by Mark Jeffrey
“Logan. Come here.”
The old Indian hobbled over.
“You’re riding with me. Here. Sit in the chair. We’re going to have to kind of squish in and share.” Logan did so, somewhat amused by the idea that he was going to get to ride a Battle Throne.
“Zoom!” Logan said, waving his hand.
“Zoom,” Max agreed with a smile — and with that his silver Thunderchair burst into flames and zipped into the night air like slicked sunshine.
CASEY TURNED to Cody Chance.
“I still don’t trust him,” she confided quietly.
“Max? Naw, he’s alright,” Cody said, pulling her close. “Leastways from what I can see. And from what Logan sees. And we know a thing or two about sizing up people.”
Casey’s heart was still pounding. Her inner world was continuously replaying the moment where she had actually fired the Red Roses at Max Quick —! She kept hearing the gun go off, over and over again in her mind.
And yet, she did not regret the decision. Not even now.
Nor did she regret her attempt on the Bondsman at the rally. That had been the right thing to do also.
But she hated how both things made her feel. It felt uncomfortable, like a vital organ had shifted out of its natural place.
“Cody,” Casey said. “My God. I’m sorry — I just — I can’t believe you’re here, and that it’s really you in there now.” She pulled away and looked up into his face. “Your Cody eyes are really different from your Camden eyes. And that last time I saw that was in Arturo Gyp. Right before Blackthorne …”
“Yeah I know,” Cody said wincing at remembered pain. “I remember that too.”
“It’s so weird that you’re not dead now,” Casey said. “And we’re just … talking again. Like it didn’t ever happen. And how easy it is just to slip into you and me again, just like it was. I’m terrified you’re going to forget again or something.”
Blam … Blam … Blam …
The sound of the Red Roses in her mind was relentless as a jackhammer.
“You don’t know what I know about Max,” Casey said quietly, grimly. “You’ve only just met him.”
Cody nodded. “That is true, Miss Casey.”
“Don’t call me that,” Casey fake-punched him. “We’re not in the Gyp anymore.”
“I dunno. He’s got a lot on his mind, sure. And he told Logan and I what happened to y’all since you been here. The Shell Hotel on forward. And he even told us about 1912 and that Machine, so I know why he feel responsible for the Bondsman.”
“He’s not the guy you think he is,” Casey cautioned. “Please, you have to believe me, you of all people. His brain is shattered. He keeps shifting personalities, remembering things … he doesn’t even know himself who’s been for the last several thousand years.
“But it’s starting to come back to him. Bit by bit, he’s remembering. And when that’s all done, I’m scared of who’s going to be looking out of his eyes.” She buried her face in Cody’s chest. “Oh Cody! I love you and I missed you so much!”
Cody pulled her tight. “I know. I love you too. And I’m glad I’m not dead.”
Casey thought she would melt on the spot when she saw that aw-shucks-I’m-kidding toothpaste commercial grin of his in its full splendor for the very first time since Arturo Gyp.
Sixteen: The City-State of the World Emperor
MAX QUICK AND LOGAN White-Cloud approached the City-State of the World Emperor, climbing down a high hill that dumped them abruptly onto a red desert landscape. Unlike the region that had surrounded the town of Arturo Gyp — a place that had been a cracked alkali scrabble of fine dust — this desert was rich with thorny scrub grass. Here and there was crimson stone that looked almost like cracked chocolate covered in cayenne pepper.
The City-State itself sat in the middle of a vast open plain that unrolled like a scroll to an infinite sky of yellow haze. Although the sun stood directly overhead, pulsing like a heart of heat in a cloudless sky, it remained vague, implied, behind an obfuscation of thick air. The firmament was sick, diseased, from one edge of the earth to the other. Now and then a jutting cromlech or menhir vented up from the bedrock in the distance, capped with flat crowns like growing mountaintops beheaded in youth.
