Hatred Day

by T S Pettibone

  The sole information she’d heard on the bombing aftermath was from several news broadcasts the Dracuslayers had gathered to watch last night and this afternoon. Now, instead of the fireworks of humanity week, the flashing strobes of emergency transports lit the city. Hundreds of Red Cross personnel, firefighters, emergency medical technicians, and aviation units had been called in to provide medical assistance. On top of this, President Sebaster had issued two-thousand marines to Hollowstone and had allegedly begun negotiations to rally worldwide support for military action. Already, over two billion silvers in donations had been amassed, for the bombing would reportedly amount to seventy billion silvers in property and infrastructure damage. Citizens had swarmed the hospitals in their willingness to give blood donations, and memorial services were being held globally for the 109,000 reported deaths.

  As Snofrid had feared, the attack had generated serious backlash. Presently, her kind were being hunted down by Hollowstone veterans and civilians. Before being executed, they were forced to admit their crimes against humanity on video and then made to beg forgiveness. Outside the shield, humans from neighboring cities had congregated with firearms, demanding access to the city, so they could do their part in the extermination of Inborns. Order was gone. Riots rose up in every borough; fear pushed people to accuse their neighbors, and grief made people forget who they were. Snofrid understood why they forgot. She’d lost a part of herself the day Ryuki had died, and then another, the day Parisa had abandoned them.

  Eventually, she arrived at a junction in the tunnel that split into five passages. Heart-shaped green aroid plants and moldy fungi budded from the rocks.

  “Okay,” she announced. “I’m at the Orina Junction.”

  “Jupioper Fork,” Rhode directed, swiping up a bag of jelly beans with his toes. “Second right.”

  Snofrid followed the fork into an armory. Everything from sniper rifles, pistols, acid grenades, to honed longswords, spiked morning stars, various bo staffs, brass Chakrams, and grisly Longxu hooks stocked the racks. She wondered why the armory wasn’t better protected, until the walls started to shift and close in on her. She bolted from the room before it entombed her.

  “Astros Fork,” Rhode said. “Middle left.”

  “Did you really memorize all these tunnels?” she panted. “Or do you have a map hidden under your pillow?”

  “I never rely on maps,” he sneered. “They’re a crutch. I have an eidetic memory. It’s a Dracuslayer requirement.” He flipped onto his stomach and reached for a new book. “But these tunnels are child’s play. There are secret passages all throughout the Empyrean City called Wheezing Ways. Everyone—except us mnemonists—need a Meridian Map to navigate.”

  She bet that a mnemonist was some great thing he’d expound upon.

  “Since you probably don’t know,” he went on, “a mnemonist is someone with a superior capacity to remember what they see. Like numbers, minefield locations, bank information.”

  “I figured. The context was self-explanatory.” Snofrid, knowing that Lycidius had once been a Dracuslayer, was curious and asked, “What do Dracuslayers need aside from a good memory?”

  Rhode chortled and flipped open a book called, Legends of Flesh-Eating Monsters. “You couldn’t handle it.”

  “I’m not interested in joining. It was just plain curiosity.”

  He deliberated, rolling a pink jelly bean around in his palm. “Dracuslayers are required to know all the Inborn dialects, plus a few dozen human languages. Most have to be ambidextrous, and limber like rubber bands.” He sprinkled two more jelly beans into his hand, his voice haughty. “Tack on bug dials training. Lie detection training. Pain tolerance training. Body language training. Weapon’s training.” He added five more beans to the pile. “Geometry. Physics. Swim 6.2 meters per second. An IQ of 140 or higher. 20/5 vision…”

  “Wait,” she interrupted, her tone skeptical. “Dracuslayers need an IQ over 140?”

  “Indeed.” He tossed the jelly beans in the air, catching them all in his mouth. “Mine is 146.”

  Somehow, she mistrusted this.

  “What’s your intelligence level?” Rhode goaded. “Or maybe you’re too embarrassed to tell?”

  She raised her head slightly, unapologetic. “129.”

  He blasted a laugh. “Yeah. You definitely couldn’t be a Dracuslayer.”

  “Good thing I’d rather go into politics, then.”

