by Ben Farthing
"Everard!" Abby sounded annoyed and relieved. "You said you would call last night. I tried you this morning, but it kept going straight to voicemail."
"Yeah, I, uh, hmm." He should have planned what to say. "I think it's time to end things."
That was stupid. You were supposed to start by saying you needed to talk.
The silence on the other end told him everything he was worried about. He wanted her to tell him he was wrong, to argue that there was something between them worth fighting for.
Or for her to scream at him, to tell him he was an awful person for doing this over the phone, that she could and would do better.
He didn't know what to do with silence.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"It's not like I didn't see it coming." Her forced smile was audible. "You were never that committed to this."
A thousand contradictions demanded to be loosed by his tongue. What had she seen coming? He didn't want to end it. What signs had he given?
Instead, he said, "I wish I felt differently. I just don't."
Everard tried not to picture the way she bit her lip when holding back tears.
"Why?" her voice broke.
"I don't know," he said. "There's nothing I don't like about you. But I don't see this going any further."
He wished she'd at least cry, so she could know he knew how much this hurt her.
"You're not going to tell me who Liz is, or why she keeps calling you?"
Everard drummed his fingers on the bench. Where did he even start?
"Fine," she said.
"What?"
"Fine. If this is what you want, and you don't want to tell me the truth, then fine."
"Okay. Well. Goodbye."
In the moment before she hung up, he thought of Loretta and Jose, wondered what it took to build that sort of relationship surrounded by that much danger. Maybe these frustrations and impossibilities were just a step on the way toward what Loretta and Jose had.
His phone went silent.
He knew this feeling, the familiar lonely weight; even if he could distract his mind, his body still remembered.
The happy couple was only thirty feet down the sidewalk. Everard picked up a pebble and chucked it at them. It hit the guy in the back of the neck.
He turned around and Everard stared him down, dared the lovebird to call him out. The kid mumbled something and walked away.
"Pansy," accused Everard.
He tested his bent, grabbed hold of the thought of the lovebird's shoelace. That sense of an oppressive mist returned, but this time it was lighter. He denied the knot, straining to push his will through the mist.
The lovebird stumbled, caught himself on his girlfriend.
Everard stood up. He was a goddamn superhero.
All it took was sacrificing someone to rant to about his clients, and drag him to pho restaurants, and remind him that although he liked being independent, maybe being independent with someone was better.
"Fuck." He headed on towards 12 Corcoran, itching to take out some frustration.
As much as that phone called sucked, there were bigger things to deal with. Who cared if a relationship ended when there were assholes in suits thinking they could bully him around, and killing people to do it? Everard's grief over Abby didn't compare to Brian's grief over Renae.
On the plus side, usually Everard had no one to blame over a breakup. No one to lash out at. But this time, it was one hundred percent Inc's fault.
Everard quickened his pace. He would enjoy making them pay for it.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Inc's skyscrapers and the extra Washington Monument weren't the only parts of the Periphery leaking into D.C.
A few people from the menagerie of the Mall nook walked among the crowds, the topside D.C. residents not paying them any mind.
Everard didn't like it. Maybe everything going back to normal would be even harder than he was thinking.
He'd left the more touristy locations of D.C. and walked between brick row houses and poorly trimmed trees toward 12 Corcoran, now only a block away. Inc's three skyscrapers brooded over the city, forty-story monuments to abudance and power, ignored by everyone.
Everard eyed the pedestrians around him, picked out the sharply dressed men, careful to notice if they gave him a second glance. His plan was simple, and shouldn't take too much to pull off, but if they saw him coming it'd be more difficult.
The rows of houses ended, opening up into the courtyard of 12 Corcoran. Bermuda hadn't been lying. Everard was impressed. Towers of mirrored windows hiding who knows what. Every ten floors the buildings narrowed, leaving a veranda that wrapped around.
Suits from the crowd headed between the buildings, to the courtyard in the center of the block. Everard joined them. He waited for someone to point out that he didn't belong, but no one gave him a second glance.
A fountain occupied the center of the courtyard, while perfectly manicured trees lined the edges.
He looked around, trying to remember what should have been here, but it was as if Inc's skyscrapers had pushed aside the surrounding blocks without moving them. The office park had arrived with its own space.
Everard walked through the courtyard, toward the tallest building. Abby would call him stupid for this, and she'd probably be right. But it didn't matter what she thought anymore. That was in the past.
The plan was simple. Walk inside, find a good spot to leave the backpack, and walk away. After a couple minutes, Bermuda's gift would do its job. He'd get revenge for Renae, and he'd make sure they knew he was behind it. Hit them hard enough that they'd back off.
Everard walked up the steps, toward the revolving glass door. The more reasonable part of his mind screamed that this was going to get him killed. He told it to shut up.
He reached behind his back to grip the pistol, then glanced around to make sure no one was watching too closely.
A dead man hung from a tree.
Everard's heart leapt. The corpse hung by its neck from a noose, but there were also bits of wire holding its face up, showing its identity to the world—the guy who'd threatened Loretta's husband. His tongue was black and his suit was shredded and charred.