The walls of the great capital were a brassy gold, like the Bondsman’s face, and they stretched nearly a mile high, punctuated with dark guard towers along their perimeter, jutting out somewhat atop rectangular pillars affixed to the wall facing. The City-State was not a perfect circle, as Max had imagined it from Logan’s description. Rather, it was oblong. The wall curved in and that out again and then in again, until it receded into the far distance, like the Great Wall of China.
But much, much larger. Max’s senses were dumbfounded by the sheer immensity of the place.
Surrounding the City-State was a sort of tent city. Supplicants and pilgrims of all varieties loitered at the great outer wall. There was a constant bustle and motion of cars and trailers and people on bicycles and on foot in a seething, sweaty swirl of humanity. The smells of smoke and cooking meat filled the air, even from this distance.
And overhead, always present overhead in droves, Sky Chambers came and went, buzzing like in and out of he city like hornets made of purple, yellow and green lights.
“I supposed no one actually tries to chip some gold off that wall,” Max mused. “I mean, these people are all starving. Just a handful of gold would be enough to feed a family for —“
Logan shook his head. “It goes deeper than that. The Bondsman has scalded the psyche of humanity at its roots. It’s not about courage or that a guard might see you. It’s that no one would ever think of doing such a thing. You’ll see.”
As Max and Logan entered the edge of the camps, Max saw that indeed, there were no guards or police of any sort. Instead, there was yelling and selling and wailing and hailing: all of these people were here for some purpose. Some had seemingly come to worship the Bondsman, or to ask him for something — or to give him thanks for some crumb they’d managed to eek out.
They cried out at the walls as if he could actually hear them — and cared.
Thank you my Bondsman — my sister is cured of cancer!
Oh my Bondsman, how you fill every thought of every day! But it is not enough! How can I do even more?
Dear, dear Bondsman, can any sight compare to the beauty and perfection of your blessed golden face?
As in Iron Valley, any good thing that happened here was attributed to the Bondsman — as unconnected and utterly ridiculous as it was to give him credit.
And it was more than fear: these people believed in it on some level. Any other mode of thought had become impossible for them.
They reminded Max of the abused kids back at the Starland Home for Boys, Max realized with a jolt of intuition. When Max had freed the Home of Blister after the time of the Pocket, certain boys had become oddly despondent, depressed. Despite the despicable nature of Blister, some of them had emulated the man, actually aspired to be like him. Like Jack McNulty. They had come to love his cruelty in some weird way: they had become dependent on it.
Max could never understand that.
When he explained this to thought to Logan, the old Indian said, “It is so. People are strange. When they are subjected to cruelty, they feel powerless. They wallow in their helplessness and are desperate to escape that feeling, perhaps even more so than the physical pain or the hunger.
“And in this, they succumb to a contradiction — the one form of power they know is their oppressor. Yet, he represents power, the one thing they crave. Thus, they come to have a strange love their oppressor. They wish to become like him, and doing so, love him, yes, maybe even worship him. That is what you see happening here before you. All these people … they crave power. And the Bondsman is the only form of power they’ve ever known.
“So it was with your Mr. Blister. He, too, was a Bondsman in miniature. When you, Max, removed the one totem of power
from the lives of those boys, they were cast adrift in a void, into a world they did not understand, better though it was. So it is with many such newly-freed people: their chains are gone, but the chains had become friends. Their loss is mourned.”
Max shook his head.
Others here at the City-State were merchants who sold portraits and statues of the Bondsman’s likeness — these were everywhere, they adorned every tent. Statues of him stood watch all around the camps, some showing him in stately judge robes, others in a smart crisp suit, and still others in a toga or Roman battle garb, as though he were a deity of old.
“You won’t hear anyone complain, though,” Logan said to Max in a low voice. “Never that. You must be mindful of your tongue here.”
Max nodded slowly and pulled his hoodie up around his face. He suddenly felt very exposed.
Here they were! The capital loomed over him. He could scarcely believe it.
