Fire

by Jim Heskett

  And then, across the street, he noticed a dozen of the soldados marching along the sidewalk. Rifles held across their chests, bulletproof vests bearing the crest of the king on their torsos and backs. A set of interlocking triangles with a large letter N on the inside.

  Yorick’s face fell. In all the rush and excitement, he had almost forgotten they were not indeed free. No wanted posters like they had seen in Wyoming, but that wasn’t proof of anything.

  There was no reason to think they weren't still being hunted by the king’s men for killing Lord Wybert.

  As the soldados marched, a man stood in their way on the sidewalk. He was facing away, his eyes still up to the video screen, maybe waiting for more from the king. The soldados ordered him to move, but he either didn't hear them in all the commotion on the street, or he didn't care. A soldado at the front of the group raised his rifle and slammed the stock into the man's back, sending him to the ground. Before the man could rise to his feet or scramble away, the rest of the soldados marched right over him, driving their black boots into his back. They made small talk with each other, laughing as they stomped the man nearly to death.

  “We should help him,” Rosia said, staring at the man as he crawled along the pavement.

  Yorick pulled close to her. “I know, but we can’t. We can’t expose ourselves.”

  “I hate that you’re right,” Rosia said as she snatched Yorick’s hand. “Time to go.”

  The three of them darted across the street to the other sidewalk and then disappeared inside the open door of a business. Yorick looked around and saw it was a restaurant or something similar. A board above the cashier listed dozens of types of tea, and Yorick looked around to see patrons at tables sipping the drink while chatting and staring at hand-sized screens in their palms, like miniature computers. He seemed to remember reading about these. People in cities called them mobiles or communicators.

  Tenney pulled close to the other two and whispered to them, “We should split up. They'll be looking for three of us, and we stand a better chance if we’re in two groups."

  Yorick nodded. "I agree. Let's do this: we will go out on our own and find a way to blend in. Food, shelter… whatever we have to do. We’ll meet back here in two days at this tea shop." He looked out onto the street, thinking. There had to be a way to stay in communication.

  Then, he saw what he'd been looking for. He lifted a finger to point and said, “Right there on that communal message board. That's how we can pass messages if we need to. I will come by once a day to check the board. But, don’t go far. Let’s all agree to stay around this area of town.“

  “Sounds good to me,” Tenney said, and that sadness had now returned to his eyes. Yorick didn’t quite know what to say to him. But, he didn’t have to say anything. The lingering weirdness between them only persisted another couple of seconds. Tenney hugged Rosia and then Yorick. When he pulled back, he shook Yorick's hand. "Good luck and good harvest."

  And then, Tenney walked out the door.

  “Is that smart to let him go?” Rosia asked.

  Yorick and Rosia stared at each other as he shrugged. They knew what they had to do next, but they had no idea how they were going to do it.

  Chapter Five

  Diego sat in the waiting room. When he leaned forward, ribbons of long hair cascaded down over his shoulders, so he whipped his head back to clear it away. He was sometimes sick of the hair. But, he knew he’d regret it if he cut it off.

  Driving his anxious nature was more than the powder he had snorted in the bathroom a few minutes ago. He liked to think that actually helped, but he wasn’t sure. Mostly, his nerves were due to the meeting he awaited. This room wasn’t any regular waiting room. This was King Nichol’s waiting room, on the 26th floor of the capitol building.

  Maybe also the fact that Diego would see his father in two days. They hadn’t spoken in a while, since the old man had been on business in Montana for the last few months. This future rendezvous filled Diego with anxiety. He didn’t know why. Maybe he hoped his father would be proud of him for receiving the king’s medal. It could happen, but his father wasn’t the sort of person to hand out praise like that. He always demanded more from Diego. And Diego had learned how to appreciate being challenged in that way.

