The Sightless City

by Noah Lemelson

  He pushed the crate down back hallways of the monolith, stopping every few seconds to allow Sylvaine to listen in for footsteps. Each time she knocked and Marcel shoved on towards the back exit. He was surprised by how quiet the structure was. Even during the previous midnights there had been one or two guards wandering around, whether under Verus’s influence or Roache’s.

  “I think we’re clear,” Marcel said, as they approached the final bend.

  Sylvaine didn’t respond.

  “I said I think we’re clear.”

  Three knocks reverberated from inside of the crate, code for ‘shut up.’ Marcel stopped, and then leaned down. Sylvaine whispered something. He put his ear to the wood.

  “I smell blood,” she said.

  Marcel stood back up slowly, turning as he made out a sound behind him. A mutant leaned out from another hallway, silently but frantically gesturing at him to come back. Marcel held his breath and started to turn the crate.

  “Talwar?”

  It was Crat’s voice. Marcel halted a moment, but it was too late. The man had heard him, Marcel had no choice. The mutant was already scampering away.

  He pushed forward around the bend. Crat was there, before the shut loading bay, standing over a body of a Lazacorp guard. The slumped man’s neck was slit, as Crat wiped his knife clean with a rag.

  “You finished, Talwar?” the man asked.

  “Yes,” Marcel said, trying not to stutter as he watched the dead guard’s blood pool. He noticed a second corpse lying a few metres behind, long since bled out.

  “No thank-you’s?” Crat asked, gesturing his blade. “I made your task easier. That one behind me is a Roache loyalist anyhow, so it’s easier now than later. Not sure about this one, but best not to take the risk.”

  “Right,” Marcel said. “Well, good, then.” He started to push the crate forward again. Crat stopped it with his boot.

  “It’s all fixed?” he said.

  “Yes, I told you.” Marcel said.

  “Then I’ll take you down to Verus,” Crat said. “He’ll let you explain Roache’s treachery to his face.”

  Marcel tapped the box. “I’ll meet you there. I just need to return this.”

  Crat's boot didn’t move. “What’s in the box?”

  “Oh,” Marcel said. He pushed back the top a little bit and reached in. The layer of machine parts and disguised clockbombs that they had previously hid Sylvaine with were now entirely installed in the machine, leaving only a ragged and torn sheet of burlap to blanket the engineer from any prying eyes. Marcel grabbed the only piece of metal he could find, a heavy wrench.

  “You know,” Marcel continued, waving the spanner around, “just my tools and all that.”

  “I’ll get someone on it. Come on, don’t waste time,” Crat said.

  “It’ll only take a minute,” Marcel said.

  Crat squinted at him, then pointed his knife down. “What’s in the crate, Talwar?”

  “I told you,” Marcel said, but Crat pushed past. He lifted up the top and tossed it aside.

  “What in…” the man started.

  Marcel swung. He swung the wrench as fast and as hard as he could manage, right into the back of Crat’s head. There was a crunch, and the bulky man fell to his side.

  Sylvaine scrambled up and looked down, eyes wide.

  “Shit,” Marcel said, grabbing the unconscious man’s hand. “We need to get him out of here, so when he wakes up…”

  “Marcel,” Sylvaine, said, as he struggled to pull the body, “I don’t think he’s getting up.”

  Marcel stopped, and took a moment to feel the man’s pulse. A chill ran through him. There wasn’t a beat.

  “Demiurge,” Marcel said. “I killed him.”

  “Well you did hit him pretty hard. I guess the revolution’s starting early.”

  Sylvaine pulled herself out of the box as Marcel stared at the body. Crat had been a brute who had made his money off slavery and sadism. Marcel knew that many such men would die this night, yet still he had been a man, a living, breathing man, just seconds ago. Now he was a corpse.

  Marcel staggered over, leaned on the wall, and vomited out his small dinner.

  “You okay, Marcel?” Sylvaine asked.

