by J. C. Staudt
The crowd was quiet, some seething for justice, others waiting in apprehension. Wax had made a successful run of his time in power, but like any leader, he had his detractors; those in whose eyes he could do no right. Those people, Merrick knew, would become his most vehement supporters when Wax was gone. That was why he’d chosen to make Wax’s execution public instead of hiding it behind closed doors. For every citizen who hated to see the Commissar die, there would be another who’d been waiting years for it to happen.
Merrick’s hands were shaking. He’d killed people before. He’d shot them with his rifle, stabbed them with knives and bayonets, stoned them with chunks of loose concrete. As a kid in the city south, he’d beaten some miscreant with a wrench as the man tried to rob him. He’d dropped bricks on the heads of unsuspecting muties and broken glass bottles over people’s heads during bar fights. He’d grown up knowing these were the things he had to do to come out on top. Wax was no different.
He gritted his teeth. There was a red electric flash, and a gout of crimson covered his boots and splashed onto his lower pant legs. Wax’s head rolled down the museum steps.
Cheers.
Boos.
The crowd parted to let the head keep going, until some jackass with a lame arm snatched it up by the hair and took off with it. A skirmish broke out.
Merrick felt sick. The city really was his now, and he wasn’t sure he liked it anymore. His Scarred bodyguards swept him away from the scene along with the captains and advisors lined up along the colonnade. The escape route was pre-planned, as always, and he was looking down from the safety of the Hull Tower before the last of Pilot Wax’s hair had been parted from his skull in the tug-of-war that ensued.
He was tired, but sleep was the last thing he wanted. He was too scared to sleep anymore; too paranoid there was someone waiting for him to shut his eyes. His resonarc was broken, and the Gray Revenants had fled south after the invasion. The extent of their ambitions did lie in raiding drug dens and selling gangers to the savages as slaves, after all.
The gangers had followed the Revenants when they discovered Merrick’s promises of plenty were as empty as North Belmond’s storehouses. The Kilnhurst Klick, the Rowdies, the Tribe—all had gone back to where they’d come from—back to the familiarity and territorial dominance of the lives they knew. Lives which, for them, beat the bullshit promises of an aspiring politician whose uprising had induced more bloodshed than revolution.
Determined to stay awake, Merrick locked himself inside Wax’s former office and wandered through the room, searching every drawer and filing cabinet for something with which to occupy his time. The bottom drawer of Wax’s desk was empty but for a bottle of old scotch and a crystal glassware set. There was something not right about the drawer, though.
Merrick removed the items and slid a hand toward the back. He found a semi-circular notch in the wood, lifted it. A false bottom. The compartment beneath was lined with baggies of purple clear-cut, some of the finest-quality zoom he’d ever seen. It was a stash to rival the amounts he’d encountered at the den inside the Unimart. Wax was a zoomer? he wondered. A high-functioning one, then.
A rainbow-colored blown-glass pipe sat atop the stack of baggies, a dozen matchbooks littered around it. An old steel wick lighter lay beside the pipe; the refillable flip-top kind. Merrick closed the drawer and paced the room, trying not to think about the zoom but unable to think of anything else. Its memory stained him like vision spots from a long stare into the light-star, eating away until there was only the idea of its sweet acrid stench to keep him company.
Next he knew, he found himself sitting at the desk again, drawer open, baggie in hand. There was tons of the stuff; several months’ supply for even the heaviest addict. He split the plastic seal and took a sniff.
The smell of zoom was his father. It didn’t just remind him of his father. It was his father; it was the most distinct memory-trigger Merrick had of Trent Bouchard. Like the fumes of a summer campfire: caustic yet comforting.
Trent hadn’t been all bad. There were moments—isolated snapshots between long spans of disharmony—when Merrick’s father had been good to him. Kind, even. Most of those moments had happened while his mother was still around, so far back the details were hazy now. He hadn’t heard his mother’s voice in a long time. So long he’d begun to dismiss those echoes in his mind as figments of his imagination.
The chemicals took Merrick in their grip the moment he set the pipe to his lips. They cradled him in the innocence of a childhood half-remembered, wherein lay the confusing juxtaposition of pain and longing. Trauma and euphoria.
Zoom had been waiting for him all these years, he realized. Calling to him, eager to take him back into its delicate stranglehold. But Wax had outlawed zoom in the city north, and the opportunity had only come now, in the place where Wax kept that lonely satisfaction to himself.
Like father, like son, Merrick thought bitterly, exhaling a breath of purple steam.
Glass to lips. Purple crystals oozing, warm glow, lazy curls of white smoke.
Merrick was wide awake, and stayed that way all night and through the next day. He may have lost his mother’s voice, but Toler Glaive’s rang through him as clear as the scotch-glass crystal he spun compulsively between his fingers. When people come clamoring from every corner of the Aionach seeking your curative powers, you’ll need protection. Merrick didn’t need protection, though. Not as much as he needed electrical energy to facilitate the use of his gift. Not as much as he needed zoom to keep him going; to help him surmount the sleep of the gifted. With a never-ending supply of those two things, he’d be able to function for weeks at a time without a break.