  A single desk stood between him and the door to the king. A frumpy woman sat at the desk, typing away at a keyboard. Behind her, on either side of the door, fantastic murals covered the walls. One depicted King Nichol’s vanquishing of the Frenchies in Kansas. Another captured the moment he brokered a deal between the munitions factory workers and the factory owner in Alamosa. Great, glorious pieces of artwork that must have taken a painter months to complete.

  A blinking light lit up the woman’s desk communicator, and she lifted the receiver to her ear, sandwiching it between her head and shoulder. “Your Majesty? Yes, of course.”

  She set the receiver down. “You can go in now.” When Diego stood and crossed the room, the pain in his thigh tugged at him. While he was feeling much better now than he had been, it was only about two weeks ago that traitorous serf Yorick had shot him in the leg in the tunnels under Wybert’s mansion.

  The woman raised a hand, and he halted. Then, she leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Do not look the king in the eye. Do not speak first. Understand?”

  Diego gulped as his heart raced. “I understand.”

  Of course, Diego had met the king a few hours ago, but that had only been in the ceremonial sense. The presentation of the medal had been brief, and Diego hadn’t been allowed to actually speak with the king. Now, though, anything could happen. He didn’t even know why he was here.

  Diego pressed his hand against the panel next to the door, and it beeped. How they had his palm print to recognize him, he didn’t know. The door swung open, revealing a red carpet leading to a desk at the end of a large room. Diego was momentarily confused because he had heard the king sat in a golden throne in his private office.

  Instead, the burly man was behind a desk, slouched in a tall chair covered in leather. The desk itself was a deeply stained mahogany. Gigantic. The room contained little else, except for a separate desk with a computer, and a bank of windows on one side, overlooking the city and the mountains to the west.

  “Come,” Nichol said, waving Diego forward.

  With his head down, Diego crossed the red carpet. He could feel the softness of it through his shoes. He came to a stop about a meter from the king’s desk, and then put his hands behind his back, feet shoulder-width apart.

  “Have you ever killed a man with your bare hands?” the king asked.

  “Um, yes. Yes, sire, I have.”

  “It’s a lot harder than you’d think, isn’t it?” After a pause, the king asked, “Did she tell you not to look me in the eye?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Nichol grunted a chuckle. “You may look at me, young Diego.”

  Diego did lift his eyes and took in Nichol’s face. From the legends, King Nichol should have been more than a hundred years old. But, this man in front of him was maybe fifteen years older than Diego. Forty, maybe even forty-five.

  But, Diego knew better than to question history.

  “I’m honored to be here, Your Majesty.”

  “As you should be.” The king sighed and reclined in his chair, tenting his fingers and taking a long look at Diego. Maybe the snorted stimulant in Diego’s bloodstream had a lot to do with it, but the king’s gaze made him want to run and hide. Those piercing eyes. The intensity on his face. With that single look, Diego instantly believed the king had done all the things they said he’d done.

  “How did you get that scar on your face?”

  Diego’s fingers unconsciously drifted up to the scar, trailing from under his right eye, down toward his lips. “A few years ago, sire. I sneaked out of Wybert’s plantación through the tunnels one night, to deliver a message. I encountered a band of gang members. White Flames, I believe. They tried to take my
pistol, and one of them cut me.”

  The king sneered at the mention of the White Flames. “Those dirty bandits. Almost as bad as the sun worshippers. Did you kill them, at least?”

  “Of course, Your Majesty. I wouldn’t let something like that go without retribution.”

  The king smiled, and Diego couldn’t tell if the man had believed his story or not. His eyes were like a painting whose gaze follows you across a room. Entrancing.

  “The ceremony for the vids was nice,” Nichol said, “but it was all pomp. An excuse to give you a reason to come in and out of the building.”

  “Sire?”

  “You’ll need proper keycards, and we’ll need to register your picture with the front desk staff. They can be sticklers about that sort of thing. But, it’s all in the name of good security. I’m sure you understand. We had a rogue employee last year who did some damage on the eighth floor before security caught and killed him. I’m told such a thing could never happen again, but all I know is it hasn’t happened again yet.”