  He nodded, spitting up a wad of bile. Marcel had planted bombs before, had made plans that he knew had led to fatalities, but he never realized how different it felt to kill someone directly. His hand was shaking, and he realized he had never let go of the wrench. Its end was stained red. He dropped it quickly.

  “Psst!” came a voice.

  The mutant had reappeared. He walked over on a stiff, chitinous leg, and eyed the body before gesturing to follow. Marcel swallowed his sickness as best as he could, as the mutant led them out the door.

  * * *

  Their guide introduced himself as Nozka and ended pleasantries there. They followed his limping form through the backways of the refineries, down hidden alleyways, under silent pumps, and through mutant shanties, a cautious circuitous route.

  The streets were deathly silent. As they walked, Marcel could make out mutant forms, hiding behind and glancing from doorways and drilling equipment. On a closer look, Marcel notice that they were each holding hammers, or wrenches, or some variety of long sharp objects scavenged recently or long since hidden away.

  “Best route out, down by the sewer entrance near the wall,” said Nozka. “Still some guards ‘round, smarter to wait them out.” He glanced to Marcel. “You set the bombs, right?” There was a slight fear in his voice, as if he didn’t have the hope left to believe it.

  “Eight minutes,” Sylvaine said, flashing her watch.

  He led them up a shanty tower built on the fire escape of an old tenement near the wall. It took a few minutes, clambering past other mutants who sat and watched with eagerness, but they were able to find their own spot, near the top.

  From that vantage point they had a clear vision of the monolith, several blocks away. The streetlights were dim to near black, which was usual. What was stranger was the lack of torchlights flickering up and down as guards made their usual rounds. One flash did appear around a street corner, two Lazacorp guards strolling around the bend, talking among themselves. A pair of shadows descended upon them from an open doorway. Not mutant forms, but two men in hoods, with quick blades. The guards were dead within seconds.

  Verus’s coup was underway.

  “They’re gathering,” Sylvaine whispered. She pointed and Marcel followed her finger down the streets, where he could just make out, through the frames of two blocks of buildings, the brickwork of one of the central offices. All seemed usual until, there, he made out some quick movement, a man kneeling by the edge of the building, rifle in hand. Then two men, then three, then a dozen, their shadows thrown by the bright lights shining out from the windows of the office. No doubt that was where Crat had wanted to take Marcel. An ambush destined to be ambushed itself.

  Nearer still, some of the mutants appeared to be getting antsy. A few had stepped onto the street, looking around, walking in the direction of the office. Marcel grabbed the handrail and some of the mutants around him whispered nervously. The two hooded figures who had been dragging away the guards’ corpses now noticed the approaching mutants and shouted something. They waved their blades and the mutants stopped, seemingly unsure of whether to move forward and attack, or run back. One of the two hooded figures dashed into the nearby building, and the standoff continued.

  Then, suddenly, a crack of gunfire. Shouts echoed out from around the office complex, the men dashing out to surround the building. Muzzle flashes lit the streets, light flicked on from dozens of other buildings, confused guards running out into the street. The squad of mutants took this moment to move forward, the hooded figure running back in a panic, as more mutants left their hiding places and moved in the direction of the chaos.

  It was all a strangely familiar sight in its own way, watching over
a battlefield from up high, unable now to make any contribution one way or another. Again, Marcel was in the middle of it all, but completely detached, he could see the violence, but was totally removed from it.

  A crackling sound screeched out, and the familiar monotone of Lazarus Roache started to drone out of the dictaphone speakers around them.

  “All workers remain calm. Stay inside your quarters. All workers remain calm. Stay inside your quarters.”

  Instantly, as a single entity, the workers froze, some nearby groaning. Those on the street jerked in stiff motions and slowly started to turn back into the buildings.

  Sylvaine bent over violently, stifling a scream, clutching the railing as if it were a life raft. She shook and jabbed her ears into her arms.

  Marcel grabbed her arm. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She muttered something that he couldn’t catch.

  “Sylvaine?”

  “Four,” she said.

