The Violent Fae

by Phil Williams

  “Search the whole city for something we haven’t detected?”

  “Just an area fitting previous patterns of energy transferral.”

  Looking entirely unconvinced, Obrington shrugged his big shoulders and said, “Your initiative, Ward. Your choice. You understand, though, that you go chasing enough wild geese and it’ll become harder to fill this seat I want to vacate.”

  “Not if I catch them,” Sam said. Which she thought was rather bold and clever. His sneering face suggested it wasn’t.

  “Do what you have to,” Obrington said. “Then join me upstairs. In a matter of minutes.” He padded away without room for discussion, and Sam wasted only a moment watching him go. She hurried back to the Support tech, who was already frowning.

  “What is it?”

  “There’s only two access points in that area,” the man said. “Not a historically busy zone.” He wavered, worriedly. “It’s the warehouse district. The closest tunnels to the Fae Transitional City.”

  “Ah.” Not good at all. They couldn’t send agents that close to the FTC, not this soon, without communication from the Fae. But that couldn’t be a coincidence. Were the screens advancing on the Fae themselves? Somehow planning to use or abuse them? One way or another, they were looking to cause trouble. Sam said, “Message the FTC, saying we’re investigating unusual activity in the area. And get hold of Darren Barton, I want him to meet me there.”

  “But there isn’t any unusual activity –” the tech protested.

  “Just do it!” Sam ordered, drawing a few nearby looks. She didn’t meet their eyes, racing after Obrington.

  They walked a block away, around the corner to a row of brown office buildings, Sam itching to get away to whatever was happening near the FTC. A man was standing by a car in a parking bay, halfway down the road. Sam trotted to catch up to Obrington, and he said, “I called in a favour. This chap should’ve been kicked to the curb when he left the Ministry, frankly, but he has some uses.”

  “Left the Ministry?” Sam echoed. They approached the man too quickly for more.

  “Agent Obrington?” He was shabbily suited, wearing a tweed jacket and brown corduroys, and his short mop of curly hair needed cutting. He smiled unhappily as he held out a hand. “Simon Parris.”

  Obrington shook with a grip that made Parris wince. “This is Sam Ward, Acting Assistant Director. Glad you could make it.”

  Sam held off questioning the title Obrington had previously denied her, as Parris maintained his unsettled smile. She shook his hand too. Clammy. “Anything for the Ministry,” Parris said. “This is about the recent troubles, right?”

  “It’s about you paying your due,” Obrington answered bluntly. “What’ve you got?”

  “You know it’s risky?” Parris said, his anxiety drawing Sam out of her Sunken City concerns to the fresh worry of what was going on here. “I’ve said in the past – it’s not like we’re unwilling to share, but if this gets noticed –”

  “Save the patter,” Obrington told him. “Ward takes full responsibility, don’t you?”

  There was that word again. What was he getting her into? She had to play along to see where this was going. “I need to see it first . . .” Whatever it was.

  Parris nodded obediently and moved to the back of his car, an ugly cube of a Nissan. He opened the boot, looking about in case they were being watched. Obrington’s bulk blocked Sam’s view of whatever was inside.

  “Three of them?”

  “All I could get,” Parris said. “And I need them back by tomorrow.”

  “You’ll have them back when we’re done with them.”

  Obrington stepped aside so Sam could see. Lying on a rumpled blanket was a set of long, matte black tools vaguely resembling rifles. Each sleek metal barrel split into prongs at the end, like a massive tuning fork, and there was a tablet panel near the back, above the handle and a distinct chrome badge. The logo was immediately recognisable; a D designed to resemble the tip of a speeding train. Or a bullet. Duvcorp. One of the most powerful companies in the world. The owners of Ordshaw’s tallest building, comprising a trio of staggered towers that dominated the Central skyline. Duvcorp had made their mark in the American automobile industry before segueing into mainstream electronics and beyond. How had they crossed into MEE territory?

  “What’s happened?” Parris asked. “The Sunken City –”

  “Is something you shouldn’t ever mention, isn’t it?” Obrington said.

