Blurred Weaponry (Saints of the Void, Book 1)

by Michael Valdez

  ~~~~~

  Turn your head away from the Social Cypher only if you feel like missing out on a miracle.

  It was an axiom within the Sainthood from long ago expressing how the machine efficiency of mass-hypnotism never ceased to amaze. It was mid-afternoon now and Dastou was leading Nes and Trenna to hunt down the rest of the attackers. The three of them crossed the Diplomatic Center’s lobby, the floor still full of bits of debris, broken glass, and concrete dust, and the Saint studied what the system had already done outside. Any vehicles that took damage were replaced with the exact same models from warehouse storage; the larger chunks of wall that were blown off the embassy were gone; scaffolding had been set up to repair windows shattered by shockwaves from the blasts; and there was no sign of the injured or killed. It was all very typical, very adequate, and frighteningly fast.

  There was also a lack of sound that was deep, disturbing. The noises of tools being used to cover windows with weatherproof material – a temporary solution until glass could be brought in – and a cement mixer half a block away echoed repeatedly along the empty street. The remaining hypnotized men and women, with their bright sky-blue eyes and total focus, weren’t going to fill any of that near-silence with casual chatting. These people were worker bees, and the Social Cypher queen would have this street back to pretty in two or three days. The extensive damage to the Blackbrick Diplomatic Center would take a lot longer to fix, as that would need to be handled by volunteers and mostly during off-work time. That was the drawback of construction on a hole in Cypher coverage, but they got the building put up in only two years, so Dastou had no doubt they’d fix all the giant holes in the walls and missing glass in due time. The scene made the Saint glad he always had some recruits to punish when some annoying menial labor was needed at the Academy.

  Dastou was a step ahead of Trenna and Nes as they walked on broken shards of glass and out to the getting-better street. Constable Chenrov Renker was standing outside, facing the work crews, a cup of something hot in one hand and the other helping her body lean lightly against her cane. Seeing the IC’s leader made the Saint falter a step, knowing that Trenna Geil going with him would be a point of contention and the beginning of an argument. As a possible citizen of Blackbrick and a valuable witness to a local disaster, a crime no less, Trenna was supposed to be kept nearby until such a time as she could be interviewed by the Igneous Counterbalance. Sadly – or better put, instinctively – Dastou did not trust the Blackbrick Council, especially Jandal Tryst, to let the IC handle things. Even thinking about leaving Trenna here gave the Saint a tinge of regret. Hopefully Renker wouldn’t catch on, what with her people likely preparing for a long, dangerous night of folks drinking and drugging away their problems, especially today with some of those problems being the deaths of loved ones. When Dastou stepped out through a glassless double door after his short delay and heard Nes and Trenna follow him out, the constable finished a sip from her mug and immediately addressed him.

  “You have four hours,” Renker said without looking at any of them, steam rising from the lip of her mug. “And you’re smart, so you know I’m being generous by giving you an extra thirty minutes. If you’re not back here in time, I’m changing the lock on the outer door in the sub-basement that leads to that machine of yours and posting a guard. You’ll have to leave town another way.”

  “Weird,” Nes began, his tone already sarcastic, “because if you wanted us to leave, you’d let us go in that ‘machine’ as you put it. It’s pretty fast, we’d be gone before you could curse at our backs.”

  “Are you ever less than an idiot?” asked Renker.

  “My mom says no.”

  “Ugh. I’m changing the lock so you can’t come back to this city without permission. If you return from this investigation in time, you’ll be allowed to use your mobile headquarters to get out of Blackbrick after a debriefing in which you will hand over any important evidence or prisoners. Being late means you walk out.” Her tone up to now was as informative as it was stern, but her next words were dark with warning. “And if your people below decide to stay past the time despite the warnings I’ll give them, it will be deemed an act of aggression. You will never be allowed into Blackbrick without my say-so.”

  “As far as I can tell,” Dastou said, “Tryst and the council will ban me the second I leave today. No matter what happens, I may never be able to come back, so ultimatums are more or less out of place here.”

  “What an old man with delusions of his own importance does to you is not my concern,” said Renker before taking a sip of her drink, which smelled like flowery tea. It was definitely nice to hear that she thought of Tryst the same way he did despite her need to keep him safe. “This is me handling an issue,” she went on, “between your organizations and the IC. I don’t want you in Blackbrick, but I’m not unreasonable or illogical. If the council blocks your movement within the protectorate they are establishing, take it up with them.”

  “Protectorate, huh?” Dastou said. “I love it when politicians use fancy words to justify a power-hungry nature.”