  She was holding something in her hand.

  “What?” Marcel asked.

  “Three.”

  Marcel leaned in to see.

  “Two.”

  It was her watch.

  “One.”

  Chapter 39

  “Promptness,” Lazarus Roache leaned back in his chair, “is the key to any functioning business partnership, don’t you agree?”

  “Yes sir,” Namter said as he signed Roache’s name to the bottom of an export document, one of hundreds stacked beside him.

  Lazarus sipped his tea and studied the empty conference room. As the office building functioned as a neutral grounds of sorts, it held none of the ornate and expensive decorations that Roache habitually hung over every wall. Namter’s master tapped his spoon on the side of his cup as he thought.

  “No, that is too modest a statement,” he said. “Promptness is the key to any functional relationship at all, in business, in diplomacy, in married life I would imagine, a grim partnership to avoid. To leave one waiting, why, you might as well piss in their tea. Do you understand my meaning?”

  “Of course, sir,” Namter said, staring down at the scrawled letters, stunned by the gall on display. Did these raiders really think Lazacorp would pay double for transport? Sure Lazacorp’s upcoming demand would be high, but this was unacceptable gouging. He tossed the estimate into a side folder. He would deal with these idiots later.

  “It’s been seven years, Namter. We are nearing the end of our contract and still Verus insists on burning our time like firewood.” He sipped again, finishing the tea. Namter poured him another cup with a free hand, continuing to work with his other. “It’s near midnight,” Roache said. “What under the sky could Verus need a meeting now for?”

  “I can’t claim to know, sir,” Namter said.

  “He’s bitter, that’s what it is. I’ve done his job better than he could, so now he needs to keep us up on the eve of our triumph.” Lazarus yawned. “I’m going to be baggy-eyed for the party tomorrow.”

  “I’m sure you will look very well,” Namter assured him, as he wrote out some orders for nutrient-gruel to be delivered to Narida Heights. They would be transporting damn near a city’s worth of Tribute; it was vital they were fed well enough to survive the journey.

  Roache glanced down at his butler’s scrawling pen. “Do you need to be doing that right now?”

  “My apologies sir, but we are behind on some of the logistics. If I don’t get everything in order, we may need to delay the Enterprise even further.”

  “Your worry will drive you into an early grave Namter. You let your mind swirl like this, well, I can’t see how you’ll even enjoy the party.”

  As if Namter had ever enjoyed any of Roaches farcical shows. He tapped his pen, and started on another form. “I don’t wish to disagree with you sir, but I don’t think we can risk letting the Tribute starve and rot while we are still organizing our caravans.”

  Roache sighed and sipped. “Fine, fine, at least put the pen down when Verus arrives. It makes us look unprofessional.”

  As if on cue, the door swung open. Namter stood, Roache sat, as the Awakener strolled in. His face wore an unusual calm, and Namter’s heart rose with the sudden hope that maybe this meeting was the stage for the reconciliation he had prayed for. Namter pulled out a seat for Verus, but the man remained standing.

  “Took your time,” Roache said, arms crossed. “What sort of business requires that I stay up until near-midnight, yet gives you the excuse to come thirty minutes late?”

  “I thought a friend might be able to join us,” said Verus, smirk wide, eye narrow. “He’s still busy, it seems.”

  “A friend.” Roache’s gave an impression of a laugh. “I never took you as a man who made friends.”

  “Exceptions for all things,” Verus replied. “And he is a mutual friend. Who you might have mistakenly thought a late friend.”

  “Later than you, it seems,” Roache replied. Verus rolled his eye.

  “Our Enterprise is complete,” said Namter. Verus turned to him with a bitter gaze. “Have you taken the chance to inspect it? Soon we will be entirely prepared for the Reification, Awakener. I know we three have not always been amicable, but all is nearly finished, we’ve succeeded.” His words had no effect on the man. If anything his anger seemed to grow.

  “And you, Watcher,” Verus said. “If you have indeed kept Watch. Is there anything else you would like to tell me about the Enterprise? About the work your master has done?”

