Knaves

by Abbott, Alana Joli; Meadors, Melanie R. ;

  He sniffed in distaste. Violence was chaos; it was unrestricted emotion vented out through destructive channels. He had always preferred the calculated order he could impose on his reality. He was a scientist. He loved the elegant task of posing questions and systematically designing and executing experiments to prove or disprove them. Done correctly, conclusions drawn from experimentation could be absolute and overpower any counterpoints founded upon flimsy, nebulous beliefs and pre-existing notions. Any truth could be uncovered by the collection of hard facts. Marcus had never let something as prosaic as morals or emotion lend its voice to the process.

  Until the day Emily had told him she was sick, the day Marcus had discovered another part of himself.

  Marcus grunted as he pushed the thought away. He didn’t have time for it. He had promised Garvey a working assassin before the end of the month, and he was no closer to that goal than he was to his own freedom. It was a long-standing joke in academic circles how most scientists were little more than indentured servants—slaves really—but having now served under not one, but two well-funded madmen, Marcus had to wonder when his life had crossed that undefined line from lampoon to full-fledged horror show. He had barely escaped the clutches of Dominic Verdigris III with little more than the shirt on his back, but—he had escaped. And he still drew breath. That was something at least, an achievement of sorts, something he was incredibly lucky to have, and he knew it. But there was the problem. How had he been so euphoric from his escape, so grateful for his new-found freedom, that he had stumbled so carelessly into the hands of another crazed scientist?

  Still, at least here he was able to continue his own work, to some degree. While Marcus could draw many similarities between Dominic Verdigris III and Dr. Jacob Garvey—in their paranoia, their obsession with success, their indifference to human life—at least Garvey was less hands-on in his approach. He more-or-less trusted his subordinates to do the work and get his results. Their lives depended on it, after all. Verdigris had never been so trusting. It really was a miracle that Marcus had managed to escape.

  Be grateful for small “favors.”

  It helped that Garvey didn’t seem to want to be here either. It wasn’t just his disdain for his researchers or his impatience for positive, repeatable results. Marcus suspected Garvey approached all aspects of his life in a similar fashion. He could feel it coming off the ugly man in waves. There were more important things to attend to than the unpredictable surges of power in filthy, disgusting, unreliable children! Garvey wanted adults who were like children in that they could be easily controlled, but were otherwise responsive and predictable. Marcus had long suppressed the notion of correcting Garvey’s misplaced notions. The last thing anyone, man or child, could be was controlled, at least in any real way that mattered. Frightened, perhaps, cowed into a superficial state of submission to escape the threat of pain. But short of lobotomizing them, Marcus couldn’t see any way to fully control a sentient being. People were too damn stubborn for their own good. Marcus often wondered what the world would be like if people simply obeyed their betters, trusting that the smarter person knew what was best for them.

  Emily had never obeyed him. Emily had been something of an annoyance, really. They had been orphaned at a young age, and it had fallen to him to look after her through years of foster care. Between their schooling and the constant moves from one home to another, it had been his duty to make sure she was protected. It was the last promise he made to his parents. She was only nine when they passed. He remembered telling her the news, rather bluntly, and the awkward days that followed; she an inconsolable mess, and he the helpless older brother, clueless as to how to make his sister stop crying. She was sensitive—too sensitive, he thought. When she wasn’t sobbing over their dead parents, she was trying to find ways to help the other kids in their foster homes—and worse, making him help too. Why should they care about kids they were never going to see again? Soon, they would be moved, and again, and again. They could never find foster parents who could handle both Emily’s weakness and his strength. He thought of her as a burden and secretly wished that someone, somewhere, would finally release him of the thankless task of being the only guardian she could ever have.

  The day Emily told him she was dying was also the day she finally thanked him, for everything he had ever done for her.

  She had always been so different. Where he had excelled in his studies, she never seemed to have the focus required for anything academic. She followed her heart, flitting effortlessly from one endeavor to another, throwing herself into whatever cause, whatever fight against injustice struck her as earth-shattering that week. In that contest, Marcus supposed she was the leader, not him. She was always sure of herself, fully in the moment, and she propelled herself through life with sheer drive.

  Until the day she just… stopped.

  Perhaps he should have seen it coming, should have recognized the signs early. The blackouts, the sudden lethargic episodes—they should have been a warning of things to come. How had he not taken notice when a girl who never stopping talking, never stopped moving, suddenly resigned herself to sit quietly in the corner of his laboratory at midday, her head nodding off, fighting off inexplicable exhaustion? He didn’t even have time to take her to the doctor; his experiments had to come first, of course. So when the diagnosis came in, anaplastic astrocytoma, a rare form of brain cancer, for the first time in his life Marcus had felt a wave of rage and a burning sense of injustice. It had slammed into him, a sucker punch to the gut, a roaring in his head, unlike anything that had come before. The bitter taste of every prior failure paled in comparison: when he had been passed over, repeatedly, for foster care, for scholarships, and even the lost feeling that seemed so overwhelming at the time when his parents had quietly passed away in their hospital beds… nothing could have prepared him for this.

