by Ben Farthing
"You and Mr. President?"
"No, we're rebellists. Our involvement with the Burgesses is based on our beliefs."
"But the Burgesses have their own version of the bald guy with the cross burnt into his forehead?"
"Nothing that violent. Our benters can read a document and know the writer's true intent, regardless of how confusing the words. And there's a few we have lobbying Congress. Not because of what they can say, or how much they can bribe, but because of the aura of inspiration they give off. Good old American rebellious patriotism. Loving your country while not trusting the people running it."
"That's why rebellists are always with the Burgesses."
"Rebellists have always had a complicated relationship with the Burgesses."
After the Burgesses carried away Renae, Brian came and sat next to Everard.
"One minute she was making fun of my music," said Brian, "and the next she was gone. How's something like that happen so fast?"
Mr. President joined them, his attendant Minnie at his heels. He looked down his nose at Brian. "I want you to know we'll do everything it takes to bring both the Lynch Mobbers and Undone Duncan to justice."
Everard cut in. "What about the guys in suits? Aren't they the ones paying Undone Duncan to do their dirty work?"
Mr. President answered without looking at Everard. "That hasn't been proven, and it's not the assumption we're working with."
Bill Bill cleared his throat, chose his words carefully. "At some point, don't you think we have to accept that Inc's goal is more aggressive than just winning political power?"
"They're not going to beat us at politics," said Minnie.
"They already are," said Bill Bill. "And now they're trying to beat us with violence. You think the people will trust us to protect them when we can't even protect ourselves from a common gang?"
"That's enough," said Mr. President.
"I don't think it is," said Bill Bill. "And it's not going to be enough until the CEO turns the people against us so much that they'll look the other way when Inc comes at us guns blazing."
"I have it under control," said Mr. President.
"I know fifteen murdered burgesses who would disagree."
Mr. President tightened his fist around his handkerchief. "I'd rather not be governing in the first place." He walked away. His retinue followed, leaving Everard, Brian, and Bill Bill sitting in the hall alone.
"Mr. President gets fed up with his job sometimes," said Bill Bill. "D.C. was supposed to just be for Congress to work when it was in session, not for people to actually live here."
Everard wasn't interested in a history lesson. He'd always stayed out of any conflict he saw. When you didn't want the government to notice you, that was always the best choice. But he also avoided conflict because once he got involved, he had a tough time letting it go.
"I'm here because you said you could protect me."
"I did, didn't I?"
"It was sheer luck I survived until you arrived."
"I'm sorry. We didn't anticipate the attack. It won't happen again."
No, thought Everard, it wouldn't.
"If you know Inc is behind this," he asked, "why don't you do something about it?"
"The CEO is smarter than me and you. If we make accusations we can't absolutely prove, they'll destroy our credibility. Right now we've got to win the battle for the people's hearts and minds."
"Which you said yourself that you're losing."
"That's true."
"But if you had some kind of proof about Inc, you could act?"
"If it was indisputable."
"Why don't you just walk in and take what you need? You can kill a man with a thought. How could they stop you?"
"There's ways to stop me from using my bent. Even if there weren't, and I walked in and killed everyone who tried to stop me, what would that prove? That you better not piss off the Burgesses or they'll murder everyone you know? This is politics; nothing's ever that simple."
Everard stood. The pistol he'd tucked in his belt became visible to Bill Bill.
"You don't know what that is, do you?"
"It's a gun that punches holes in things."
"It uses sound to punch holes in things, yes, that's what it's grown into. But when it started out, it was just a flintlock pistol a farmer brought to a protest against the British. You've heard of the 'shot heard around the world?'"
"I've heard the Schoolhouse Rock song," said Everard.
Bill Bill stood and brushed dust off his britches. "That's the pistol that fired it. The shot started a revolution, which eventually influenced revolutions all over the world. Whether it's justified or not, there's still oppressed people who get inspiration from American democracy. That pistol triggered a worldwide overthrow of authority."
"The colonies would have revolted anyways. It could have been any gun that fired the first shot."
"But it was that one. Anyone can bring about change, Everard. The only thing different about the people that do is... well, that they do." Bill Bill straightened his hat. "You think about what kind of rebellist you want to be. I've got to go talk to a man about a certain captive battery."
Bill Bill walked out of sight, leaving Everard alone next to the weeping teenager.
Everard didn't want to be any type of rebellist. He wanted to go home. But every crazy cult in the Periphery thought he was an easy target, and apparently Bill Bill had been talking out his ass when he said he could protect him.
If Everard was ever going home, he was on his own to get there. Assholes like Inc kept coming after you until gave them a reason not to.
The last time he'd beat up a bully had been high school, but now was as good a time as any to get back into it.
"Hey," he said to Brian, "I've gotta take care of some stuff."
Brian sniffed. "Yeah man, that's cool. I'm just gonna wait here a bit."
Everard stuck the pistol back into his belt and headed down the hallway. Brian needed comfort, but that wasn't really Everard's forte. What he could offer was revenge.
Bodybags were stacked outside the stairwell, waiting for a team of bluecoats to carry them up one at a time.