  “It’s all there,” Namter insisted. “It’s as we planned. There’s no need for past grudges to rule us when we are on the eve of our holy task.”

  Verus stepped closer. “Fidelity and obedience are essential, Watcher, you know this. Is there not something that you should be telling me?” His breath heated Namter’s face, the anger overwhelming and incomprehensible.

  “Don’t speak to my butler like that!” Roache exclaimed. “Namter, back here.” Namter reluctantly retreated back to the side of his master. Verus spat on the hardwood floor.

  “Fine,” he said. “I suspected as much.”

  “So did you just come here to get in one last jab?” asked Roache. “Still bitter about the Gall affair and realize you’re running out of chances to complain? Fine then, say your piece, but do try to be quick about it.”

  Verus rested one fist on the table. “You’re right, I am interested in engineering, but Gall is old news. Let’s talk about Marcel.” He leaned in across the table. “I never took the proper interest in that man, but I can see why you used him. Every conversation a new surprise.”

  Lazarus raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

  “You never told me, Roache,” Verus said, face inching forward, “what the man did for his university studies.”

  “Is that the mystery you’re searching for? The man flunked out of a medical program.”

  Verus halted his leaning. His eye flickered back and forth. “Even now you retreat to lies? What of his studies in engineering?”

  “Is that what the man told you?” Roache laughed.

  “He did more than tell me. He showed me some interesting findings.”

  Lazarus Roache stretched back on his chair, studying Verus. The two men did not speak for half a minute. They simply watched each other.

  “Namter,” Roache finally said, “don’t you still have work to do? Filling out those inventory forms and authorizations and all that? I’m sure you can find a quiet room somewhere around here.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Namter. “But I can wait until after the meeting.”

  “No need to wait,” Roache waved him away.

  “You heard your master,” barked Verus. “Go on. Leave us.”

  Namter gathered his papers and left without a word.

  He headed down the central stairs of the building, past a guard lounging in the hallway, taking a right at the main foyer, into a small empty office. He swept the papers of some insignificant clerk off the
desk and got to work.

  Once again he had been pushed to the side, in favor of his two masters’ unending bickering. Once again the unity he sought was kicked to the ground and spat on.

  He pulled out a letter written in near scribbles, a raider’s approximation of text. Threats, it seemed, pleas and petitions for more slickdust, insistence that if their needs were not filled, the gang would not only fail to provide transport services, but instead practice their more habitual trade on Lazacorp caravans. This would require a response, maybe even a retaliatory order to one of the other raider gangs to keep things in line. How weary Namter was of raider bluster, how glad he was that he’d soon be done with it.

  Namter heard a cough from outside. He glanced through the darkened window. There were no handtorch lights, no walking guards. Was some mutant skulking about past hours? He got up and squinted, the street outside was completely empty. Wait, no, he espied a figure there, a Lazacorp guard, in the dark, huddled against the side of the wall. Then another, a rifle in his hand, a hooded Brother beside him. Namter stared at the odd scene, unable to make sense of what the men were doing.

  He turned suddenly at the sound of footsteps.

  “Brother Lacius,” Namter said with some surprise. “Did you come with the Awakener?”

  The Brother wore his hood, his Oathblood orb hanging down and his hand deep in his pocket. As one of Verus’s closest followers, it had been a good while since Lacius had last spoke to Namter with a friendly tone, yet still his sneer was shocking in its viciousness.

  “Do not dare speak of him, traitor.”

  “Trai…?” Namter was only able to get out the first syllable before Lacius leapt at him, knife in his hand. He plunged it forward, and Namter jumped back, hand out. The blade slashed, cutting through Namter’s glove and into his palm.

  “Brother!” he shouted, as he grabbed his assailant’s wrist and struggled. The man was younger than him by decades, stronger too. But Lacius was overeager, Namter twisted to the side and let the blade fall with the weight of the man, into the table. Lacius grunted as he tried to tug the knife out.