“Stop that,” Logan rebuked him. “I can feel you dripping with fear. It is not enough simply to quell your power. If I can …”
“I know,” Max cut him off, growling. “If he’s in there … the Bondsman’ll know I’m here. Well, maybe he’ll just come out and thank me for taking that bullet.”
Logan snorted in annoyance.
“Quit reminding me. It just makes it worse.” Logan’s face grimaced like a wrinkled puppy.
“The Bondsman is not within,” Logan said. “At least … I believe he is not.”
After moment Max changed the subject. “How are you so sure you can find this thing of the Bondsman’s, anyway?”
“Oh. With this.” Logan produced a twig shaped like a Y.
“A stick,” Max said doubtfully. “You’re going to … somehow stick our way there.”
“Yes,” Logan replied simply and then trudged forward faster as if that sufficed for all questions.
“Oh, sure,” Max muttered. “Okay stick-man. A stick. Stickity stick-stick-stick. Why does everyone have to be so cryptic? Can’t anyone just answer a question like a normal person?”
LOGAN INSISTED on getting as close to the wall as possible.
There was no front entrance to the City-State of the World Emperor, no great gate. The wall was solid all around. The only way in or out was by Sky Chamber.
That was fine, Logan explained. “We’re not going to fly in. We’re going to travel by the Strong Eye.”
He explained that they would move via a form of teleportation.
“Using the stick, I suppose” Max muttered.
All of reality was One, Logan explained, sounding much like Carlos Gustav. Therefore every point in space was in reality every other point in space. You didn’t really have to move at all: you were already there.
You just had to realize it. The trick was to shift perspective.
Max sighed. He was never very good at this sort of thing. This required precision. And all he’d ever been about to manage was raw power.
Logan claimed to have done it on more than one occasion. Max wished he could search the man’s eyes for the truth of this, but there were only wrap-around sunglasses with a midnight void in each socket.
“Short jumps,” Logan explained. The theory was that the Bondsman would be less likely to detect them if they only made small hops. But it was dangerous: there was no telling what was on the other side or how thick the walls actually were, they could materialize inside of solid gold.
Still. Max had seen something like this before: Madame Europa Romani had appeared to be many places at once when she had fought Millicent Madworth back in 1912. Romani had bi-located and tri-located and then tripled this again until Max had lost count of how many multiples of herself she had managed to create.
She had been able to do this because she already was in multiple places at once. The universe was a point, containing every place and every time. Everywhere was the center, every time was now.
Two was the very first lie.
That had undoubtedly been a feat more difficult than disappearing from one place and appearing in another.
Logan produced the stick. He held it by two ends and pointed the remaining end at the wall and began chanting something as he beckoned Max to join him.
Then someone behind them called out, “Hey! That’s him! That’s Max Quick!”
Max’s stomach turned to jelly. He’d been recognized: public enemy number one of humanity and the Bondsman, and he’d been recognized. He pulled his hoodie up self consciously and then turned around.
“Huh? Where?” a woman shouted
“Right there, man! That’s Max Quick! Right over there! That kid!”
Max gave a fake laugh and waved his hand. “Oh, ha ha ha. No, it’s not,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. “I know, I know — I get that that all the time.” Max knew he sounded lame but kept trying. “It sucks to look like that guy. I hate him as much as me.” He winced as he caught himself. “I mean you! I hate him as much as you. Well, not you. As much as you do. You hate him, that is.”
“No! I saw you on television!” the man insisted. He was large and tattooed: he looked like a biker. A small crowd had gathered behind him, gasping and pointing at Max. “You were even wearing that same shirt! ‘Starland High’!”
Huh? Max looked down. Oh crap.
“No, no,” Max said, still forcing a grin. “No … you’re wrong, I promise you. Besides, if I were really Max Quick, why on earth would I come here?” Then he turned to Logan and whispered, “Whatever you’re doing, faster would be better.”