"Holy shit." Everard suddenly understood a little better why everyone acted nervous around her.
Suits passed by on the sidewalk, offering the corpse only nervous glances.
It sounded like Loretta pissed off a lot of people in her line of work. Normally, that would mean her family were in danger, but Everard figured Jose and their kids were the safest people in the city. You had to respect that.
Everard pushed through the revolving door. It was shaping up to be a bad day for Inc.
The foyer was bigger than it needed to be. You could have fit four floors in the space between the marble floors and the domed ceiling. To either side, gold plated elevators lined the walls.
And for such a large room, it was pretty empty. No lounge area; not even a reception desk for visitors.
Everard expected his steps to echo, but the architect had somehow kept the room quiet.
A man stood at either side of the foyer, at the elevators, each wearing a perfectly tailored suit, each with perfectly parted hair. As Everard walked to the center of the foyer, the men left their posts to converge on him.
"Hey guys," said Everard. "Bowman said he wanted to see me. Something about a dry cleaning bill."
With one hand still under his shirt, gripping the pistol, he took off the backpack.
Both men pulled lighters from their pockets.
Everard dropped the backpack. Here was as good a place as any.
"Take your bag and walk away," said the gray haired man, "and we'll forget you and Loretta were ever here."
Everard raised a finger to interject. "Loretta's still here?"
The younger suit examined Everard closely. "What, she doesn't keep her lackey's informed?"
"That must be why they never last long," laughed the older one, his voice r
evealing a lifetime of smoking.
They both stopped about arms' reach from Everard. The younger suit flicked his lighter. A black flame sparked to life.
"What did she send you here to do?"
Everard took a step back. If they thought this was from Loretta, then leaving the bag wouldn't scare them off him. They'd just think it was more retaliation for the threats. "You don't know who I am?"
"Listen, kid," said the younger suit. "I don't have time to memorize every face of every punk who thinks riding the coattails of a programmer will make a name for himself."
That pissed Everard off. "Your joke of an organization tried to kill me this morning, and you don't even know who I am? You must be way at the bottom of the totem pole. I'd probably have to dig down around it just to see your carved ugly faces."
"Hold on, buddy," said the older one.
"How do you get to be your age and never get a promotion?" Everard turned his anger on the older suit. "Most people would find that insulting, maybe look for another place of employment. Takes a real bitch to stick around."
The older one's lighter flicked to life, and he held a twenty to the black flame. From this close, the flame seemed to suck the bill in, rather than burn across it.
"Twenty dollars?" laughed Everard. "Bottom of the totem pole, and bottom of the pay scale, huh?"
"That's all it'll take to deal with you."
Everard focused on the lighter. No.
Nothing happened.
A wave of force slammed into Everard, but this time he expected it. He stumbled, kept his feet. Still, it felt like getting hit with a two by four.
Everard pounded his fist on the marble floor. What was the point of dumping Abby?
He drew the pistol, used two hands to aim it at the older suit.
The younger suit sneered. "Maybe he's not Loretta's lackey. She wouldn't hire someone who thought a musketball could touch us."
Everard considered that. The Lynch Mobbers certainly hadn't been able to stop musketballs. The blood splatters in the Hall of Burgesses proved that. But these guys believed they could. Made you wonder if they could stop a focused cacaphony that would otherwise be loud enough to be heard around the world.
He pulled the trigger to find out.
He'd been aiming for the younger one's lighter, but the guy twitched at the last second. The blast jerked his arm backwards, bending the elbow the wrong direction. Everard winced at the sound of the bone and tendons snapping. The lighter bounced on the marble tile.
Still no echo.
The suit screamed in pain while the older one fumbled for another bill, this time a hundred. Everard was flattered.
His second shot didn't miss. With the muffled roar of the flintlock, the lighter shot across the room to embed itself in an elevator door, leaving behind mangled fingers. The older suit was more used to pain. He pulled a more modern pistol from a shoulder holster.
No.
Still nothing. The mental mist dropped heavy around Everard's senses. Had he dumped Abby for nothing?
The suit raised the pistol with a shaky hand. Everard aimed for the chest. He couldn't risk missing. Maybe these guys could stop a musketball, but Everard couldn't stop a bullet. Consistently, anyways.
Everard pulled the trigger. The suit lifted off the floor before flying ten feet and skidding across the tile. He clutched at the side of chest, gasping for breath.
Everard pointed the flintlock at the younger one, daring him to pull out his own gun.
"My name is Everard Harrison. I don't work for Loretta. I don't work for anybody."
A look of realization appeared on the younger one's face. "You're the rebellist."
"That's what they're telling me," said Everard. "And I guess that's why your bosses sent a hit squad after me this morning. Although, I can see why they didn't send you."
Everard picked up his backpack. Messing up the foyer wasn't going to satisfy his rage. He wanted to look Bowman in the eyes before pressing the button. He wanted every person in this building to know what this was. Every suit in Inc needed to recognize him, and know to stay away.
Everard chose an elevator and hit the up button. Time to go upstairs and introduce himself.
