by Devon Monk
I turned around to get my bearings. The elevator door behind us looked like every other narrow closed door around us, except that the the dust-colored stone above it was carved with the word GRAY.
Good enough. I was pretty sure I could find that if I needed to.
“This way, tourist,” Left Ned said.
“Have you been here before?” I jogged a little to catch his stride.
“A couple times.”
“Wow.”
“Not that impressive. You see one city, you see them all.”
“Not you. That.” I pointed at the image of Abraham and another man—a galvanized—both wearing breeches and no shirts and glaring at each other like they were about to throw punches. Abraham’s dark gray stitches looked like barbed wire dug into his skin and muscles. The other man’s skin was darker than mine, and the thick red stitches that crossed his body looked like they were made out of fire.
“What’s so ‘wow’?” Right Ned asked.
“To start with, they’re the size of a building. Also”—I nodded—“half-naked, so that’s not bad.”
He shook his head. “It’s an advertisement for their showdown at the gathering. These things are all over the place.”
He waved, and I glanced around, looking for more half-naked pictures. “Oh?”
He was right. Lots of pictures of Abraham and the other galvanized who, according to the fliers, screens, and slides, was Loy Ninth of House Red. But they were not the only galvanized on display. A wide variety of women and men, in modern clothing or historical looks, and all with stitches clearly enhanced, filled the advertisements, shop windows, and more.
It was weird to think the galvanized were celebrities when, in actuality, they were little more than property and a show of power for the House that owned them.
“Coffee?” Right Ned was saying. “Just follow that little cup symbol. See there?” He pointed at a small red cup painted on corners of buildings, sides of stairs, or the sidewalk itself. “That will take you to food if you’re not plugged in. If you’re plugged in . . .” He shrugged.
“What happens if you’re plugged in?” I asked.
“Then the city’s riding in your noggin and it will tell you anything you want to know.”
“Bothersome,” I noted. “Are you plugged?”
“Nope. Doesn’t work as well on me.”
Probably because of the way he was made up. I studied the other people on the street. Tall, short, all shades of colors found in nature, and plenty of colors not found in nature, most everyone seemed to be of a standard makeup: one head, two arms, two legs.
A few folk were wrapped in wires or things that flashed and glittered in ways that reminded me of lightning and stars, neon flashes here and there in the fold of clothing, and, of course, the stitches.
Other folk were stretched out thin one way or another, or bulked up unexpectedly in the shoulder, hip, or torso, tampered with to fulfill fads and fashions.
Some of those differences were just natural; others were obviously engineered. I noted that the best-dressed people most closely adhered to the human norm, except it was an exaggerated norm—so youthful and perfectly slick, they looked like they were plastic: too perfect to breathe.
Quite a few gazes turned toward Neds, and from the scowls and occasional curse, they disapproved of his presence.
Yes, it bothered me. Wasn’t nothing wrong with those boys.
If I didn’t have my hands in my coat pocket and my hair down, they’d realize I was the odd one here, the unnatural, the monster.
Or would they see me as a celebrity too?
“How far?” I asked, staring up at a slow-moving screen that blocked out the sky and flashed the invigorating qualities of something that was making a woman shed her clothing.
“Just— Move, Tilly!” Right Ned, or, heck, maybe Left Ned grabbed my arm and dragged me up against the nearest building.
I, belatedly, noticed that everyone else on the street had pressed to one side and were standing still.
“What?” I whispered.
“Don’t talk, don’t ask questions, and don’t draw attention,” Left Ned said.
I tipped my head down like everyone else, and snuck a look up the street. I expected some sort of police force or parade to be cruising down the narrow road.
What I was not expecting was a very large, very tall, very rough-featured man walking down the sidewalk with a slimmer, shorter man next to him.
The big guy must clock in at seven feet tall. His skin was bloodless white, his hair white, his eyes red. A tight white beard scruffed his blocky jaw, and, even from this distance, I could see thick yellow stitches cutting across his forehead, temple, cheek, jaw, and neck.
He wore an undertaker’s coat: long, black, and silent as a wing. The inside of that coat was a searing yellow, glimpsed in quick flashes with each long stride he took.
Galvanized.
The crowed murmured in excitement. A flash of lights began, photos snapping away, but the galvanized did not slow.
The man next to him looked about thirty and was eating popcorn out of a bag. His hair was dark brown, parted down the middle, and cut ragged over his eyebrows and ears. His skin was closer to beige than his companion’s, but he didn’t look like he’d spent any time in the sun. He wore a long-sleeved dark yellow shirt with a flying frog painted across the front of it, a heavy metal flask on a chain around his neck, and jeans and running shoes with mismatched laces.
“Who’s that?” I whispered to Neds.
“Foster First and Welton Yellow,” Left Ned whispered back.
The head of House Yellow, Technology, and his galvanized.
As they passed, some people went back to walking, jogging, getting to where they were going. But even more remained, although they held back as if there was a bubble, a space around the two men that no one seemed willing to encroach upon.