  She was just a young girl. A young, earnest girl who had fought for everyone else, every day of her life, despite having nothing herself. Not even, it seemed, an older brother who gave a damn about her. She had nothing to call her own, except her drive, her will to fight, and now even that was slipping away. After she had told him the news, it shocked him how weak she looked, how frail, almost translucent and ethereal. She was dying, and she could do little more than flash him a weak smile and tell him it was going to be all right, that maybe it was just her time. He remembered peering at her, wondering where his sister had gone. Where was the girl who had once rallied an entire school of self-absorbed high schoolers to action, setting up an impromptu blood drive in the wake of one of the worst hurricane disasters to hit the East Coast? Where was the strong, passionate voice that had once cried out against the rise of violence towards women on campus in her freshman year at college, leading a giant protest down Main Street and up the steps of Convocation Hall? She was nowhere to be seen. In her place was a ghost, a mere wisp of the vibrant soul that had given him the strength to go on, for all those years. She was dying. Where was the justice in that?

  He remembered it so clearly. He remembered himself gasping as she thanked him for taking care of her, for looking out for her, ever since their parents had been taken from them. She was thanking him, when he should have been thanking her. What had he given her, really, that she had not returned tenfold? He remembered reaching out to do something he never remembered doing before. He drew her into his arms and held on for dear life. And he had never really let her go.

  She gave him something else that day. A purpose. From that moment on, he had devoted his research to her. In retrospect, he realized he had made some startling advances in the field, but it wasn’t enough. Of course it wasn’t. There simply wasn’t the time, and no one, no matter how brilliant or driven or lucky, could solve something so overwhelmingly complex in a few short years. She held on longer than anyone thought possible. It seemed there was still something of a fighter in her yet. Even now, years after she had slipped into perpetual sleep, Marcus was still looking for his answers.
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  So much time had passed, and still he was looking. And what was the cost? All that she had given him, was there anything left? His humanity. He had ignored it for so many years, only realizing its value when it was far too late. What little was left felt like it was slipping away. He almost laughed. He wanted to live. He needed to live. For her, for Emily. But to live, he had to do some terrible things. To live…

  Marcus caught another glimpse of himself in the mirror. This time, he didn’t look away. The hard lines that defined his lips, his chin, his cheekbones… they might have been considered handsome, but his eyes…

  They held nothing.

  They were his eyes, but not just his. He had seen them before, in another face. They were hollow. Dead. He blinked, and winced, watching Garvey’s eyes blink back at him.

  “…BUT THE HORSES slipped on the glass mountain, and never reached the top,” Ramon said, holding Virtue tenderly, as she held the bear. She sighed, and more tears escaped her. He paused in the story, for she usually hung rapt on his every word. “What is the matter, mi corazón?”

  “I feel like that,” she replied, as he gave her a tissue to blot her tears. “All the time. Like I’m on a glass mountain, and no matter what I try, I can never reach the top.”

  He fell silent, unable to think of anything to say to help her. He had no idea what it was they were trying to get her to do—and even if he knew, these special children, they could all do things that were like magic, and he felt as helpless in his ability to advise them as he was to save them. All he could do was hug her shoulders, wait to hear if she said anything else, and then continue the story. Maybe she would find some clue to help her in the tale. It was, after all, a story about how to do the impossible.

  “And all the while this was going on, the king’s son was wandering with his oxen…”

  RAMON CLOSED THE door quietly and stowed the bear and tissues under the drape on his cleaning cart. He would have loved to leave both there, but he knew the consequences of doing so would be dire for both himself and the little muchacha. He did not mind punishment for himself… but it would be more than punishment for her. She would lose her only friend in this horrible place, and they would be even harder on her, if that was possible. They had not resorted to beating her—yet—but he had no doubt they would do so if they thought they would get better results.

  The mere thought put him in a rage, a rage he quickly clamped down on. Results! Children were precious jewels, the hope of the future, and these men were treating them like… like cans of beans. Worse. Like helpless lambs in a slaughterhouse. He seethed, and was so preoccupied he didn’t sense the presence behind him until he straightened up from the cart. And by then, of course, it was too late.

  It was one of the scientists. They wore no nametags, of course. That way if “something happened” none of the underlings could identify them. And they all wore thick goggles that obscured the upper halves of their faces, which would make picking out pictures almost impossible. But Ramon had names for all of them. “The Boss.” “The Sneer.” “The Nervous One.” To Ramon, they all were uncaring, brutal bastards, but this particular scientist chilled him to his core. He never seemed to betray anything about himself. Even his voice was hollow and monotonous. Ramon had named him “The Cold One.”