  Parris paused, suitably scolded. “Of course. But my bosses will want to know –”

  “These things easy to use?” Obrington interrupted again.

  Parris gave Sam a look for support, but she was impassive, waiting for this to play out. He answered, “Yes. That button activates, and when the light goes green, that one starts the test. The display” – he tilted one device – “gives you the SURE reading. Expect around a 23 for humans; electromagnetic field manipulations go as high as 50. Atmospheric readings usually even out around 10. Anything below that is strange.”

  “Fantastic.” Obrington turned to Sam: “Think you can handle that?”

  “What’s happening?” Parris asked. “There were big SURE fluctuations surrounding those quakes last week – we’ve even got our COO in town asking questions.”

  “Want to tell your bosses anything,” Obrington replied, “say we’re testing new equipment and want to check benchmarks. But it’d be better if this co-operation was kept quiet, wouldn’t it?”

  Parris didn’t press the point, starting to wrap the scanners. Obrington bid him a cold farewell, then hefted the weapons up against one shoulder and moved off towards the office. Sam gave one final look to the dishevelled Duvcorp man, now silent, merely waiting for this to be over. She hurried back to Obrington’s side and asked in a hushed whisper, “What’s going on? How much do they know?”

  “He knows a lot,” Obrington said. “Including that we know how to bury people. He’s never shared our secrets with Duvcorp, but nor has he shared theirs with us. That company gives us a run for our money in the shady factor.”

  “And you wanted me to take responsibility to shield yourself?” Sam demanded.

  “Obviously,” Obrington said as though it wasn’t cowardice or betrayal. “You think I’m planning on visiting from London every other weekend to handle the fallout from this? The consequences are on you.”

  “Jesus.” Sam exhaled. “You people can’t ever just be straight with me?”

  “How’s that not straight? You wanted new equipment, fast, I got you some. Return the scanners without drawing attention to ourselves and that’s that. Should Duvcorp happen to come calling, you’ll have a chance to prove you’re Management material.”

  “Without knowing their angle? What do these things even measure?”

  “SURE,” Obrington said. “Their take on novisan. Special Unexplained Residual Energy, they call it. Special because URE is bleeding awkward to say. They don’t know about your Sunken City because, strange as it might sound, Ordshaw’s energy levels are curiously normal compared to most big cities. But they know a thing or two about novisan in general.”

  “And the MEE allows this research? Surely they’ll –”

  “Don’t overestimate our influence, Ward,” Obrington said. “Our work gets bent by committees and budgets, and the good of society; they are more efficient, better funded and ruthless. We’ve kept our secrets from them, they’ve kept some from us, neither of us wants a fight over it.”

  Sam ran this through her head, thinking of the Ministry’s technology. To the best of her knowledge, they had nothing that directly measured novisan, only complicated systems of deduction. The implications were clear. “They could’ve uncovered things paralleling what we’ve found in the Sunken City?”

  Obrington scoffed, though she couldn’t tell whether he was dismissing the idea as silly, or aggravated that it might be true. “Best keep your eye on the goal right now. With these scanners, you’ll be properly informed, f
or once. Perfect your monitoring equipment, test your Protocol 38 weapons, make some bloody progress.”

  Sam held off from replying. A long way from at ease. But there was something in it. Better equipped, she might make sense of what was going on. Starting with Pax’s concerns in the warehouse district.

  7

  Pax parked her spluttering moped on Dresden Street, thankful that the elusive Dr Rimes had lent it to her, more use to you than me. It would’ve taken an hour to reach Ordshaw’s under-served Nothicker on public transport; instead she’d arrived in twenty minutes. She scanned the grimy neighbourhood, walls soiled by the detritus of time, then double-checked the electronic device the Ministry had given her to track Fae. The little black box resembled a metronome, and Sam Ward had insisted it would alert the MEE if any Fae targeted her. She had turned it off, so the Ministry wouldn’t blunder in and upset things when she found Palleday. Which they definitely would, given the chance. Ward couldn’t have sounded happier to hear from Pax. An echo of Cano Casaria, exposing her to their work with dreams of signing her up. One of us, one of us. Pax’s special sense for the blue screens made that all the more uncomfortable: it would be better if she had imagined that latest surge. If it wasn’t the blue screens potentially spawning new and more terrible monsters only she could sense.

