Nobility

by Mason Dakota

  Odd that I sit on a plastic chair on a stage before a crowd of raging Nobles.

  High-ranking politicians and Nobles sat next to me with Carmichael to my immediate right. A massive crowd pressed so closely to the podium I about had another anxiety attack. It was all I could do to keep my worry hidden.

  A huge overhanging beam stood before me with two nooses hanging from it. The executioner stood nearby scratching at his neck under his black mask. The man was so hairy I could barely read the word Noble on his arm.

  A speaker stood at the podium. I never looked up to see who it was, nor did I recognize his voice. I was too busy fighting back a panic attack. Despite the speakers echoing his words, the crowd pressed in closer to hear every word he said. They looked like starving kids with their mouths hanging open under a beehive to catch honey.

  Carmichael noticed my stress and leaned in close to show me his phone. The picture of the crosshairs over Alison and Chamberlain was on the phone. “One word off the script and they are dead,” he whispered. I gave no reply; I didn’t even look up from my shaking hands. My throat was so dry I didn’t believe I could get the words on the index cards out of my mouth.

  I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and wiped my forehead. The rag was soaked. My ears hurt from the audible pounding of my heart. I couldn’t keep my left knee from bouncing up and down as I tried to sit still.

  It’s official; my biggest fear is public speaking.

  “So, I introduce to you our own local hero and the Mayor’s new Outcast Emissary, Griffon Nightlock!” shouted the speaker into the podium’s microphone. The speaker stepped to the side and waved me up. The crowd’s collective roar of excitement drowned out my beating heart. Some people jumped up and down, not so much because of who I was, but because they were caught up in the moment.

  They did not love me. I knew that. They just loved chaos and reacted to group dynamics, like when a bad joke in a small conversation might make one chuckle, but if he hears it with a crowd he laughs tears into his eyes. Emotions are amplified in the proximity of like emotions. Comedians use that to make a living while protesters use it to start a riot. A crowd as large as the one that faced me could swing with a slight push.

  Carmichael elbowed me sharply in my ribs and hissed, “Get up.” I stood to my feet and took a step forward.

  Then I fell.

  My legs turned to jelly and refused to move. I barely caught myself on the podium. The crowd stopped cheering and started laughing. Nobody came to my aid and none expressed concern. Only laughter.

  I pulled myself to my feet and leaned heavily upon the podium for support. I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out the index cards. By this time the crowd had started to settle down. I cleared my throat…three times and then looked out toward the crowd.

  Big mistake.

  My muscles froze, and my voice stuttered. I broke my gaze and stared at the first words on the cards. Seconds passed. I cleared me throat once more and spoke. “G—good afternoon…Chicago. It is to my great…pleasure….to be speaking to you…today.”

  I stopped to take a breath. The crowd was quiet, but this time I kept my eyes down attempting to convince myself I was all alone and had nothing to fear. Daffy and Kraine would be so upset with me right now. They would just have to live with it.

  I continued reading into the mic, “Today we gather… to commemorate another day of…justice and the pursuit of… a purer society. But where there are those who seek what is good…there will always be those who oppose them…and these villains must pay the price for their actions. Their deaths…w—will serve as examples that the people of this city…will not take indifference to the law lightly. We will stand above and prosper as we work to make this city safer for every being.”

  To my right two males—mere teenagers—were brought up to the stage in handcuffs and florescent orange jumpsuits. One appeared anorexic, a byproduct of life on the streets for many Outcasts. His skin was covered in acne, his face patchy with splotches of messy hair. The other boy was a little stouter in the shoulders with better muscle tone. His facial expression was stern and undefeated.

  Pushed forward by the executioner, they were each made to stand on a metal stool. The executioner pulled the ropes down and tightened them around their necks. The skinnier boy started to cry and shake his head in despair. He squirmed and tried to fight fate. He lost.

  The bigger boy of the two, however, continued to stand straight and tall with pride. I saw the fire in his eyes. His message was clear—none could take away his honor and dignity without his permission. I admired that.