  He thought for a moment about greeting him as if nothing was going on, but that in itself might be a betrayal that something was going on. “The staff” were supposed to say nothing to the scientists. Like slaves of old, they were supposed to keep their eyes down and move aside. So that was what he did. He dropped his eyes and touched the cart to roll it to the side so the scientist could pass.

  The Cold One didn’t move. He stood in place, his hands clasped behind his back, his goggles fixed firmly in place on Ramon. He tilted his head, a curious gesture which Ramon took as quizzical. It was the first hint of emotion he had ever detected in this man.

  “You are not allowed to disturb the test subjects,” The Cold One said.

  Ramon felt a chill. He had been seen. He had heard unsavory things happened to those who did not keep their heads down, to those who meandered from the razor’s edge of their duties.

  “I heard her weeping, señor.” Ramon said. “I only went in to see if she was hurt.”

  The Cold One’s head tilted further askew, and Ramon fought down a scream of terror when the man took a step forward, followed by another, and another, until his goggles were near enough Ramon could peer past the tinted glass to see the hard, unforgiving eyes beneath.

  “You are not allowed to disturb the test subjects,” The Cold One said again.

  “Por favor…” He reminded himself that his father’s father’s father’s father had fought the Spanish. That his father’s father had fought the Nazis. That his own father had been a talented boxer. That he came from a line of fighters. It helped… a little, enough to keep from shaking in tooth-rattling terror of this creature that seemed more like a thing than a man. And to manage to choke out a few words, a quote he had heard… somewhere. “‘No man stands taller than when he stoops to help a child in need.’”

  The Cold One continued to stare at him. Ramon sniffed, stifling a sigh of relief when the goggles finally dropped, only to shudder in fear as The Cold One’s gaze came to rest on Ramon’s cart. Ramon watched, paralyzed, as a gloved hand reached out and pulled away the drape, revealing a box of tissues and Virtue’s teddy bear.

  The goggles rose, and Ramon saw the man’s eyes again, boring into him.

  “You’ve done this before,” The Cold One murmured. “Tell me, Custodian Tomaso, just how tall do you need to be?”

  The words came out of him before he could stop them. “As tall as the muchacha needs me to be.” He gritted his teeth, but it was too late. The words of defiance were out, as was the secret.

  “Ah, a man of compassion,” The Cold One said. “You don’t approve of what we do here, do you?”

  “They are children—” Again, the words escaped him before he could stop them.

  “It is not your place to approve or disapprove!” The Cold One barked. Ramon felt his resolve falter as he bent beneath the strength of that icy gaze. “It is not your place to do anything more than clean and maintain the infrastructure of these facilities! You are merely a tool—one that performs its duties, keeps its head down, and does not interfere with the delicate projects destined to shape the future of this nation! Is that understood?”

  Later, Ramon wondered what had come over him in that instant. Perhaps it was hearing his querida referred to as a “delicate project.” Perhaps it was time when a man was past all fear. Perhaps it was the spirits of his ancestors, deciding to step in and strengthen his backbone. Perhaps none of these, or all. But he suddenly straightened and said, “You know nothing of children. You do not know that when you starve their hearts, you break them. You do not know that when you do not comfort them, you kill their spirits. And what you do not know is breaking her. Soon she will be useless to you. Is that what you want? Can you make a delicate project out of a thing that is broken?”

  “As a matter of fact, I can. You assume we want them whole, with anything resembling spirit. Frankly, our job would be much easier with their backs broken. I can mold something soft and supple. I can…”

  The Cold One took a step back from Ramon and rested his hands on his hips, his head down, as if struggling with indecision.

  “Señor…”

  “Shut up. Just shut up.”

  The Cold One stood still for a long time. Ramon struggled against his need to retort, that to break Virtue would be to shatter her like a delicate porcelain figure, and there would be nothing left but shards too small to piece together. Finally, the scientist relaxed, and turned to walk away.

  “You should really be more careful when you make these visits,” the scientist said. “There are eyes everywhere, you know.”

  “Señor…”

  “Call me Marcus.”

  “That’s… that is not allowed�
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  “You’re right, so try to do it only when we’re alone, will you?” The Cold One walked away. Ramon could only stare after him.

  CRYSTAL CLEAR SURVEILLANCE footage played on the video monitor. Everything visible, from each stitch on Marcus’s coat to the tiny beads of sweat on Ramon Tomaso’s forehead. This was the third time Garvey had played the footage for Marcus, and he froze it as Marcus walked off camera, the sharp patter of his footsteps growing faint in the distance.

  “So. What am I supposed to make of this?” Garvey asked, rhetorically. “That you are encouraging insubordination in the help? Giving the nod to the contamination of my subjects? Is this why we’re getting poor results from Sixty-seven?”

  “I’m guessing you wouldn’t have been so forgiving with him?” Marcus said.

  “He’s as good as dead,” Garvey seethed. “Everyone here is easily expendable. Why do you think I go through the trouble of vetting everyone in this establishment? He’s no one. At least, no one that will be missed.”