  Putting that cheerful thought out of her mind, Pax approached the shop, The Sandwitch. Its barred windows were plastered with faded newspapers, the sign weathered like driftwood. Did local children think the store haunted? No, children living in Nothicker had bigger problems than ghosts. She punched the shop’s buzzer, and it produced a fierce buzzsaw sound. The intercom crackled to life. A hoarse, older man’s voice said, “You got ten seconds to get clear of my property.”

  Pax looked up, through the frosted glass of the window, no sign of someone inside.

  “You hear me, I said ten seconds! Must’ve been eight by now.”

  “Palleday?” Pax said.

  The speaker cut out for a moment, then came back. “I’m counting from five. Four.”

  “You know Letty? She sent me – she’s a friend.”

  “Three.”

  “We need –”

  “Two – one!” He rushed the last numbers and Pax jumped aside. The intercom hissed, something spraying out of it, barely missing Pax. She crouched, a hand over her face, coughing. The gas stung without making contact, burning her eyes, her nostrils.

  “There’s more, you hang around!”

  “You prick!” Pax shouted. “What’s – what was that?” She wheezed, spitting burning phlegm on the pavement. Her head spun, ears popped – was it some foul Fae technology, an airborne chemical weapon? Pax staggered against the wall and took deep, gasping breaths.

  When the man spoke again, his voice sounded uncertain. “I warned you . . .”

  Pax slowed her breathing, the burning slowly starting to pass. She blinked bleary eyes and swallowed to clear her ears. “Jesus fuck, I came to you for help.”

  “I got no help for a Fae-eating monster.” His voice wavered. “Walk away. Please.”

  “Now that you’ve . . .” Pax breathed deeper into her recovery. It wasn’t mystical, or deadly. “You pepper-sprayed me? All I’ve been through, now I get maced trying to knock on a goddamned door for help?”

  The man didn’t respond. He had to be Palleday, or a friend, knowing the rumour that she’d eaten a fairy. Pax said, “Letty trusted you! She’s trapped, and I need you to help me help her.” And then we can save this whole damned city, can’t we?

  “Ain’t no human helping her,” the voice crackled through the speaker. “Ain’t no one.”

  “You know where she is? What’s going on?”

  The speaker crackled off.

  Pax took another breath, and the pepper had a minor resurgence at the back of her throat, making her gag. She hit the buzzer again, and shouted, “Give me a glass of water at least, fuck! A tissue!”

  “I told you to leave –”

  “I’m streaming! Streaked with snot. What’s wrong with you? Palleday!” She raised her voice. “Palleday, you bastard, open up!”

  He hissed panic through the speaker and the intercom beeped a different pitch at last. The door clicked. “Inside, quick – stop using my name!”

  Pax entered onto the stench of wet mould. Clamping a hand over her mouth, she continued past a crusty sandwich counter. With barely any light seeping through the papered window, she squinted through turning dust to the choice of steep stairs or a doorway to an ominously black back room. She called up the stairs, “You here?”

  Climbing the creaking steps took her above the smell, and she inhaled an approximation of fresh air. Two closed doors sat ahead, with a small rectangular window to one side, open a crack, casting dim light on the stained red carpet. In the centre of the corridor sat a roll of toilet paper. He must’ve moved fast to leave it for her.

  “Quite a place you’ve got,” Pax muttered, scooping up the roll and tearing off sheets to dab her eyes. She blew her nose loudly.

  “I got no water, not for a human,” Palleday said from up near the window. Apology in his gravelly voice. He was hidden by the window’s glare. “Say your piece, before I do you worse.”

  “Like feed me a sandwich?” Pax sniffed, pocketing more paper for later. “I’m not the enemy. A lunatic called Lightgate tried to use me to spark war between the Ministry and the FTC. Letty tried to stop her and got trapped in the FTC. She said you were a friend.”