  The executioner glanced toward me, waiting for me to continue.

  I swallowed hard, knowing the end of my speech meant the end of their lives, and I could do nothing to help them. If I said or did anything other than what was on the cards my friends would die. And, those boys would still die. There was no changing their fates…there was only saving my friends’ lives…while condemning my own.

  I looked down at the cards, feeling a tight pain grow in my stomach. I glanced back at Carmichael to check his robotic face. He was so calculative; he only nodded in response to my glance. The death of these boys was not for the joy or safety of our city; it was my punishment.

  “One of these boys has been convicted of…thievery. This…O—Outcast was caught in the act of pickpocketing Nobles. But what remains even more…horrifying was that his accomplice…was an Illegal.”

  On cue, the executioner stepped forward and pulled back the left sleeve on the bigger boy. His forearm was blank. There were no printed words. Monitor screens across the square showed the boy up close and his unmarked, exposed left forearm.

  Nobles gasped, shocked that they were in the presence of an Illegal so old. It was like the entire crowd felt dirty living in the same city as this boy—as if he were contagious. A few voices shouted out from the crowd begging for the poor boy’s death.

  “DEATH TO THE ILLEGAL!”

  “DEATH TO THE ILLEGAL!”

  “DEATH TO THE ILLEGAL!”

  They kept chanting it.

  I wanted to puke.

  “Finish the speech,” said Carmichael just audible enough for me alone to hear it. It went completely unnoticed by everyone else. Tears welled up in my eyes. I wanted to run. I wanted to be free. I wanted to be gone from that place. But if I moved a step away from the podium before I was finished those I loved would be dead. So I had no choice. These boys had to die so my friends and I could live. I had no choice but to speak and feel the noose tighten around my own soul.

  “So….now my f—friends I say, let us be rid of these villains that plague our streets…once and for all,” I whispered into the mic.

  The executioner pulled the lever next to him and the floor boards beneath the boys fell away and they dropped to their deaths. The crowd burst into an ear-shattering roar of blood-lust glee. The bodies drooped there by their broken necks, swinging in the cool breeze. My only comfort came from knowing their deaths were quick and painless.

  I didn’t care how it looked; I turned around and walked off the stage. I avoided Carmichael’s face entirely as I dropped the index cards at his feet and kept my face down to hide my tears as I exited backstage.

  What have I done?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I felt the phone in my breast pocket buzz. It was a text message from Kraine. I don’t know why, but I opened it up and quickly read it. It said:

  Great job; way to show real heart up there. The people will love to see more of that—Kraine.

  I lifted my arm back to throw my phone away in rage. Immediately it started to ring. I looked down and saw that the caller ID was blocked. Strange. I pressed the dial button and put it to my ear.

  “Enjoying the day, are we?” said the voice on the other end. Even over the line I felt the weight of his evil smile. Ziavir Yiros.

  “YOU!” I shouted into the phone.

  “Me!” he chuckled.

  “You did this? Does this p
lease you, Coward? Why don’t you just tell me where you are, and we can end this,” I growled.

  “Griffon, Griffon, Griffon. How many times do we have to repeat ourselves? Our intentions are not to quarrel with you—something which I’m told has been made clear to you on multiple occasions. What you just experienced is but a taste of what happens when you continue to go down the path you’ve chosen. There will only be more innocent blood spilled. Use your head, Boy! Come to your senses and see the better way!”

  “I don’t side with killers,” I spat into the phone.

  “From what I’ve witnessed, you are one. We are a lot alike, Griffon—you and I. It is part of the reason why I insist upon you making a wise decision in this matter. Things are not as they appear to be. I can’t keep protecting you if you continue to act like a child. Let me be clear…I will sooner put each of you in a casket than allow what’s out there to get hands on all of you—even if that means undoing decades of work I’ve done. It’s time you open your eyes and see that there are elements at play here you don’t understand. The wave is coming, Griffon. You can either be crushed by it or ride it in.”