Logan wrenched Max around and stood behind him, holding him by one shoulder. “Do not resist,” Logan said. “That is all that is required. And do not raise your power! Not matter what that crowd does. Not only will you make a ruckus, you might burn me! I’ll be vulnerable while I do this.”
“Do what?”
“I should be able to shift your Strong Eye for you, but only if you let me in.”
With that, Logan resumed his mumbling. He bowed his head like he would do if he had eyes to close. Max nodded, not knowing whether Logan could see him do so.
The crowd began hurling stones toward the duo. They were still too far away to reach them, but they were running now, rapid and closing …
Max breathed, tried to calm himself — to no avail.
“Annnnnd now, Logan,” Max said nervously. Logan flicked a dagger eye at him and intensified his chanting.
Hurry. Up.
“Annnnnd, now.”
“Get him! In the name of our beloved Bondsman! Get Max Quick!”
And there —! The intruder in Max’s awareness had become present. It was like a Whispering Stone connection …
… Or the Singular Eye.
Max fought down a jolt of panic at that memory (and the approaching crowd), while Logan cursed him from within his own mind. Max forced himself to think of something else: the party on the last day of Starland High, where he and Sasha and Casey and Ian had all had fun, despite the tension between himself and Casey. It hadn’t been so bad that —
— And then Max was somewhere else.
He felt no motion. He thought it would feel like whooshing. Rather, it was the instant cessation of all the noises of crowds around him that told him he had moved. A velvety glove of silence had slipped around his ears.
He opened his eyes: he and Logan stood a good distance inside the inner wall.
They were alone in a great Garden.
Winding vines and tall, lean, leafy bushes and vibrant flowers swept majestically all around. There were carefree pathways that led this way and that, interspersed with flowing clean water and generous fountains and small, charming bridges that arched over them. Koi and other exotic fish wriggled happily in the vibrant water, seeming to enjoy life more than the most well-off of the serfs outside these walls — probably for the amusement of the Bondsman, Max thought wryly.
And unlike the dull brassy dirty outside that faced the masses, the inside wall was a polished gold sheen: perfect in every detail and evid
ently cleaned often. Sparkling jewels of all colors were laid into it. All kinds of designs and mosaics and patterns of mathematical complexity and variety played along its expanse.
When Max turned around, he saw the dazzling City-State of the World Emperor itself, the metropolis that was swaddled here.
It was a vast jungle of towers and spires made of silver and emerald and sapphire and jacinth — an utter gluttony of splendor. It so stunned Max’s senses, he had trouble comprehending what he was seeing at first. He was giddy: his nervous system was overloaded, his cerebral cortex was sizzling with information. It was so … so … full! So dense! Wonder within complexity within complexity within wonder slammed into his eyes. Everywhere he looked, lights played along the edges of the spires and their tops, lighting up, fading, shifting, pulsing and throbbing, cascading and colliding and splitting apart again in a never-ending jangling, jingling fairy-world dance. Things that could not be, like black lightning and sparkling darkness, teased the senses and edges of sanity.
If there is a Heaven, Max thought before he could stop himself, It probably looks like this.
It bespoke of wealth and power beyond imaging, the tiniest bit of which would allow anyone to spend a lifetime in comfort, along with their heirs and their heir’s heirs.
And it was denied to you.
Denied because it was here, here: behind these walls, where you could never reach it. But even if you were lucky enough to behold this place, you would not feel joy and and wonder at these sights. No. It would serve naught but to fill your soul with wrenching, crushing despair at what you were in comparison, at what would ever be withheld from you.
It was a cathedral dedicated to the Bondsman’s hatred of you.
No, less than that.
You were not important enough to be hated. You were not human. You could not hope to human, it said. You were a dot on a mote on a molecule in a little piece of soot on the foot of a gnat.
“Do not become mazed,” Logan whispered intensely, tugging on his sleeve. “Do not become lost in its glamour.”