I kept my head down, not wanting to draw attention.
I heard the big guy’s boots against concrete and wondered if they’d iron shod his shoes from the noise of it. Either that, or he was incredibly heavy.
Thunk, thunk, thunk.
Then . . . nothing.
I glanced up. Into the limpid, heavy-lidded brown eyes of the man in the yellow frog shirt.
“And hello, Miss Case,” Welton Yellow said. “Popcorn?”
17
The history books called the dark years the Restructure. But those who lived through it knew death, famine, war, and disease. The Houses claimed ownership of the twelve stitched soldiers, and used them to destroy anyone who stood against their rule. That was the world’s second mistake.—2095
—from the journal of L.U.C.
I had no idea what to do.
So I made sure my wrist stitches didn’t show under my coat cuff and took a small handful of popcorn. Salty. Crisp. “Thank you.”
More pictures flashed while Welton plucked up a couple kernels, popped them in his mouth, and chewed, watching me the entire time.
The people around us were starting to squirm. I knew the feeling.
He turned his attention to Neds.
“How about you? Popcorn?” He held out the bag, shook it a little.
“No, thank you, sir,” Left Ned said.
“Nice night for a walk, isn’t it?” the head of House Yellow said. “Or morning, I suppose.”
“Yes, sir, it is,” Right Ned said.
“The two of you are going to make it a short, quiet walk, don’t you think?” The man crunched through another handful of popcorn, then smiled. He looked like a cat that had just tipped over a bird’s nest.
“Yes, sir,” Left Ned said.
“Good. Enjoy yourself.” He took a few steps, the hulking undertaker next to him moving right along with him as if caught in his gravitational pull. Then Welton
Yellow paused and glanced back at us. “Coffee’s not bad at the Jangle, I’m to understand.”
“Thank you, sir,” Right Ned said again.
The crowd moved in closer to Foster First, who—much to my surprise—posed for a few pictures with people before Welton indicated they should leave. A hole opened in the crowd for their passing like water flowing around a bubble of air.
“Son of a whore,” Left Ned exhaled.
“What? What did that mean?”
“Walk. I don’t like the attention we’re getting,” Right Ned said.
I took in the mood of the people around us. A lot of scowls, a few rude gestures.
“Get out of the way, shortlife,” a man said as he shoved past us.
In the past, people who were born nonstandard, like Neds, didn’t live as long as a more standard configured human. That changed as more and more people were born nonstandard and medical science advanced to deal with the mutations. But the derogatory shortlife had stuck.
I hated it.
I expected Neds to take offense with both fists, but he just tugged me back into the stream of pedestrians, up a flight of stairs with metal railing on either side, then switched back onto the second-level sidewalk to another flight of stairs.
“Why was the head of a House on the street before sunrise, eating popcorn?” I asked. “Come on. Doesn’t he have better things to do with his time?”
“Yes,” Right Ned said, “I’m sure he does. And I don’t like that walking this street when you and I just happen to be out for coffee is what he decided to do.”
“He couldn’t have known we were going to be here,” I said. “We didn’t know we were going to be here until a couple minutes ago.”
“He is technology,” Right Ned said. “He knows everything.”
If House Gray had cameras pointed at a hundred different locations—probably a hundred times more than what I’d seen, then the House that controlled technology must have a camera and every other kind of recording or sensing device connected to everything throughout the entire world.
“Okay. So he saw us leave the elevator, heard us talking about coffee, and came out to see us for himself. Why?”
“One guess,” Left Ned said.
“Me?” I said.
He nodded. “You’re still uncontracted. That means you can be claimed. With and without your consent.”
“He could have claimed me?”
Both Neds nodded.
“Hell. Should we go back?” I asked.
“No. He told us where he expected us to be: at the Jangle. And that we should make it short,” Right Ned said. “I say we do just that, so as not to kick up any more attention.”
“Is he friends with House Gray?”
Left Ned shook his head slightly, and Right Ned answered, “Hard to keep up. And with the gathering in just a few days, loyalties are bound to shift. But I think he and Gray are on speaking terms.”
“Might be Gray noticed us missing, called in a favor, and asked him to put eyes on you,” Left Ned said.
A woman wasn’t watching where she was going, and ran into me.
“Careful, now,” I said, reaching out for her arms while she clutched at my coat to keep from falling.
“Watch it,” Neds said.
“Sorry, sorry,” she mumbled. She pushed past me, but not before slipping a piece of paper in my palm.
I glanced down at the paper, then back at her. She was hurrying away from me, but extended two fingers and tapped them twice to her ear.
Two fingers, two taps: House Brown.
“Keep walking,” I said.
We blended back into the press of people, and I turned over the paper.
Fesslers safe and accounted for. Pocket of Rubies.
I grinned and stuffed the note into my coat.
“What was that about?” Neds asked, not looking at me.
“Brown.”
“News?”
“Fesslers made it.”
“Good,” Right Ned said. “That’s one thing going our way. Café’s up here.”