  Rhode snorted, then twirled his toe in a circle. “My lodgings are in the Ursia Vortex. Turn right at the end of this tunnel and keep walking in circles until I tell you to stop.”

  “This better not be another trick,” she forewarned.

  “You’re no longer fun to trick, girl. It’s boring to keep winning so easily.”

  “We were never competing,” she pointed out. This was another common trait she’d found in Dracuslayers. They turned everything into a game.

  Following his instructions, she strolled down a spiral-like tunnel, around and around and around, until she felt dizzy; a major downside of the Spyderweb was that the designer had a fascination with swirling walkways. Arched doors padded the walls and colorful mosaics adorned the marble flooring.

  “Up ahead,” Rhode said. “The door with the winged-octopus knocker leads into my lodgings.”

  Just as she found the door, it flew open. Rhode stood framed in the doorway, wearing a cobalt silk robe that bared his skinny white chest. His platinum side-braided mohawk was rumpled from his pillow, and blue dye stained his lips.

  “Still wearing a gasmask,” he observed. “The guys and I are starting to wonder why that is.”

  “Never mind why.” She cupped her gasmask filter, gagging at the awful stench that crowded the room. “Are you going to let me in?”

  He propped up two fingers. “Two rules: don’t touch my armor and don’t look through my comics.”

  “Fine.”

  He stepped aside, granting her entrance. The chamber stunk and was messier than if it had been hit by a bomb, but the elaborate interior made her marvel; Dracuslayer soldiers customarily had barren lodgings. Candy wrappers littered the floor, some stuffed into the velvet cushions, or kicked under the bed; a fabric canopy and gilded headboard decked out the king-sized bed. Candelabras and sunburst mirrors festooned the blue coral walls, matching the hues of the pillared fireplace in the corner.

  “Is everyone’s room this nice?” she asked, eyeing a living wall of evergreen plants.

  He cracked a toothy grin. “Not even close. This room is a Governor Lodging.”

  She posed a guess. “You ran the fastest and claimed it first?”

  “Nope. Nethers is the fastest sprinter. When he snagged it, I let a skunk loose inside.” Rhode stretched his arms and paced toward the bed. “After it sprayed, he backed out and no one else wanted it.”

  She wouldn’t have wanted it either. As she closed the door, she noticed the rows of boxes and tubes across the floor.

  “That’s my training gear,” Rhode said.

  “Wait.” She gave him a look. “Don’t tell me you squeeze into—”

  “Believe it.” He leaned against the bedpost. “All right. Let’s get this over with. What do you want?”

  “I need to use your phone.”

  “No can do. The Commander doesn’t want you making calls.”

  “Not for a call. I’m going to use your phone to play the super high pitch to persuade him to return my phone—I need an important number from it.”

  Rhode stroked his chin thoughtfully. “What’s in it for me?”

  “Tell me what you want.”

  “Well, let me see.” His eyes prowled the room. “Two things: I want you to clean my room before the hunt, and I want you to show me your moose face.”

  She lobbed up a hand in protest. “I’ll clean your smelly room, but I won’t take off my mask.”

  “No face, no deal.”

  Snofrid knew if she showed him her face, he’d peg her as a halfbreed flat-out. And consider
ing his poor ability to keep anything a secret, the whole Spyderweb would know by lunchtime. She swung her head toward him in warning. “If I do show you, then I want your word as a highborn that what you see will stay between us.”

  “Silence will cost extra.”

  “I thought it would. How much extra?”

  Shoving off the bedpost, he strolled to a trunk beside the evergreen wall. He hiked open the lid and gestured to a skunk sleeping in the corner. “Let him loose in the refectory during dinner.”

  She grimaced. “If I do that, everyone will get sprayed.”

  “As planned.”

  “Tell me why you can’t do it.”

  “Simple, girl. I don’t want to be on wash-duty again.” Shutting the lid, he lifted up his leg and stripped off a trux illusion key from the sole of his foot. “This will get you into the baths. You’ll need it after you do the deed. But go after 1900 hours.

  “Hold on. I didn’t agree yet.” She eyed the dirty key, glad she was wearing gloves. “Why after 1900 hours?”

