by T. C. Edge
For so long, we’ve been told that the Consortium were trying to clear it, rid the world of its poisonous fumes. Perhaps that isn’t true at all.
And, once more, West enters my mind. The arid lands on which he lived were so very different. No woods, no forests, no little streams and hills.
And no poisonous mist.
“The fog,” I whisper in the sudden silence, looking at my feet. I lift my eyes back to Cromwell’s. “You haven’t been clearing it at all, have you? You’ve been keeping it here as a barrier…”
A tiny smile works into position of my grandfather’s face. In another situation, at another time, you might consider it an old man looking upon his granddaughter with pride.
“I told you before, Brie, that you were perceptive. Yes, you are partially right. This toxic fog does not cover the world. It does not dominate the lands far from here. We have maintained it for our security, only clearing it where we wish to. But its effectiveness is weakening, just like us. It will not hold back the incoming tide.”
“And this tide,” says Beckett. “What exactly are you saying? That there’s another army out there, preparing to attack? I simply don’t believe you, Director Cromwell. How can we trust anything you say?”
“You don’t have to trust me,” he says. He scans the group again. “I can see it in your eyes. You’ve had experiences with the local tribes. You know how dangerous they can be. And you know that they are just the tip of the iceberg. And yes, I fear if we don’t join our forces, we may just be overrun.”
“Join forces?! You are delusional, Director,” laughs Beckett incredulously. “You really think we’d let you slither back in the door?!”
Once more, the interaction between the two men draws a single flickering eyelid to Cromwell’s face. The anger that brews inside him comes forth with such minute expressions, giving me and others access to his frame of mind.
He isn’t quite as detached as he might have us all believe. In fact, while he may never understand love, or devotion, or any such positive emotion, he certainly gives way to the more negative traits of the species: anger, hate, the towering structure of his own ego.
Oh no, my grandfather isn’t immune to such things at all.
I assume, however, that the rest of our little posse shares Beckett’s incredulity. It would be hard not to, given the simple and undeniable fact that, for many years, these men and women have worked towards the man’s destruction and little more.
To now turn the other way, and link arms with him is an almost impossible thought to get ones head around.
And yet, it appears that the one person who might hold him with the lowest of regard, the one person who might wish him dead above all others, is considering his words very closely.
I look at Lady Orlando now, and see her stare silently at the man she was once married to. The man who gave her a child and then took that child away. The man who signed her death warrant, and that of the family she had only just found.
She looks at him, and a growing frown starts to build above her eyes. And a starkness appears within them. And the old wrinkles that cut paths across her cheeks and chin and around her lips start to crinkle and deepen.
And then, finally, as Beckett’s laughter subsides, she merely whispers out into the dawning quiet.
“OK, Artemis,” she says. “You have my attention. Tell your men to stand down, and I will do the same with mine. This public forum has served its purpose. I think it’s now time for us to speak in private.”
209
I spend a troubling few minutes thinking that I might be left out of the loop as a transformation takes place.
Agreeing to Lady Orlando’s terms, Cromwell orders for his men to pull back and gather at their vehicles. Our men are required to do the same, the soldiers on the wall moving down from their perches, and the team of hybrids around us retreating to the other side of the gate.
Then, to my surprise, Cromwell suggests that we find an indoor location back in the city.
“I will leave my men behind,” he says. “I hope that is enough to show you just how serious I am.”
“Not enough,” growls Beckett.
“Enough,” says Lady Orlando, nodding and glancing at her military commander. “We will not harm you, Artemis, and risk further death to our people. You have made it impossible for us to kill you, whether we’d like to or not.” She fixes him with her most serious of stares. “And believe me, there’s nothing any of us would want more.”
Too damn right, I think, my eyes equally narrow as hers.
The gates, which have remained open, now see the odd sight of our negotiation party crossing the threshold along with our sworn enemy. Of all the many ways I thought this day might turn out, this certainly wasn’t on the agenda.
Beyond the gate, just to the right, is a building, used by the City Guards who tend to this post. The structure is small, fitted with an office and recreation room downstairs, and accommodation upstairs for men assigned here for days or weeks on end.
As our soldiers take up position outside, Lady Orlando leads us in. No one speaks as we go and, while I thought this might be merely a private talk between the ex spouses, it turns out that we’re all invited.
I would suggest that I’ve never felt quite so uncomfortable. As I move inside, I go straight for the far end, towards a small windowsill where I take a seat. Zander comes with me, perhaps wishing to keep close and police what I say and do.
The rest of our troop – Freya, Beckett, Rycard, hover around us at our end of the room. The members of the Consortium, with their white suits and pale, rather empty complexions, fill the opposite side, along with Burns and Agent Woolf, who sticks close to the ex-Commander.
In the centre of the room is a small table. My grandparents are the only two to sit at it, making it clear just who speaks for each side.
I watch on, quite unable to take my eyes off my grandfather or to remove the burning glare from my hazel eyes. When I do, I do so only to pass the scowl to Agent Woolf, who maintains that smug little look of hers. The rest of the Consortium hardly enter my thoughts. I’ve never even heard them speak, and the manner in which the meeting outside went shows just how subservient they are to their leader.
