Tearing Down The Statues

by Brian Bennudriti

  A massive vortex cruiser had docked, its gleaming silver hull poised topheavy and impossibly high above the choppy water and hydrofoil rails balanced on invisible whirlwinds. Gulls scattered as dock workers tossed mooring lines and ran busily about tying off the vessel. A small crowd of onlookers had formed on the pier hoping to catch a glimpse of Cyprian, son of the Marshal of Tanith, who was said to have been on the ship.

  His leather coat bristled in the sea winds as he stepped over the quarterdeck, the illusions of fire just larger than candle flames on broad black shoulderboards unaffected. His ball lightning carbine, the one with swirling celtic circles along the armature and which came to such fame later, was slung over a shoulder strap hanging from his back; and the ferocity of his expression was enough to turn celebrity watchers away awkwardly. With dusty boots, charred insulation on the armshield of his carbine, and a scar across his right temple, Cyprian clearly bore the look of a fierce fighter despite being a young man. A low ranking official was there to greet him.

  “Welcome to Denai, Goodman Cyprian. My name is Ventrey. When the dons heard you would be visiting, they were understandably-” Cyprian interrupted his greeting by walking away.

  “You will need to turn in your carbine and your knife. I’ll see to it that-”

  “Know your place, lapdog. You’re an irrelevant functionary, act like it. Where are they?”

  Chasing after Cyprian, Ventrey pulled a slim railgun and pointed it forward hesitantly, hoping the threat would shape events more to his expectations. Cyprian snatched it from his hand so suddenly, it nearly snapped the poor fellow’s trigger finger. Certainly, it was too fast for a defensive reaction. He examined the railgun on two sides, evaluating its worth, then slipped it into one of the long pockets on his thighs while failing to even slow his stride.

  “You’re attracting too much attention; and you’re armed. Your even being here is a problem. You can’t meet them. It’s like you don’t even understand who you are!”

  “If you say anything more to me other than, ‘this meeting is arranged, follow me’, I swear to you I will drown you in a toilet! Don’t doubt me, lapdog. They’ve cost me a lot of money.”

  Continuing to hurry along toward the massive elevator complex, Ventrey held a finger to his throat to speak softly through a comm unit.

  “The meeting is arranged. They knew you’d be like this. But you can’t go armed, you’ll have to turn over the guns. I’ll hold your weapon within line of sight and return it when you’re back topside. The knife too.”

  They had arrived in the giant atrium housing the central elevator complex, elevators which led to the undersea structures including the Reaches. The murmuring crowds flowed unevenly, breaking like a spent wave around Cyprian, whose height and appearance drew him out noticeably. He locked eyes with the man who was asking for his weapons, allowing only this pause as opportunity for a change of heart. When it was clear that was Ventrey’s position, Cyprian moved quickly again.

  Shoving the fellow into a column, Cyprian grasped Ventrey’s hair and cocked his head to the side exposing his throat. He slammed a brightly tattooed finger into the place where Ventrey had accessed his communications just then and spoke into it himself.

  “This will go so badly for you if I have to find you myself.”

  Following a tense standoff, Ventrey at last communicated his superiors’ change of heart and the two made their way down into the serpentine corridors of the Reaches. The wide acrylic windows of the upper levels, opening to illuminated cobalt seas fluttering with moon-colored jelly-bells and predator fish, they disappeared in the lower levels. In fact, the Reaches were a dim nest of narrow hallways broadening into massive ballrooms housing loud casinos, bars, dance clubs and illegal theaters. It was a place of prostitution, slavery, abuse, and human horror fueled by grinning travelers and hard luck mineral miners. The handful of crime lords operating from these smoky backrooms led activities ranging throughout the mountains, salt flats, and beyond.

  A dark old man stood to block Cyprian’s way forward when they entered Moloch, Denai’s largest casino. He was as tall as Cyprian with bulging eyes and the black skin of his face tight, almost looking cracked. He wore a gray hood and held forward as if it were a lantern a deep ebony carab-man the length of a forearm.

  “All fortunes have momentum, young Talgo. Forces and players. Forces and players.”

  Cyprian frowned, lacking patience for this, “Step aside, old man.”

  “When that momentum sways against you, it is to be interrupted. Forces and players. Forces and players.”

  When Ventrey made an effort to gently coax the mystic to the side, the old man shook his head violently and held the carab higher.

  “They turn their backs on a light that illuminated the world for seven hundred generations…true transforming knowledge…and gamble with its trappings! They bring us promises and distractions, pretty lights and beautiful empty people; but they bring us nothing for our souls!” The mystic shattered the carab against a wall angrily. While Ventrey stood shocked at the suddenness and anger of the old mystic, Cyprian was already continuing past him, entirely uninterested in whatever was the man’s true purpose. The mystic called after him uselessly.

  “Nothing for our souls, Talgo!”