The red burn of neon twisted into the word JANGLE cut through the darkness. It was about a block ahead.
“You have any idea why the head of a House would come to look for me and not just send an employee?” I asked.
“Welton’s never played by the rules,” Left Ned said. “He’s too young—real years—to be a head of a House, but he’s an off-the-charts genius. Him talking to us was a statement of his intent. Don’t think other Houses didn’t see what he did. Tracked you down in seconds, and stood right in front of you. Could have taken you if he wanted with that mountainous clunk, Foster First, at his side. But he didn’t.”
“And?” I asked.
“And,” Right Ned said, “that means he honors House Gray’s claim to you and your choice in the matter. Yellow is backing Gray’s right to protect you and your property.”
“Foster First,” I said.
“Number is the order in which they were brought back to life. Foster was the first.”
“Right,” I said, remembering that tidbit of history. “And Abraham was the seventh. Robert with House Orange was the twelfth—the last.”
“Except for you,” Left Ned said.
“Unlucky thirteen.” I grimaced. “I think I’ll stick to Case. Do you think the numbers act as a ranking, giving one galvanized seniority over the other, or power over the other?”
Neds shrugged. “I don’t keep company with their kind,” Left Ned said.
“Except for me,” I said.
And here, Right Ned smiled while Left Ned rolled his eyes.
“Except for you.” Right Ned opened the door to the café.
It was crowded here too, booths along one wall filled with people, the row of small square tables down the middle of the place nearly hidden by the people standing around them, and the curved bar elbow to elbow with even more customers.
The architecture of the place was at least a century old, maybe two, lots of chrome and bright red and black and white in the place. Music played from the speakers visible in the corners of the curved ceiling, and metal-blade fans that looked like old airplane props rotated lazily down the length of the room.
It smelled of coffee and salt and chocolate. My stomach rumbled.
“Here.” Neds tugged me toward the only open spot: a table to the side and behind an ancient jukebox filled with disks and brightly lit buttons with words stamped into them.
We sat on either side of the tiny table, and Neds pressed three buttons in the tabletop, ordering our drinks.
“I don’t think we have much privacy here,” Right Ned said, “but there’s no place private in a city when the Houses have you targeted. I think you should go home, Tilly. Back to the farm. I think we should all go back. Leave the city before the rest of the Houses get too curious about you and yours.”
“I think it’s too late for that,” I said. “Someone has my brother, probably captive. I can’t walk away from that, from him.”
“You can’t walk toward him either. We don’t even know where he is.”
“Someone knows,” I said. “And I plan to find out.”
A short woman with curly black hair and a terrific smile pushed through the crowd like a hot knife through butter, stopping at our table.
“Three coffees, black with everything on the side.” She slid a tray onto the table. Three small cups filled with rich, steaming coffee sat on the tray, with an assortment of powders, creams, and little cubes arranged around them. “Anything else?”
“That’s all. Thanks.” Neds pulled a credit chit from his pocket.
Some people still used paper money and metal coin, since it was the safest from embezzlement, but most found it easier to just keep all the comings and goings of expenses linked up to the chit.
“I need to tell you something,” Right Ned said. “About Robert Twelfth.”
“All right.” I dropped four sugar cubes in my coffee and stirred.
“When I shook his hand, I . . .” Right Ned looked away.
“The vision thing?”
“He was a boy, unstitched, maybe fourteen. Climbed down a well and was trying to climb back up. Cold from falling down too many times. His father’s gun that he shouldn’t have been playing with, shouldn’t have let fall in the well, was tucked in his belt.
“He yelled at the sky, but there was a bell ringing out so loud no one could hear him.”
Left Ned picked up one of the cups and took a drink. He preferred it black.
Right Ned added in a dollop of cream and didn’t look at me as he stirred it. “It isn’t like the images we see from other people,” he said quietly enough, I might have thought he was talking to his other half. “There was a desperation in it. A drive to survive, to live. No matter the cost.”
“Abraham’s was the same,” Left Ned said. “Survive. No matter the cost.”
“It’s strange,” they said together.
And that, hearing them both come to the same conclusion at the same time, was so unusual it gave me chills.
“What kind of strange?” I asked.
“There’s something too similar about their memories.”
“Well, not a lot of people are more than three hundred years old. Think it’s that?”
“No.” They both drank coffee, then Right Ned sighed. “It’s almost as if both memories happened on the same day. Maybe at the same time. That bell Robert Twelfth heard ringing out . . . I think I heard it in Abraham’s memory too.”
“It’s unnatural,” Left Ned said.
“Did you hear bells when you first touched me?”
“Yes,” they said.
“The same damn bell,” Left Ned finished.
I didn’t know what to say about old memories and visions. The body my brother had implanted my thoughts, personality, and awareness into had a healthy, viable brain that had lingered so long in a vegetative state, the personality had been wiped clean. All my memories were my own, and I’d never heard voices or felt the presence of anyone else in the body with me. Still, it was pretty clear the body I was stitched into wasn’t just some random forgotten experiment.