He is their cause.
In truth, any animosity I have towards them gathers and is transferred to their master. I see them in a similar manner as I do all Savants: just cogs in his machine, albeit large and rather more important ones. They stare with such blank, detached eyes that I do wonder whether they would, like the remaining Savants in Inner Haven, swap straight to our side if their ruler bit the dust.
And, having him alone here, I can’t deny the temptation to see that through, despite everything he’s said, and the safeguards he’s so smartly put in place.
I just want him dead.
I just want revenge…
My brother is all too aware of how I’m feeling. The link between us gives him a direct line into my general state, one that grows more powerful the closer we are together. I can gauge the same, of course, but am less trained and practiced as him. And, given my propensity for heightened feelings of emotion, I’m probably sending out signals right now that make it all too clear how I feel about Director Cromwell.
His hand, once more, comes across and lightly rests on my shoulder. He gives it a squeeze, drawing my eye.
“Stay calm,” he whispers, for only me to hear. Although, I suspect Beckett, with all his gifts, can hear as well. “Let Lady Orlando do the talking, OK?”
I make eye contact with him only briefly to ensure he can’t read my mind, given the thoughts that are splattered all over it. Assessing how I feel is one thing. Reading my direct thoughts is quite another.
“I will,” I say. “No more outbursts, I promise.”
I imagine that it’s a promise I’ll find it difficult to keep.
In the privacy of that small office, the negotiation looks set to resume. As we all shuffle into our respective spots, and another shor
t silence falls, a tapping begins to sound on the roof and the windows. The skies, threatening all day to open, have begun to empty their load. And our transfer to this indoor space looks suddenly like clairvoyance.
“Good timing,” says Cromwell, sitting across from his old wife. “You always did have a good nose for the weather, Cornelia.”
“Pure coincidence,” she says. “The rain never crossed my mind.”
He lifts an artificial smile.
“Indeed. But here we are, all alone,” he says, surveying the room. His eyes fall on Rycard. “Did you ever have a posting here at the western gate, young man?”
Rycard shakes his head.
“I was a patrol guard,” he says. “Mostly in the western quarter.”
“Ah, I see. You’re a Hawk, yes?”
“Half,” he answers bitterly.
“Half indeed,” laughs Cromwell, his affectation unconvincing. “I understand you suffered that wound during the attack on the market not far from here?” Rycard stares without offering a response. “You do understand that it was nothing personal?” continues Cromwell. He swings his eyes to all of us once more. “Nothing I do or order is personal. Yet I see such hate in your eyes. You have all clearly taken it personally.”
“Artemis, stop fishing for a reaction,” states Lady Orlando. “Or are you trying to explain yourself?”
“By no means. I operate on the sole basis of serving my people and advancing our prospects in the world. I am well aware that you do the same, and I do not hold it personally against you for destroying the High Tower, and murdering so many innocent souls. I would expect you to do the same.”
“Some things are personal, Artemis,” says Lady Orlando.
He leans back on his chair, drawing his old fingers from the polished metal table.
“You’re referring to how you were treated all those years ago, Cornelia?” He shakes his head. “No, that wasn’t personal either. You broke the laws that, let me remind you, I did not set. As Deputy Commander of the City Guard at the time, I was forced to sign the order for your termination. I’d rather not have done so, if I’m being completely honest. You were a worthy wife, but you didn’t give me a choice.”
Lady Orlando shuts her eyes for a moment. It’s the first time I’ve seen her begin to lose her composure. No doubt she’s thinking again of their daughter, Elisa.
My mother, Elisa…
I shut my eyes too. I take a deep breath and flush away the thoughts. When I open them up, I see that my grandmother has too.
Her lips part slowly, and cool words come out.
“You’ve made your point, Artemis,” she says. “But let’s not talk about the past. It is the future we are here to discuss.”
“Yes it is, my dear. Now, let me ask you all something,” he says, looking specifically at Beckett. “Do you believe what I told you outside?”
Beckett, once again, seems to have trapped his tongue somewhere at the back of his mouth. Cromwell’s eyes turn to Freya instead. She makes a strange, grunting sound and heaves her neck into a single, reluctant nod.
Then, Rycard. He nods as well, equally hesitant to concede anything to the man.
Finally, his eyes join Zander and me on the windowsill. He smiles at the sight of us, his grandchildren.
I wonder what he’d do if he knew…
“What a pair you two are,” he says. “Do you believe me, Brie? Do you, young man?”
I let Zander speak. As yet, he’s kept quiet.
“I do not trust you, Director Cromwell,” he says plainly. “But I know the wilds. I know the tribes. And I know that what you’re saying is possible.”
“Good. Good,” smiles Cromwell. “I assume, Cornelia, that you have some faith in what I’m saying as well?”
She nods.
“It seems…logical,” she admits.
“Logical. Yes, it is. But, the question now stands: what do you want to do about it?”
Our eyes swap from one to the next. No one has an answer, or no one wants to answer. In the end, we leave it again to our leader to speak.