  On one side of the broad gaming floor, men playing the deadly card game, “Black Hallow” tried to catch knives thrown at one another. Beyond the dice and glass bead games in the central complex, there were lacquered oak doors leading to intense, sana-injected roleplaying games where people were said to lose their minds as losses. At some of the higher stakes games involving carabs and one actually involving an emanation, fevered men and women were betting their fortunes and body parts in mad frenzies. Cyprian only briefly surveyed the sweep of color and motion before advancing into the meeting hall to his right.

  Inside, at least ten armed men actuated their carbines at once, clicking and sizzling in unison. The dons were assembled, three men and a woman lounging casually in expensive clothes. Apart from one of the men, who was young and had perhaps inherited his status, they were of advanced age and very relaxed considering the firepower in the room.

  “Which of you should I be looking at?” Cyprian didn’t acknowledge the ten weapons aimed at his chest, but rather scanned the four dons for a sign of authority, some indication of who would answer for the group or to whom deference was shown. The youngest of them answered in a defiant tone but with the voice of a very young man.

  “We are all equals here.” At that, Cyprian took a half step closer to the one who’d spoken.

  “Then you can share in my irritation. Fifty cases of sana were to be delivered to Systelion Station. They weren’t there; and my contact disappeared. You owe me for damages; and I’ll take my payment now.” Cyprian was immobile like granite, his voice commanding. The young don started a half-smile at Cyprian’s boldness before glancing toward the others, then faded it quickly upon seeing their reactions. The woman crossed her legs before joining in with the grotesque and slow voice of a provincial grandmother. Although the dons relinquished their proper names upon rising to this level of power, she was known in common terms as The Sting and was perhaps the most dangerous of a group of supposed equals.

  “Sweetheart, you’re being a snit. Don’t come in here and be a snit to us. That cargo comes from raiding parties; but things are all wonky with the mountain nation right now. You ought to know that since you’re in the middle of it.”

  “If you lacked the courage, then why was an arrangement made?”

  “You smart mouthed punk!” A pallid and thin don with white chest hair visible above his buttoned shirt interrupted. Cyprian pointed at the old don quickly as he answered in defiance.

  “Watch your mouth, old man.” There was a moment at this point when the old don glanced back to two of the armed men as if in anticipation of their coming at once to his defense at the insult. There was no movement, however; and Cyprian clearly noted the connection, which of the me
n belonged to this one. The woman, cool and professional in an expensive cable-knit wool brocade with her streaked hair piled high, watched Cyprian all along before stepping in again. Her face was only somewhat attractive, although powerfully confident and commanding; and her eyes were piercing blue like gas flames and cold.

  “Let’s be grown-ups. We’re not going to gun down the son of a marshal, and certainly not a Talgo. You know, you could clear up much of our commerce through some pointed discussions with your daddy.”

  “You want to talk to Cassian, talk to him. It’s nothing to do with me. I need to know you can be trusted to make deals. I tried to involve you, show you some respect; and you run away like children.”

  “Lieutenants made a good call based on the conditions. It happens.”

  “Are you lying to me? Don’t walk away from your panic. If you’re cowards, say so!”

  “You embarrass your grandfather’s legacy. You’re a clown.” The oldest don who’d insulted Cyprian before spoke, almost spitting his disgust.

  “I told you once to shut your mouth. I can tell you’re irrelevant to the others because of their reaction to you. I don’t want to hear your voice again.”

  “Control yourself or this meeting is over.” Ventrey leaned closer to Cyprian to whisper his warning, doubtless concerned with the rising tension in the chamber and Cyprian’s own reputation for reckless violence. The woman clearly regretted the approach she’d taken with him.

  “A snit. I swear, you just came in here looking to argue, didn’t you? If we can get you off your agenda and pointed more constructively towards your daddy’s bumbling, then maybe nothing nasty has to happen at all.” The woman’s voice sounded kind and disarming despite its dark undertones and context.

  “He’s built a bird’s nest of pacts and treaties with silly parts of the world he’s no business meddling with. He’s promised Tanith’s protection across the world and makes bullying noises at his brother. If world war doesn’t break out in a backwater, it will happen in the shadows of those mountains. There’s a whole generation out there waiting on their war; and your daddy is handing it to them. Big boots track mud, Talgo. You should know that.”

  “The point is that you need to do something with him or we’ll do it for you.” The youngest don spoke boldly, this time without gauging the reactions of his peers. Perhaps this was his first threat in this position; and he was relishing the words and the drama they entailed.

  “I’m insulted.” Cyprian spoke angrily through gritted teeth. “I’m insulted by your babbling and its implications that I can be manipulated. I’m insulted by this flunky you send to meet me and this room full of pointed guns. I’m insulted by this piece of filth here that speaks to me like he’s bullying for lunch money!”

  Several men in the back tensed again in anticipation. The older don shifted uncomfortably in his seat, glancing again to his guards as the young man took a step backwards slowly. The fourth don, in an expensive knotted wool cap slid low to his brows and sitting cross-legged in the corner, still had not spoken and watched placidly.

  “You threaten my father to my face and ask me to run errands. If you were me, what would you do?” It may have been lost on some of those in the room; but subtly just then, Cyprian had actually asked that question of the men pointing their carbines at him and not of the assembled crime lords. His eyes lingered only a blink on their faces before looking back to the oldest of them.