  Palleday’s continued hesitation gave her hope. Pepper-spray or not, he hadn’t threatened her life in the usual way of the Fae. He said, “The news pinned it all on Letty. Say she was working with crazy humans. But Letty, she’s got a good heart. Lightgate . . .a pox on whoever brought her back.” He spat. “But there’s no help here. You know my name, and I guess that’s all.”

  “Yeah,” Pax said. “So fill me in. Can I see you?”

  “I ain’t giving you a chance to snatch me, human.”

  “It’s Pax, not human. And do I look like the snatching type?” Pax spread her arms wide. “I’ve got the reflexes of a sloth.”

  “And the trickery of a fox,” Palleday said. “You’re such good friends with Letty, tell me why you came here and didn’t go to her crew?”

  Pax recalled the Fae who had kidnapped Grace and tried to kill them all. “We fell out.”

  “When you ate young Gambay?”

  “No,” Pax answered seriously, no idea who that was but fairly certain she hadn’t eaten him. “I don’t know what ideas they got about me, but they weren’t working with Letty in the end. We had the weapon to kill the minotaur, they tried to kill us to get it back. Now it’s fuck-knows-where and we’re grasping about in the dark. Only I know your people can help us finish this.”

  “Because we’re special,” Palleday said, defensively. “That sounds like eating talk to me.”

  “What –”

  “Think you’ll gain our powers. Who knows what ideas you have.”

  “Your powers? I can be coarse, antisocial and violent without resorting to cannibalism.”

  “Cannibalism,” he said, “is reserved for equals.”

  “Can we park this? I didn’t eat anyone and I’m not going to. Bottom line is, Letty sent me to you – you’re not in the Fae city, I need a go-between.”

  “Fat chance,” Palleday snorted. “I live out here because I got no love for the FTC, but I got less love for humans. You could do a lot of harm. They just wouldn’t let me build no more. They leave me alone, I leave them alone.” That brought reflective sadness. “Now. Once, men fought wars over my towers.”

  “And women knew better?” Pax offered.

  He paused. “It’s a joke to you, is it?”

  “No,” Pax said. “I just don’t know what you’re talking about. What towers, why would they stop you from building?”

  “Because it wasn’t right, not for their kind of living. They said.” He made a snuffling sound. Torn between paranoia and wanting
to share. “You want to see them?”

  “Sure. If they’re, say, less than two minutes away?”

  “Open that door. The one ahead of you.”

  Pax looked from the frail door back up to the shadows. She crossed the corridor and opened it. The room beyond was dark, barely lit by one small window obscured by clouded glass. It made the contents unsettling: column after column of organic shapes, each as tall as her, pitted with warped openings, like the mouths of tortured souls.

  “Jesus Christ,” Pax said. Something moved near her head, making her sidestep.

  “Yes.” Palleday hovered by the doorway, rubbing his little hands together as he looked upon his work. He was as small as Letty, no more than two inches, but had grand, lacy wings, and a long mane of mucky grey hair, thinning up top. He wore a patchy boiler suit and his long, bony limbs gave him a more insectile appearance than other Fae. The slightly manic look on his face conjured the impression that he hid in the shadows of these massive anthills, waiting for rodents to walk by.

  “You built these things?” Pax asked quietly.

  “And more, so much more.” Palleday hovered a little closer, enraptured by his own achievements. “Wonders of Fae civilisation, forgotten, no longer deserved.” With him distracted, Pax realised, she could actually grab him out of the air now. For a laugh. Palleday turned to face her and shot back with surprise. Sensing her intention to prank? “What are you doing?”

  “This stuff.” Pax ignored the question. “Was this how the Fae cities used to be? The sort Letty told me about, under the city, before the monsters.”

  Palleday’s expression softened. “She spoke about that? What do you know?”

  “Not enough.”

  He made a low, curious noise and flew into the shady room. A moment later, the overhead light blinked on, an old yellow bulb that stretched the openings of the many structures in pained shadows. Palleday resurfaced in the middle of the room. “See it for yourself, human.”

  Pax placed a hand on the doorframe and said, “I can see well enough from here.”