. The rays formed a dazzling, spinning hole that shone as if the sun had melted and flooded the room. Aureoles glowed around the objects in the room, until, one by one, they washed-out in the light. She stared into the hole, not wanting to enter, but feeling her body slowly tipping forward.

  “Lycidius,” she called, hearing her own voice from far away. “I don’t think this is right.”

  “It’s right,” he called back. “Don’t fight it, or the crystals won’t touch your mind. Just relax and let go, Snofrid.”

  She shut her eyes, bracing her fear, and abandoned herself. The walls of her mind collapsed and she screamed as she was sucked into a hole, into a place that held neither light nor darkness, only silence. How much time passed she could only guess before she crashed into a toddler with braided black hair. Seated on the floor of a dark bedroom, the girl stared hopefully at the door.

  PART II

  A Girl and Her Ghost

  Age 4

  The Empyrean City

  I lived alone in a room without windows. It had one door that only opened on the last day of the month. There were giant chests of toys in the room. I kept my dolls in a wooden trunk with beryl barb carvings, and my thirty books, I stacked in neat rows along the walls. All of my dresses were stored in a wardrobe beside my bed; if I left one on the floor, it was hung by the morning. Each time I woke, a tray of meat, fruits and vegetables, and a pitcher of water was on the table. Someone took care of me; I didn’t know who, but I think the person liked when I was neat. I named the person Ghost. I wanted to make Ghost happy, so I always made sure my toys, books and clothes were put away before I went to sleep. I used to stay awake, hiding my face with my covers, waiting to see Ghost when it came in, but nothing ever happened. Once I stayed awake for hours, and by the twenty-ninth hour, the food still hadn’t come. I stopped trying to see Ghost after that.

  But I talked to Ghost every day.

  I told it about the things I read; I sang for it; I told it stories; I told it when I was sad, or afraid, or when I felt lonely; and I asked it questions, even though it never answered back. Almost every time I did these things,
the floor creaked on the other side of the wall, so I knew Ghost was listening. This usually made me happy, but sometimes it made me sad. I wanted Ghost to let me see it and play with me in the room.

  I didn’t know where the room was. I’d stopped wondering a long time ago. I hadn’t seen sunlight, or beasts, or plants, or the stars; I only knew about these things from pictures in my books. My favorite pictures were ones of the sky, and of giant towers with windows, and of beasts with bright feathers and furry tails.

  I had no idea what I looked like. I’d never seen my own face, only a blurry reflection in my food tray. I knew my eyes were large and that I was very small. I hoped I was pretty like the highborn women I read about.

  The two tall, masked men who walked me to the library each month to choose thirty new books were the only people I’d seen. One of them was skinny and so white he looked sick. He wore a black cassock and always tugged on the sleeves until strings fell on the floor. The other one was as big as a warrior. I’d learned by heart the House insignia on his breastplate—a cold blue wyvern head with seven silver horns above five golden keys. Around it were silver cypress leaves and golden anemone flowers; if I looked closely, I could see the soft outline of a solar eclipse behind the wyvern’s head. I liked the swishes his blue cassock made as he moved; the clicking sounds his spurs made when he walked; the way the light made his silver pauldron shine; and even the slow way he breathed.

  When the man in the black robe would lift me up to reach the books, he’d say in his raspy voice, “Don’t only choose science books. Some of the history books might have sweets behind them.” The man in the blue cassock never let me stand close to him. I didn’t think he liked me. His silver eyes looked sad, sometimes mad, through his mask eyepieces. Every time I stared at him, he squeezed something in his pocket. It must’ve been sharp, because afterward his pocket would have blood on it.