A bell dinged and the doors slid open to reveal plush carpet and mirrored walls. Everard stepped inside. The doors shut. Even they were mirrored.
Whichever direction he looked, he saw infinite copies of himself. He looked insane. His hair was greasy and unkempt, and his clothes were wrinkled with a burn across the left shoulder. He had a bruise on the bridge of his nose. He realized it was aching. There were blood spatters on his neck. He rubbed them off into dried up bits.
The elevator buttons went up to fifty-nine, with number sixty off by itself above a keyhole. He pressed it anyways. Nothing happened.
Fifty-nine it was, then.
If not for the initial force of the elevator starting to move, Everard wouldn't have been able to tell it was moving at all. This was some high quality construction.
The numbers ticked by faster than he expected.
He'd leave the bag on the sixtieth floor. That would show Inc - and the Periphery - what happened when you came after Everard Harrison. You got hit back right where you thought you were safest.
As the elevator passed forty, Everard inspected the pistol. He didn't know much about flintlocks - and this obviously wasn't a normal flintlock - but he made sure the firing mechanism could move, and the barrel was clear. It calmed his nerves as he waited to see what would be on floor fifty-nine.
Finally, the elevator dinged, and the doors slid open.
Everard raised the pistol, ready to dive for cover.
He saw an open floor of cubicles, surrounded by offices. In the cubicles Everard could see into, men stared intensely at computer screens, or poured over ledgers. One man with blonde hair and a closely trimmed beard stuck his head up to look at Everard, then went back to work.
Everard stepped out onto the floor. The workers gave him nothing more than glances. They seemed out of place for cubicle work. For starters, not a single one had removed his suit jacket. They all sat with perfect posture, perfectly parted hair, perfectly pressed suits. Glistening black leather dress shoes.
Everard peered into a cubicle as he passed. Even a guy doing data entry was dressed like he owned the place. He looked up at Everard for a moment, managed to look down his nose despite being seated, then went back to his work.
Everard walked deeper into the room. He held the pistol at his side. He felt out of place brandishing a weapon, like he'd walked into a regular office building armed.
The men - and they were all men - ranged in age from early thirties to late fifties. The only reason men like this would subject themselves to cubicle work would be for a chance at the next step up.
Everard scanned the room. Somewhere there had to be a way up to the sixtieth floor.
An office door opened, and another face in a suit stepped outside. He saw Everard, paused, then pretended he hadn't seen anything. He went through another door, into a bathroom.
Had to still be pretty low in the pecking order if he didn't have a private bathroom in his office.
Everard looked for a fire exit. That elevator couldn't be the only way to the top. Fire codes didn't allow it. Did they have fire codes in the Periphery?
All the doors looked the same - solid oak, gold burnished handles. Even the bathroom door had looked like the others.
He kept expecting someone to try to stop him, or at least give him more than a brief glance, but they all kept their heads buried in their work. Everard wondered if they'd even react if he shot one of their computers.
Nothing was keeping him here, now. Everyone had seen him. Wherever he left the bag, they'd know it was from him. He didn't want to leave it in here, though. These guys were peons. Kinda messed up to take revenge on Inc by targeting these cubicle rats. Then again, if you signed up to work for a messed up corporation, that made you pretty messed up.
But
Everard wasn't here to pass judgment on poor employment choices. Better to keep on to the top.
He could feel his resolve slipping. This was a bad idea. He knew it was a bad idea, and he knew he was pushing forward on adrenaline and anger. Still, he was determined to go through with it, even if it meant bumping up his adrenaline on purpose.
He picked a younger worker who typed more sporadically than the others, and whose death stare at his screen betrayed his struggle to not let Everard distract him. Everard tapped him on the shoulder with the butt of the flintlock.
"How do I get upstairs?"
"Leave me alone," he said. "I have to meet this deadline."
"The quicker you point me to your boss, the quicker I'll get out of your hair."
The worker reached into his jacket and pulled out a lighter. Everard snatched it out of his hand before he could react. With reflexes like that, this guy wasn't moving up anytime soon, regardless of what Everard did.
Everard jammed the barrel against the back of the guy's neck. "You know the two guys in the foyer? I'm guessing they intimidate you. A man doesn't get to be the main line of defense in an organization like this without proving himself."
The worker strained to look around without turning his head, but his coworkers ignored him. "I know them. They'll kill you."
"How do you think I got up here?"
He scoffed. "How do you think you'll get out?"
An office door opened, and a silver haired man appeared. He stood over six feet, and he was built like a linebacker. Age didn't seem to have slowed him down. He headed straight for Everard.
Everard watched to see if this newcomer would reach for his own lighter. He'd turn the pistol on him if he did. As the man drew nearer, Everard turned to face him, ready to aim the flintlock at whoever went for their pocket, or—in the case of the retired linebacker—went for Everard.
"Taylor, your productivity has dropped fifty-four percent for this quarter-hour." The big man didn't even look at Everard.
"I'll make it up," said the nervous worker, apparently Taylor. He turned back to his computer.