“That isn’t the question,” she says. “You have come to us with this information. It will take some time for us to process it, and we will require a lot more detail before we can judge it properly. However, we can ask you a question, Artemis…what exactly do you hope to achieve here?”
She puts him right on the spot. I lean forward, my ears opening wide, my eyes peering right in to try to decipher the tiniest changes in his expression.
He runs through his usual routine of checking each one of us out. It’s some tactic of his, a way to show he’s still in control, or a manner of displaying his dominance within the group.
I am the alpha, he’s saying. I will take my time when answering questions.
Yet, he isn’t the alpha here. Not with our two packs colliding like this. Given we hold the higher ground, I’d say his ex wife is the dominant figure in this conversation.
I like the thought. It draws a smile onto my face as Cromwell’s eyes pass me by.
Eventually, after what seems an age, he speaks again.
“I have suffered a defeat,” he says. “I am rational enough to concede that fact. And yes, I tip my hat to you on that front. I should, perhaps, have taken you as a more serious threat over the years. I underestimated what you could do, and regrettably, my people have now paid the price for that. That is the unfortunate state I find myself in. My plans, and the grander plans I formulated with the men and women you see before you, have suffered. And so, here I am.”
“Here you are indeed,” cruises Lady Orlando’s voice. “But, while you’re here, would you hurry to the point?”
“I am getting there, Cornelia, I assure you,” he retorts. “I am merely saying that my position has been altered. I will remain loyal to my people, yet I cannot say with any logical reality that the future I envisaged in now possible. At least, not at the timescale we had estimated. Instead, a new priority has arisen, one which has, as I’ve told you, been brewing.”
“This mystical army you speak of,” comes Beckett’s voice again.
I rather enjoy it when he speaks. He’s more cynical than even I am.
“Not quite so mystical, Commander Beckett,” says Cromwell. “Our enemy is real. Our enemy is massing. And if either of us wish to design any future at all, we will need to operate as one…”
Another loud huff spouts from Beckett’s lungs.
“Our enemy?! Do you know who our enemy is? It’s you, Director Cromwell. You are the enemy of the entire goddamn city. You are the enemy of mankind. You say there’s some big force gathering to destroy us all? Well, I say I’d sooner team up with them than I would with you. We have configured good relations with one of the local tribes. There is no reason we can’t negotiate with whoever might come here too. And, unlike you, shooting to kill on the doorstep, we’ll operate a less inhumane policy.”
I find myself nodding and smiling as Beckett speaks, my eyes lighting up with a great deal of mirth. I’ve had my run-ins with the man, but jeez, he’s hitting it out of the park right now.
“Hear hear,” I even find myself saying, drawing his own eyes to me.
I get a smile from him too, and we share a moment of bonding in the face of our mutual enemy. A man I’m sure he wants dead as much as I do. Well, almost.
Freya and Rycard also get in on the action. The former stretches to her full height and fills her barrel chest. The latter casts his good eye with a fierce intensity on the man. If looks could kill and all that…
Meanwhile, Lady Orlando sits and takes it in. And Zander, to my surprise, does the same.
I look at him and note that he isn’t smiling. He isn’t nodding. He isn’t jumping on the bandwagon like the rest of us.
He seems more conflicted, more trusting of Cromwell’s words. He knows the wilds more than the rest of us combined. He’s dealt with the tribes for years, and knows that, barring the very recent pact struck with Rhoth and the Fangs, certain groups
cannot be bargained with or reasoned with.
He knows too, just as I do, that other powerful foes lurk beyond the woods and mountains. And if they’ve seen the lights go out in this city, they may, as Cromwell says, come crawling from the shadows.
My smile fades as I look at my twin. And slowly, the others calm too. And in that calm, Cromwell speaks again.
“Hate me if you wish, Commander Beckett,” he says. “But deep down, you know I’m right.”
He looks back to Lady Orlando, and leans forward on the table.
“You ask me what I hope to achieve, Cornelia,” he says. “I call for peace between us. I call for reason. I call for you all to look beyond the borders of this city, and see the truth. We are not alone. Whether you like it or not, they are coming…”
210
The conversation appears to be running on a loop.
It seems that, while Cromwell could well be issuing the truth, the prospect of working with him is just too disagreeable to contemplate. Beckett, above all, looks completely averse to such an idea. He huffs and puffs and continues to denounce Cromwell’s words each time he seeks to utter them.
The rest of us fall somewhere along the spectrum between all-consuming scepticism and the unpleasant suspicion that we cannot deny what he’s saying.
I, true to form, flip-flop from one side to the other. When Beckett spouts his doubts, I nod hastily and become his cheerleader. When Lady Orlando takes the stage with her usual calm and measured process of thinking, I find my misgivings slaked and my mind switching in reverse.
It seems that the same is true of the others, with only Beckett being fully committed to not giving any serious thought to the matter. The rest of us seem better suited to seeing the wood for the trees, and the longer the meeting goes on, the more we become convinced.
Say what you wish about my evil grandfather, he does have a way with words and an authoritarian manner of speaking that is quite persuasive. I’m reminded of our brief conversations in the High Tower when he held me captive. While warped beyond what normal humans could properly understand, his way of looking at the world at least made sense for the man he was.