Everard went into the storage room to see Bermuda reorganizing a shelf that had been toppled. Another Burgess scrubbed blood off the floor where the curator had defended himself.
"I think we got off on the wrong foot. I'm Everard."
The curator didn't bother turning around. "I know who you are. You claimed the booms tried to push you away, and when you fought it they almost killed you."
Everard nodded. Bermuda hadn't been too impressed with that claim last night.
"Loretta asked me to look into it," said Bermuda. "Might be something to your claims."
"Of course there is. Why would I make that up?"
"The worry isn't that you're lying, it's that you're ignorant." Bermuda straightened a framed mirror. "I think you might have got it backwards. I found some info on machines like what you described, and they're usually about luring something to it, not pushing something away."
"That neckbeard switched it on, and I got the sudden urge to get the hell out of there. The Minutemen were halfway out the door before they knew what was happening. I know what I saw."
"And I know what bent-touched machinery can do. Are you sure you didn't get confused?"
"Positive." Everard helped Bermuda lift the wooden mannequin back to its feet. The blast from Everard's test shot with the pistol had crippled it too severely, and it toppled back down.
Bermuda cursed. "Give me back the flintlock before you break that, too."
"I'm not done with it yet. But hear me out, and you'll like what I have to say."
"I don't like you. Why would I like what you say?"
"Those douchebags who trashed this place—who destroyed these... treasures you work so hard to preserve-"
"The douchebags who were after you?"
"Yep. Those guys. I'm going to hit them back. Actually, I'm
going to hit the guys funding it."
Bermuda shorts laughed. "And I'm going to kill Undone Duncan with my bare hands. You're delusional. Did you kill any of those Lynch Mobbers yourself? First time you've killed someone, isn't it? That'll do quite a number on your mind."
Everard hadn't even thought about that. That was the first time he'd killed someone. But he'd been defending himself. The image of the sonic blast smashing skulls would haunt him, but he wouldn't hold any guilt over what he'd done. "I'm not afraid of getting my hands dirty. Do you remember why I'm here? Why Mr. President wanted me to come?"
"Because you're a rebellist. But you couldn't even defend yourself just now."
"So Inc will assume I don't know what I'm doing, just like the Lynch Mobbers did." He pointed outside, where the scent of gunpowder lingered, and blood still stained the walls and floor. "They were wrong."
Everard waited to see if Bermuda would call the bluff. If he'd been watching, he would have seen that the only thing Everard had denied was a single rifle, and that was only when adrenaline and fury had him thinking he was going to die anyways.
"Shit. You're gonna take on Inc? Head on?"
"I'm not trying to take down the whole organization. But I'll let them know that if they hit me, I'm hitting back twice as hard."
"I like the sound of that. I've been telling Mr. President to just send the Regulars to raid Inc's whole damn building. A bent-touched musketball between the CEO's eyes would remind everyone who's really in charge. What do you need from me?"
"First off, I don't know where Inc is."
"You can see the skyscrapers of their business park—12 Corcoran—from just about anywhere in the city. I thought you said you knew what you were doing."
"I'm new in town."
"And you haven't been back to the Central Nook yet?"
"Only briefly. It was dark."
"You're in for a treat." Bermuda wedged a board under the manaquin to balance it. "Okay, I'll help you. But you've got to do something for me. While you're there, find out everything you can about the booms. We need proof that Inc is backing Undone Duncan."
"Sure. I can ask a few questions while I'm tearing the place down." Everard straightened a fife on a shelf. "One more thing."
"You're pushing it, but go on."
"What do you have that explodes?"
Chapter Twenty-One
Everard adjusted the backpack Bermuda had given him, making sure the flintlock tucked into the back of his jeans was still accessible.
He wasn't sure if he was more nervous about dealing with Inc, or about the phone calls he'd have to make beforehand.
The foyer of the Hall of Burgesses had seen a more vicious battle. Blankets covered bodies. Crosses were burnt into the floor and walls. Burgesses stuffed Lynch Mobber corpses into bags. The air smelled of black powder.
The door he'd entered through was one of five. Above each was a plaque labeling the destination of the door. The one he'd came through read Capitol. The next read Market Square, and the next Inner Metro. The fourth plaque was in letters Everard didn't recognize, and the fifth plaque was blank. That door was the only one with a lock requiring a key on this side.
Everard kept his head down, and went through the Capitol door.
He felt a low buzz as he stepped out of the Periphery, onto the Capitol building veranda, off to the side of the main doors. He glanced back as the door shut behind him. It blended in with the wall unless he looked directly at it.
The first difference he noticed was the smell.
It should have been a mixture of cut grass, morning dew, and the intruding urban scents of exhaust and garbage - and those scents were there - but there was another, too, that he couldn't quite put his finger on. Almost sweet. Not acrid, or sour. Like cinnamon, but with a hint of something bitter and staticky. Tension hummed in the air, like before a thunderstorm.
Congress and its minions were arriving, sipping their coffee, trying to wake up on this sticky Friday morning. Everard was a dozen paces away from the door before anyone even glanced at him.