  “This isn’t about your reputation, you self important punk. It’s a world war we’re talking about! If it starts anywhere, it runs out of control.”

  Cyprian touched his hand to the stock of his carbine, still hanging on his back but such that he could readily slide its molded assembly around to his forearm. That obviously wasn’t lost on those watching; but the room was only hotter in its tension. He crowded the old man menacingly but spoke only a little more softly through clenched teeth.

  “I told you to shut up, you fat donkey. I’ve had my fill of you; and I’ll have an apology. Now. And I swear, you passed-over, swollen, hairy-eared, clotted old man, I will burn off your face if I hear anything apart from that. Understand me; and think carefully before opening your wrinkled mouth again.”

  It is difficult to imagine anything someone in that room could say to defuse what Cyprian had constructed as they all froze and waited for someone’s first move, watching each other as if one of them were soon to shatter like a wine glass. Here was the scion of a powerful remnant of the shattered world government that once ruled the entire planet, goading into a frenzy an impetuous and short-tempered crime lord surrounded by his peers who in all likelihood would relish his death.

  “I apologize for being late.” At that moment, an out of breath fellow rushed in, armed with a railgun in a side holster strapped to his thigh. “I’m sure somebody’s system broke down and I’m misreading what’s happening in this room right now. Can’t imagine such an assembly would be together like this without my being here. Look at all these important people, right?”

  “Lanier.” Cyprian nodded respectfully and in recognition of the old warrior, who it was commonly known was a dear friend of Grebel, the rough salt flatsman who’d largely raised Cyprian in the Marshal’s absence or neglect. In these, the final days of Denai, Lanier was a peacekeeper and defender of the city, head of its limited fleet and militia. Many of the tactics he’d used in the last days of Naraia were still studied in war schools across the world; and his bold forays into front line combat inspired new leadership paradigms for mechanized warfare and supply line protection. It was generally held to be a sad end for such a great man to finish his career protecting a clearing house for wickedness; and he took his reasons for that decision to the grave.

  “Cyprian.” Lanier returned the greetings and scanned the guards, many of whom had lowered their firearms although none were at rest. He indicated the guards with a wave of his arm.

  “Gentlemen and lady, make something sensible happen here.” When the crime lords did not command a stand-down, Lanier addressed the guards directly. His reputation was already working on them.

  “This young man is far more dangerous in a crowded room than one-on-one. You know that. You’re not helping. Take their silence as agreement. Lower your weapons, right now!”

  Muddled and at a loss for what else to do, the men did as they’d been asked. In fact, two of them slid their carbines to their shoulders and walked out of the room while a third stepped to a counter bathed in orange light and poured himself a drink. It was actually awkward for a few minutes while tensions settled at Lanier’s unanticipated though timely arrival.

  “My friend, Grebel is well?”

  “He is.” Cyprian granted a cautious deference to Lanier, taking his cue from the old soldier. Lanier’s hair was peppered black and gray like steel wool; and his face, tanned and rough. “He is a woman. Tell him I said that. An annoying, farting old woman.”

  Cyprian loosely smiled as Lanier leaned confidentially, “I’d like this meeting to be over with. Is that something we can do?”

  “No, it isn’t.” He fiercely watched the oldest don, who only waved his hand dismissively and went to pour himself a drink.

  “If there has been any insult or offense, I apologize on their behalf. I’m sure a misunderstanding is at its heart.”

  Cyprian locked eyes with the woman known as The Sting, “I expect your people to reach out to me with compensation.”

  Critically, in a nuance only the most perceptive of observers would notice, rather than nodding in assent or addressing Cyprian’s directed demands, the lady crime lord sought acknowledgement from the silent don in the corner before agreeing. Cyprian’s eyes squinted at this move, indicating either the silent one held true authority, or The Sting sought to falsely communicate as such. Lanier failed to notice any of this, but rather seemed most urgent to get Cyprian from the room. He shepherded the young man towards the door and indicated three escorts in waiting.

  “It was good to see you, boy. Y
ou’ve sprouted.”

  The escorts widened into an arc as Cyprian and Lanier stepped outside the lacquered doors into Moloch’s main hall where frenzied joy cries were coming from the Black Hallow tables. Cyprian’s demeanor was dark and brooding, restrained. Lanier edged him to a quiet corner where a milky white automaton squatted at rest awaiting something to clean.

  “I know I’m a little crusty; but I’m not an idiot. Talgos don’t come in person to argue about busted deals.”

  “Stay out of it.”

  “I fought for your grandfather; and I fought for your uncle. Listen to me, I earned that. I’m telling you, stop whatever you’re doing. It’s pretty clear you came to gauge their structure and capabilities, and maybe to do more. I don’t know. The Old Man would have burned the room down and all of them with it to take over their houses, giggling all the while. I have an idea you may have considered something along those lines yourself. Please, next time you come for a visit, come to see me and not them.”