  “Because I do laps at 1800 hours. My streamline is wicked; it needs the whole bathtub.” He sat on a lounge before the fireplace, getting comfortable. “Okay. Show me what’s behind the mask.”

  The devious twinkle in his eye made the hair on her nape prick up. There was a solid chance that Rhode could spill her secret, so she had to ask herself which scenario would be worse. Risking the lives of her loved ones, or being penalized if the other Dracuslayers learned she was a halfbreed?

  Turning to Rhode, she said, “What assurance do I have that you won’t break your word?”

  “Blind trust.”

  “I’d sooner trust that the skunk won’t spray me.” She plunked the lunar lantern on the table in frustration as she faced the reality that everything had a price. Getting her phone was crucial, despite how the cost affected her. She reached for her gasmask straps, her tone severe. “If you do tell anyone, I’ll make sure you regret it, Dracuslayer Vortigern.”

  Snofrid pinched her nose to block the foul skunk odor that clogged the bathhouse air. She was soaking in a private pool at the back with the lace curtain drawn. The foamy water had grown tepid, for she’d been required to wait two hours to bathe. Every Dracuslayer in the Spyderweb had flooded the bathhouse after the skunk sprayed at dinner and had lingered there, steeping for hours. She hadn’t been allowed to enter until 8:30, but since Hadrian would be in a meeting with Lord Alcander until 9:30, she didn’t feel rushed.

  Lifting her chin, she gazed up at the marble sculptures that ornamented the bathhouse pillars. One sculpture of a female soldier with flaming hair stooped over the water. Snofrid found herself thinking about the hunt as she looked at the warrior’s stouthearted face. She’d listened to heroic tales of war her entire life, existed on the brink of it, yet she’d never truly understood how people could give their lives to war. The most natural outcome was death; a risk she’d never felt with her healing ability. She wondered if soldiers felt fear. Maybe it took a certain kind of soul to fight—a great soul. She’d never been inherently daring. In the past, she’d forced herself to do things that frightened her for the sake of those she loved, but those things were merely trifles. They weren’t the kind of bravery that would be deemed heroic. She’d need heroic bravery during the hunt, though she feared that when it counted, she’d prove to be a coward.

  As she reached for her towel, Hessia glided into the chamber with a bag of clothes tucked under one arm. The Seer chose the nearest open bath and proceeded to unfasten the clasps on her cotton tunic. Snofrid clutched the pistol that was hidden under her towel.

  “I’m in here, just so you know,” she said, drawing back the curtain.

  “I do know,” Hessia called. “I caught the stench of halfbreed from the hallway.”

  In her peripheral, Snofrid watched the tunic slide off her shoulders, baring her blistered back and bony ribs; scars, bursting abscesses and hanging flesh plagued her skin, making Snofrid wonder how she wasn’t moaning in constant pain.

  When she lifted off her facial armor, Snofrid couldn’t suppress a flinch. The Seer’s eyes were crooked, like the eyes of a melting snowman. The flayed purple skin that stretched over her skull made her resemble a leprous monster. Her mouth was toothless and trimmed with decaying gums, but the sight wasn’t nearly as horrific as her crushed nasal bone and skewed jaw.

  “Your reaction is no different from others,” Hessia said, wading into the pool. “Go on and stare if you wish. By now it’s become more thrilling than demeaning.”

  Snofrid frowned as Hessia side-eyed her right bicep. “You always look at my Halo,” she noted, “which makes me wonder: are you interested in my ability to regenerate? Or are you jealous of it?”

  Hessia arched a brow. “I could never be jealous of a halfbreed.”

  “I think you are. I see it in your face.”

  Hessia went quiet, her nails curling around the lip of the bath. “As a soldier, I must destroy my vulnerabilities. But also as a soldier, I must face the realization that life is transient. Only a creature who can control whether she lives or dies is truly powerful. Most creatures want what you have.”

  Snofrid’s hand had grown sweaty on her pistol. It seemed a lot of people wanted what she had. Invincibility wasn’t only Hessia’s goal, but the Helios Society’s goal and it had been the goal of the Unloved God.

  “I know they do,” she said. “Which is why I’m thankful every day that there isn’t a way for me to give it to them.”