  “I can’t accept what you did here today. Mark my words; there will be a price to pay!”

  The line went silent for a minute, and I thought I heard Ziavir sigh. Finally, he said, “If that’s your decision …I’m sad to watch where your decisions will lead. You give me no choice…if you insist upon opposing our will, then we must crush your own and see you eliminated.”

  “Not before I see you in hell!” I shouted and hung up the phone.

  I got maybe twenty feet away before I dove into an alleyway to puke my guts out. I instantly regretted that greasy burger. It burned coming up, and my knees shook so badly I had to hold myself up against a wall to avoid falling into my own vomit.

  Then I felt the cold pressure of a gun to the back of my head.

  Man, can today get any worse?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “No sudden movements or I blow your head off.”

  The voice was familiar.

  “Look, if you want money, I do not have much. But if this is about what just happened, I had no choice—believe me! I was forced to give that speech. I never wanted to do it, I swear,” I begged. I figured since I was already torn up inside, my face was covered in tears, and I’d just puked my guts out, I could not pull off the tough guy routine. Still, I hated to beg for my life.

  The hammer on the gun clicked back and the man said, “You speak only when I tell you to. You got that?” Fury and exhaustion colored his words. He pressed the gun harder into my spine and positioned himself to where I couldn’t see him. A professional.

  “Yeah, I got that… Agent Lorre,” I replied. Strong hands grabbed my shoulder and spun me around. Lorre pressed the gun less than an inch from my nose so that if I tried to look at the barrel I would go cross-eyed.

  Looking at Lorre, however, I saw a man about as bad off as I was.

  His eyes were bloodshot and the bags under them made him look like he had not slept since the last time I saw him. What little hair he had was all matted and his breath smelled like strong liquor. He wore a black flak jacket, torn at one pocket. His shirt was stained with whiskey and dirt. He wore muddy sneakers. His knuckles were bloody, and his eye was beginning to swell from a recent blow.

  “How did you know it was me?” he snapped. The smell of alcohol on his breath was so strong that I had to fight not to puke again.

  I coughed and said, “With the way my week has been going I figured it would be your turn soon enough to pop in and say hi.”

  I sensed from the pistol whipping he gave me that Lorre did not like my response. Pain exploded through the side of my face. I dropped like a lead balloon into my own vomit.

  Do I not get some grace this week?

  Lorre pointed the gun down at me and spat out, “Two nights ago, I pulled you off a monorail with a bomb and you walked away free despite obvious involvement. Then I’m ordered to forget about Ziavir’s existence under the threat of losing my job. The next night my partner is found dead at the shipping yard with dead mercenaries and a reported sighting of that masked thief on the scene. Again, I’m forbidden from investigating my partner’s murder—two major crimes in two days. There’s something going on, and I want to know what it is.”

  I swallowed, raised my hands to shield myself, and thought carefully before I spoke. “I understand how you feel and I want answers, too. So far, I’ve discovered that Ziavir works for an organization known as Nebula. They’ve got something disastrous planned for tomorrow night. I don’t know what it is, but I’m trying to stop them. We’re on the same side, Lorre. You’ve got to believe me.”

  He kicked me in the ribs. I saw everything in doubles. “Don’t lie to me! That didn’t answer my question. I know you were there last night at the shipping yard. Your prints were found but discarded by order of my superiors. I want to know what happened last night at the shipping yard. Why were you there?” growled Lorre.

  My prints were discarded? Was Nebula protecting me again? But why are they protecting me? This does not make sense!

  I started to lose my breath the more I thought about it. I wanted to lie, but Lorre would sniff that out instantly. He would see through it and probably shoot me for trying. Then again, he would shoot me if I told him the truth.

  “I heard that Ziavir was at the shipping yard. So, I went there to get pictures as evidence,” I started out.

  “Where did you get this knowledge, and why didn’t you call the authorities?” asked Lorre. The aggression in his voice worried me.