  “Before you go,” Renker said, completely ignoring the Saint’s last words, “in case you do not or cannot return, I should tell you that I know exactly what you are doing with this school of yours.”

  Renker was always blunt with Dastou, the few times they interacted anyway, though this time she was revealing something that could be used as political capital, or maybe as blackmail material. Her act of sharing it was, to the Saint, an act shocking trust. However, he had to make sure that she was saying what he thought she was saying.

  “What is it that you think we do, then?” Dastou asked, wondering if the IC as a whole knew, or if Renker figured it out and kept quiet.

  “You record information on...,” said Renker, who took a short breath before continuing with the taboo subject. “On the Cypher. Which means that you don’t know as much about it as the more superstitious people out there think you do. I certainly don’t submit to the somewhat common belief that you control it.”

  “Well, uh, thanks?”

  “No one as seemingly childish, inane, and self-absorbed as you are would do anything less than the very worst with that kind of power. Meaning you do not have it.”

  “Thanks again,” Dastou said with genuine appreciation this time. “It’s hard to find people who understand me so completely.”

  Nes made an exasperated face of surprised disappointment, as if to say “I’m right here.”

  “But the system is the system,” said the constable, undeterred by the inanity she already pointed out. “It barely holds together as it is, and the people won’t hold it together if it changes suddenly. I see it every night.”

  Renker couldn’t help but show true emotion through her professional exterior here. She cared about her city, the people she protected, there was no doubt. Only a madman would go up against a mother hen like her, and Dastou felt some trepidation over the fact that he may have no choice if he was to fully investigate this assassination attempt past today.

  “You are not some great man doing a great deed by trying change the world,” Renker continued. “You are proving your tenuous grasp on reality by not thinking of how horrific the changes will make life for so many. I want you to find the people that attacked you, I’ll grant you that because I’d ask for and want for same. After that, this city must be separated from you and your goals. Our freedom will come in small steps, like this embassy, not in the massive, thoughtless leap you desire.”

  Dastou was quiet for several seconds, letting the sounds of the hypnotized cleaning crew take over. He was never truly sure of how much Renker wanted anything more than the continuation of the status quo, the way things had been for over four-hundred years of known history. This wasn’t the first time the Saint guessed Renker wanted the same thing he did: to break away from the Social Cypher’s stifling control. Unfortunately, she was wrong about the small steps. The system wouldn’t break slowly – that had been
proven time and time again, disaster after disaster. The hammer had to be large, it had to swing fast and unexpectedly. The Saint would not be deterred, though he would do everything in his power to keep from going against the IC.

  “Like you said,” Dastou finally responded, “I’m childish. I’m going to keep on my road until I get to the end, I’m sorry. I wish you the best in keeping this city in line.”

  “That’s exactly what I expected from you,” Renker said derisively. “Who is she?”

  The question threw Dastou for a loop, as Renker had not once looked in their direction. He’d been hoping Trenna went unnoticed. The Saint looked back and to his side, to the girl, who was wearing a simple new outfit of a black t-shirt over a long-sleeved white one, black pants, new glasses, and her deep black hair in a high ponytail. Nes was next to her wearing his dark-grays and red, with a mean-looking bullpup assault rifle clipped to his back, a belt with several full pockets, and a couple of extra magazines for weapon, yet Trenna was Renker’s focus. To the girl’s credit, she did her part by being unreadable.

  “She’s someone I’m looking to recruit,” Dastou said without delay.

  “Oh?” Renker said with a small twist of her head to stare at the girl for a split second. “Where is she from?”

  “Davranis Central,” Dastou fibbed, mentioning the name of his and Ornadais Academy’s hometown. “She’s got potential.”

  “You are a liar. Four hours.” Without another word or glance, Renker walked into the embassy, mug in hand, her limp the same as ever.

  Dastou watched as the woman went away, and let go of a breath he’d been holding.

  “That was... nice of her?” Nes said.

  “Renker isn’t nice as much as fair-handed,” said Dastou. “She’s only giving us the chance she’d want for herself, like she said. Trenna?”

  The girl had been looking into the embassy as the constable limped through the lobby and turned into a corridor, out of sight. The sound of her own name made her snap to attention like a child caught stealing.

  “Y-Yes?”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “No,” Trenna said quickly. “It’s just that everyone knows who that is, and I’ve always been scared of seeing her in public.”

  “Hopefully we won’t see her again today, we’ve pissed her off plenty as it is. Lead the way, Trenna.”

  “Right,” she said. “I’ll do that.”