  Hessia’s eyes again flitted to her Halo and glittered darkly. “What makes you so certain?”

  “Just try verifying it.”

  Hessia’s lips peeled back into a wicked smile. “When the hunt is over, I will.”

  Snofrid let the threat blow past her. “When someone is truly strong, breaking the body does nothing,” she said. “It’s breaking the mind that destroys a person. So, in your case, getting a healing ability would be a small achievement. Your mind isn’t unconquerable.”

  She yanked the curtain closed. Using it for cover, she dressed herself in the long blue skirt and knit sweater she’d been wearing since the Alley. She then packed up her belongings and hastened to her room, leaving Hessia stewing alone in the pools. Her room was a standard soldier’s quarter, which was probably why it was neighbor to Hessia’s.

  Dumping her things onto the desk, she swiped up her latest sketch of the hunt site. It could fail, but the sketch would be half of her excuse to see Commander Hadrian. He hadn’t left his lodgings since the skunk ordeal—which luckily no one had discovered she was responsible for—so she hoped he wasn’t still in a meeting. By now, Atlas probably thought she was blowing him off. Imagining this made her want to sprint all the way to the Commander Lodgings, batter down the door and then shake Hadrian until he gave up her phone. Unfortunately, she’d need a more artful plan.

  She jogged to the refectory. The jaunty commotion of the soldiers’ recreation echoed down the halls long before she entered the chamber. Inside, they all donned exquisite floor-length tunics detailed with silver brocade. As they gambled with dice, guzzled down dragon-ale, and shucked clams, none regarded her with hostility, just the usual suspicion.

  She ducked under Rhode, who was swinging like an ape on the ceiling beams, and ended at the table beside Coyote. He was playing a game of Thaul with Nethers and a Dracuslayer named Darling. It was an Inborn number game of strategy that used a latticed board and wooden spheres. Coyote didn’t seem to be faring well. Sitting hunched with his forearms on the table, he spun a lustrous gem around in his palm, occasionally lighting it up with a burst of blue electricity.

  “What do you need?” he asked her.

  “To talk to the Commander.”

  “The Commander is in his study,” he informed. “No one bothers him after the door closes.”

  Snofrid had anticipated some red tape but was far from quitting. “Please. It’s important.”

  Coyote eyeballed her sketch. “I think the drawing can wa
it.”

  “That’s not why I want to see him. Tell him I want to apologize.”

  Coyote arched a brow, incredulous. “For what exactly? How about you apologize for tearing my hair out?”

  She stiffened in defiance. After how he’d handled her at the hunt site, he deserved it. “Fine. I’m sorry I ripped your hair out.”

  Laughter erupted in the room “Did she tear out your manhood with it?” someone jeered. “Or maybe she left some behind so you wouldn’t be a complete wet bag.”

  “That’s exactly what you’re going to be, Narwood, when you’re kissing my ass.” Coyote skidded back his chair, tossing his gems on the table with a clatter. “I’ll run it by him,” he said to Snofrid, “but expect nothing.”

  She nodded. “Thank you.”

  As he left the refectory, she slipped a hand into her pocket and switched on Rhode’s phone. The boy had downloaded a recording of the pitch 67 Hz+ from the hypernet, setting it to play on a loop. No one seemed to detect a change as it began to play, though she was certain Hadrian was within earshot; his hypersensitive Skinwalker hearing allowed him to isolate sounds within a ten-mile radius.

  “What do you need to apologize for, girl?” Rhode hollered from the ceiling beams.

  “Something you’ll never hear about.”

  “Don’t need to. I can guess.” He swung back and forth on the beam, gaining momentum, before he heaved into a triple front flip, and fell into a side-break on the table. “You want clemency for denying us warriors our rightful respect?”

  “No.”

  “Then you want forgiveness for entering into our midst as a deceiver in lady’s clothing?”

  Snofrid shot him a cautionary glance. Since he’d seen her face, he’d been trying to trip her up in some way or another. Thankfully, it seemed that he intended to keep the secret of her halfbreed nature, but this didn’t ensure that he wouldn’t try to make her spill it on her own. “Remember our deal,” she thought.