  “I don’t understand, Your Majesty.”

  “This is a job offer, Diego. You did well gathering intel at Wybert’s plantación, the treasonous pendejo1. What happened there was not your fault. It was the fault of a few serfs who did not know their place. Fortunately, they have all been eradicated, so that’s no longer our concern.”

  “All of them?”

  “A few escaped and ventured out into Wyoming. My soldados hunted them down and killed them. It wouldn’t look good for any stragglers to wander around now, would it?”

  A strange feeling passed through Diego, one he didn’t know quite how to describe. He had wondered what became of the guerreros such as Yorick, Rosia, Paulo, and the others. It was just as well they were dead. They’d never been anything more than pests getting in the way of the real work he’d been sent into the plantación to do.

  Still, a part of him had admired their effort to rise up against the poor excuse for a man, Lord Wybert. Diego would have preferred to see them put in prison on the south end of Denver. All those years of battle training… their knowledge could have proved useful.

  And still, a part of him wasn’t sure the king was telling the truth. His eyes moved around a lot as he spoke. Hard to read.

  “About the job…”

  “Of course, Your Majesty. I’ll accept any task you ask of me.”

  “It’s called Operation Home, and it’s the next great phase of this young nation. My secretary has the details. She can give you the documentation for you to study. I hope you understand you can’t leave the building with it, but you may have time in an office to familiarize yourself with the details.”

  “What’s it about?”

  For a split second, Nichol sneered, but then soon returned to neutral. Diego had made the mistake of speaking without being spoken to first. After taking a breath, Nichol said, “The fiefdoms. Regaining control. That’s all you need to know now, and she can fill you in on the rest when it’s time.”

  Nichol paused, and a pulse of fear trickled through Diego’s body. The king was staring at him. Diego didn’t know if he was supposed to ask questions, or maybe drop to one knee to swear fealty.

  “I understand you like to frequent Zan’s down the street,” the king finally said.

  “For meals, Your Majesty. Meals only, and usually for breakfast. I don’t participate in his main business there.”

  The king shrugged. “Oh, my boy, only the stars care about your sexual proclivities. If you want to visit a brothel, that’s your business.”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “I only ask because I know a large number of my staff also visit the brothel, for meals, as well as the other services offered by Zan. I’m asking you to keep your eyes open when you are there. Nothing more. If you see anything interesting, you report it back to me when we meet next. Does that sound like an appealing task to you?”

  “Absolutely, Your Majesty.”

  Nichol then flicked his fingers toward the door. Diego bowed and turned to leave. After a few paces, the king cleared his throat.

  Diego turned back around. “Your Majesty?”

  “I reward loyalty with infinite care. And, make no mistake, I punish betrayal with similar gusto. Do you understand?”

  Diego bowed. As he rose back to full height, he met the king’s gaze. Somehow, the fear had left him. Resolve had replaced the jitters he felt when he’d first entered the room. “Absolutely. I’d like nothing better than to be your blade, sire.”

  1 Pendejo: jerk

  Chapter Six

  When Yorick and Rosia separated from Tenney, Yorick made note of the tea shop’s location. The corner of 17th and Champa Street. A part of Yorick thought separating was a bad idea since they were stronger together. But, Tenney’s logic had made sense. Part of their new reality was either always staying on the move, or finding a place where they could blend in. Either option was easier for two and one, rather than three together.

  Then again, Yorick didn’t know how smart it was to send Tenney off on his own. His pain was clearly still too raw. Rosia seemed to think so, too.

  But, the separation had already happened, so these thoughts weren’t going to get Yorick anywhere. He and Rosia wandered north along the street, keeping their heads down and their eyes open for one of these fabled soup kitchens. Yorick’s stomach rumbled. He hoped they actually existed, unlike the other rumored legends of Denver, like flying cars and jetpacks.

  “Never trust the rumors,” Yorick muttered to himself.