  Can he keep control of that gun in his state?

  “I’m an Outcast. We both know the NPFC would never have listened to me. Besides, you’ve just admitted that someone is covering all this. Nobody will listen to us.” I tried to balance the line between truth and lying through omission. I really didn’t want to get shot.

  I continued, “Your partner was there. He was working with Ziavir.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  I have the pictures to prove it. They were unloading something in a crate onto a truck, and they mentioned something about a lot of people getting killed. Then Shaman showed up and tried to stop them. He and Murray got into it, but Shaman…Shaman killed him.”

  I wanted to puke again.

  Lorre’s next kick was fierce. The blow hit me in the bruised ribs, and I keeled over in excruciating pain. “Liar!” he shouted.

  “I’m not lying,” I coughed as I rubbed my hand over my bleeding mouth. “I have the photos to prove it,” I said; which wasn’t necessarily a lie. I knew Alison had taken pictures of everything, I just didn’t know of what or of what quality.

  “Liar, Agent Murray was a good man! I was his partner for five years! He had a wife pregnant with their first kid! I ought to kill you for suggesting he was a dirty cop. You Outcasts all lie and cheat and then complain that things are not fair for you. You lie, because you know nothing else.”

  That infuriated me. I can take most insults in stride, but I never allow anyone to insult my intelligence. Physically, Nobles were built to be stronger and healthier, but it was a misconception that they had superior intelligence. Despite all their genetic superiority, intelligence was the one thing their labs were not able to manufacture, which meant there were Outcasts who were smarter than Nobles. I might be inferior to the Noble race in many ways, but not in my intellectual ability.

  Time to teach Lorre a lesson then.

  “You were an only child. Your father was an abusive drunk who murdered your mother, pushing you both into law enforcement and the spiraling guilt of your own alcoholism. You broke your nose at the age of five as shown by a faint scar line. You favor your left shoulder—a basketball injury by the suggestion of the calluses on your palms and your difficulty lifting your arms at the angle of a shot. You were the top of your class in high school and college.

  “You’re obsessive-compulsive except when you’re drunk. Mysterie
s and stress drive you into strong drink which pushes out your OCD and brings out your rage. By the smell and stains on your left shirt sleeves you tend to prefer your coffee black—having several cups a day and tending to spill it when you pour it due to your sports injury. When you’re sober you subconsciously rub at the stains with your hands to remove the mark.

  “When it comes to a stronger drink you prefer a glass of bourbon, my guess mixed with your coffee. You were divorced two months ago by your second wife by the suggestion of the faded tan on your finger. She cheated on you. The nicotine on your fingernails tells me you smoke a pack a day, but the patch beneath your shirt sleeve tells me you’re trying to quit. You have a German Shepard? The dog hair on your pants tells me he’s affectionate but old and dying. Let me guess. You spend every night drinking your bourbon and a cigar with your dog on the couch.

  “You’ve got crumbs on your shirt from your breakfast—toast and scrambled eggs—and by the smell on your breath you skipped coffee and went straight to bourbon. Most of all, I know you are one of the few good Chicago cops who believes in true justice. I learned all that from your appearance and the first few words you spoke to me. Now does it sound like I am stupid to you? If I said I have photos of your partner being dirty, then I have them. If you don’t believe me I’ll be happy to go get them and bring them to you.”

  Lorre looked shocked. Maybe I’d gotten through to him, or maybe I’d made him angry enough to pull that trigger.

  “How do you know all that?” he asked. The gun shook in his hand slightly and I was afraid it might accidentally go off. So, I spoke softly and slowly.

  “Everyone sees it, just not everyone observes it. I read a lot of detective novels as a kid and learned to pick up a few things. How right was I?”

  Lorre didn’t answer my question, but shook his head and growled, “You might be smarter than the rest of your kind, but that doesn’t mean I believe you. I knew Agent Murray, and he wasn’t dirty.”

  “Your partner worked for Nebula,” I spat back as I crawled to my feet. My frustration showed.