No one noticed the Periphery unless they were looking for it, or they'd already been forced into it. That explained why Everard had no idea what Bermuda was talking about when he'd said that Inc's skyscrapers were visible from anywhere in the city.
Jose had talked about bubbles. The reality Everard knew—the Central Nook, apparently—was a big bubble, while the Periphery was smaller bubbles stuck along on its edge. Everard had spent the night in the outside nooks; now he'd be searching for the nooks that squeezed themselves inside the Central Nook.
Everard scanned the sky for Inc's skyscrapers: 12 Cocoran.
It was then he noticed the second Washington Monument. The narrow white structure still stood where it always did, a mile down the Mall, halfway between the Capitol Building and the Lincoln Memorial. Now, a second monument, identical except for being rust colored and cracked, peeked out from behind the first, only its edge visible.
Even with the warning that he'd see things he'd never noticed before, this had to be some kind of optical illusion. He walked to the side, trying to get a better view. The rust colored copy shifted as he moved, so it was always just barely in view.
He really wanted it to be an optical illusion. Five hundred foot monuments couldn't play hide-and-seek like that. Then again, shadow societies couldn't be living in nooks in the Periphery of the city, either.
He bumped into a teenager in a pantsuit. "Sorry," he mumbled. The benefit of being in a touristy area was that he could act like a tourist. "Just trying to get a better look."
He'd ask someone about the extra monument later. Right now, he had bigger fish to fry. He jogged down the steps. The sidewalk gave a bit under feet, like the earth was soft beneath it.
Inc's skyscrapers were easy to spot. The low office buildings around him combined with the wide sidewalks lined with cherry trees to give a welcoming feel to the tourists. Less than a mile away, three steel and glass buildings scraped the sky. They must have been a collaboration between Philip Johnson and whoever designed that apartment building in Ghostbusters, all emotionless reflective glass while jutting steel helped maintain an imposing Gothic look.
Everard adjusted the backpack and headed toward them. He figured he'd walk the whole way. He wasn't interested in seeing how the Periphery leaked over into the Metro just yet. More importantly, he had some phone calls to make.
He headed down Constitution, then north onto 6th. The morning crowd headed to work, while early bird tourists were out getting their patriotic worms.
Everard pulled out his phone. If he was going to deliver Bermuda's package to Inc, he needed his bent to work, and that meant getting rid of every possible authority.
He started with the easiest task. Every account he was responsible for had to go. He figured library cards and savings accounts were fine. He could walk away from them with no consequence. And he figured anything in his business's name was fine—he could disappear and leave behind a corporation without a real person behind it. That included things like his phone, truck, townhouse, homeowners insurance, car insurance—anything he could put in his business's name without drawing the IRS's attention, he had.
But he listed out everything that directly billed Everard Harrison. The Internet subscription was to the business, but Netflix was in his name. He logged on and canceled it. Same for Spotify. His checking account had a fee, so he transferred everything to savings, called in, and closed the account. Home and car insurance was through his business. He didn't have health insurance.
He avoided the call he was really dreading, and made the second worse call instead.
He had a regular contract with a residential construction company who'd recognized that Everard was the best finish carpenter in the city. That meant that whatever they said, he had to do. Fortunately, with the Fairfax job done, their accounts were even.
Everard called in, told the secretary he was ending their contract, suggested one of his competitor
s as a replacement, made sure she wrote down the message, and ended the call.
He was about halfway to 12 Corcoran now. He sat on a bench, watching the traffic while a fearful and nervous knot grew in his stomach.
The whole thing pissed him off.
He'd been thinking about taking the next step with Abby, actually admitting there was something there. He'd have to tell her about Liz, and probably introduce them, but he thought Liz might even grow to like Abby. After a while. Obviously not at first.
Everard brought up his recent calls and found Abby. This was stupid. But there wasn't a way around it. He couldn't let Inc keep thinking he was an easy target. But he'd faced Bowman and got his ass handed to him. If his bent worked, he could deny those black flame lighters and they would just be wimps in suits. If his bent didn't work, they'd destroy him.
He couldn't go in there with anyone having authority over him. And according to Loretta, that included love interests. Sure, he'd never defined their relationship, but he was committed to her. Ever since that Sunday when she'd taken him around to all the hidden architectural marvels in D.C., and he'd pretended like he hadn't seen them before, until she brought him to [neighborhood] and showed him a house designed by Pierre L'Enfant he actually hadn't seen before. During the night, while she slept with her back against his chest, he decided the house felt less empty with Abby there.
And now if she asked for something, he'd do it. That was authority any way you looked at it.
It was either stick with Abby or destroy Inc. He couldn't have both. Actually, if he didn't stop Inc from coming after him, he couldn't exactly have a happy life with Abby. So there really wasn't a choice at all. Let Inc hunt him down while he ignored his problems and played happy couple with Abby, or walk away from Abby, and use his strengthened bent to kick Inc in the balls.
He thought about Brian weeping over Renae, and hit the call button.
A young couple walked by, holding hands. While the phone rang, he pushed away his jealousy, replaced it with dishonest practicality. Even if everything were normal, he didn't want that. Why would anyone want to depend on someone else for their happiness?