  The crowds who had gathered to watch the king’s address earlier had now dispersed. The streets were still inhabited, but not nearly as dense as before. There were random smatterings of Royal Army soldados watching the pedestrians. Yorick and Rosia moved quickly and silently, crossing streets or diverting whenever they came in contact with roving bands of the king’s men. One wrong look and their lives were over.

  They spotted a roadblock ahead where soldados were checking cars as they drove through. A dozen of the king’s men stood nearby, eyes sweeping left and right across the street. Yorick wondered why, unlike the towns in Wyoming, there were no wanted posters with their grainy pictures plastered everywhere.

  He diverted into an alley. Rosia followed him. Immediately, Yorick halted when he found a man blocking his path. The man, dressed in rags, sunburnt from head to toe, was leaning against a building. Pissing.

  The man jerked up, zipping his fly shut. “Notes?” he said, slurring. “I’ll take gold if you have it. Lost my job and need a helping hand.”

  Notes were a local currency, instituted by the king not long ago. Yorick remembered reading about that. “Sorry, we don’t have anything. Do you know where the soup kitchens are?”

  “What else you got?” the man asked, ignoring the question. He looked Rosia up and down with malice in his eyes. This one sounded like he could be related to the lecherous man inside the holding facility. Different gang, but the same attitude.

  “Nothing. We don’t have anything.”

  The man licked his cracked lips. “Just a couple of baby-faced muchachos. You may have a layer of grime on you, but it’s not real street grime. I can see your soft underbellies under the surface. Just the opposite of this town. Out there, in the cone of the king’s building, it’s all roses and lavender. But you dig a little deeper, you see all sorts of pollution underneath the surface.”

  Yorick didn’t have time for homeless philosophers today. “Would you mind letting us pass?”

  The man shook his head. “Why? There’s a perfectly good street out there you can walk on. Unless you’re trying to keep away from the soldados.” He reached into an inner pocket and withdrew a knife. A small thing, barely longer than a pinky finger. But, it was sharp and serrated, and the way he brandished it suggested he might actually use it. “That’s it, isn’t it? What’re you hiding from them? You better share it with me, young ones, before I take it anyway.”

  Yorick and Rosia backed up, out of the alle
y. For a moment, the man appeared as if he would follow them, then he held back. He sneaked a peek at the soldados. So, he feared them, too.

  “See you real soon,” the man grumbled.

  Back on the sidewalk, Yorick looked in the direction of the roadblock. A soldado who had been leaning in the open window stood up and waved the car through. Then, he glanced in Yorick’s direction.

  “Move,” Yorick muttered, guiding Rosia across 19th Street. He pointed his feet at the door to an establishment, not caring what it was. In five more seconds, they would be inside the door.

  As they climbed the steps up to it, Yorick noted the name above the door. Zan’s. He had no idea what or who a Zan was, and it didn’t matter. The building looked clean, and the door had no bullet holes in it. That was enough of a positive sign that Yorick was willing to take it.

  He pushed open the door, and Rosia entered a moment later. They stood inside a waiting area, dim lights and swanky deep red wallpaper on the walls. Mellow music drifted from unseen speakers. There were a couple of couches, with scantily-clad women sitting on them. Putas1, by their look.

  The women all grinned at Yorick and Rosia. Some of them remained lounged in their suggestive poses, but a few sat up, trying to make eye contact.

  “We can do a two-for-one,” said a light-skinned girl on the couch, looking Yorick and Rosia up and down. “But only for Notes. We don’t take gold, or chickens, or whatever else you’ve got to trade.”

  “A guy yesterday tried to offer me his shoes,” one puta muttered to another, although it was loud enough for the room to hear. They all giggled, but there was something hollow and pained about their laughter.

  The light-skinned girl sat up straight and leaned forward. She made kissing noises at Rosia. “I prefer women. Half-price if it’s just you, sweet thing.”

  Rosia held her tongue, which Yorick agreed was the smart move. No sense in saying something confrontational until they knew where they were and what was going on here.