Over the following weeks, Merrick found that not only did the zoom work better than the resonarc; it amplified his periods of ignition as well. He did sleep sometimes; at first he only used whenever he needed to take the edge off. He quickly found that a body able to consume and convert such huge amounts of energy could handle larger intake levels as well. He’d never noticed this with alcohol; he got drunk as quickly as any other man with an average habit of once or twice a week. When he got high, though, he recovered without the usual lows or hung-over feeling. He bounced back fast after a good sleep, an indulgence he didn’t allow himself often. Sleeping was difficult. It felt pointless at times, and it only served to heighten his growing paranoia.
The knock came at his office door two weeks to the day after Pilot Wax’s death. It was an ominous knock, the kind Merrick knew could bring only bad news, though that pessimistic prediction might’ve derived from the fact that he was coming down off his latest high. He tossed pipe and lighter into the drawer and slid it closed with his foot, then shouted for whoever it was to open the door and come in.
“Sorry to disturb you,” said Shelder Depliades, slipping inside and planting himself along the short section of wall between the door and the wet bar.
“What is it?”
The fat-nosed midget had given Merrick nothing but bad news all week, and his somber expression made Merrick think he ought to expect more of it. “There was another fight at the Olney Street border station this morning.”
“Okay… and?”
“And a rape inside one of the vacant stores in the Covington Mills strip mall downtown. Last night. We also had an apartment fire that destroyed four homes, and we’ve yet to apprehend a suspect in the string of robberies on the west side.”
Merrick tried to focus, but there were three blurry Shelders spinning around the real one. “What do you want me to do about it?”
Shelder cleared his throat. “The division commanders and I have been talking—”
“Without me,” Merrick interrupted. “Again. Did you all do this much yammering behind Wax’s back?”
“You missed yesterday’s meeting. I—”
“No more meetings without me,” Merrick shouted. “If I’m not there, you should be working to fix these problems instead of clucking around like a bunch of old hens.”<
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Shelder gulped, lips parting onto a dry mouth. “We think you should close the borders, sir.”
“Close the borders? Are you insane? We need to give it time. People will mellow out once we’ve filled more jobs, boosted factory production, and increased trade.”
“Our factories are nothing more than glorified sweatshops,” Shelder insisted. “The laborers work with hand tools and wood fires. There’s no automation in the system—no machines to help them with the work.”
“So speed up research on the power station,” Merrick said.
Shelder grimaced. “We’ve had to approach that project with care. We can’t move too rapidly without overtaxing ourselves, resources being what they are.”
“The whole point of all this shit is to expand our resources.”
“That’s become harder with the recent influx in population. Thanks to all the people coming across the border, we’ve burned through our last few months’ supply in a matter of weeks.”
“Don’t blame me for this,” Merrick shouted. “Don’t act like this is my fault. Wax wanted to take over the city south. I’m doing the same thing, only I’m trying to be nice about it. Let people come in, instead of getting pushed out of their neighborhoods while the north expands.”
“It’s not the geographical territory that makes the difference. It’s the number of people we’re being forced to support. Again… Wax wanted to expand at a measured pace. Little by little, over a period of many years. That would’ve allowed us to achieve growth at a sustainable rate, without these sudden, dramatic increases in population.”
“All we’re doing is fast-tracking the process. There are going to be hiccups at the beginning. Once we can generate enough power to start feeding it to locations around the city, we can push the factories into overdrive. We should be sending every spare dway we can find to work on that power plant. Do that; I want it done. And I want two more border stations opened up. One on each end of the Row. Let’s get this moving. We’re not going to stimulate growth by being pussies about it. We gotta be all-in on this or we might as well give up now.”
Shelder rubbed the back of his neck. “Sir… there’s something else. Unless we get about three new trade caravans in the next few days, we’re going to have to start rationing food.”
Merrick’s eyes found reason to focus then. “Rationing,” he said, as if uttering some dread curse. “If we’re that short on food, why haven’t we started rationing it already?”
“Commissar Wax was adamant about keeping up the appearance of affluence even in times of difficulty. He was thrifty, to a certain extent. Never wasteful… but he hardly lived the lifestyle of a pauper, either. Belt-tightening was never something he did well. He didn’t believe the nomad crusade could go on forever. He thought it would break before things got to this point. All those extra people, though, have—”
“Yeah, I heard you the first thirty times. We’ve got too many people. Alright. Shut up for a second and let me think.” Merrick went to the couch and sat, elbows on knees, palms on forehead.
The north was on the verge of devolving into the same human garbage heap the south had been for decades. People would stop caring about his gift if they were hungry. What could a city full of healthy, starving people accomplish? Then another voice popped into his head. It wasn’t Toler’s. It wasn’t his dad’s voice, or even his mom’s. It was Pilot Wax. Every time we’ve grown our borders before, it’s only served to make us more prosperous. There’s a huge area of this city that we don’t control. There are resources we need for this power station. Places we can rebuild. His speech outside the barracks, which Merrick had witnessed while wearing a cheap floral hospital gown.
A huge area of this city that we don’t control… resources we need. There were hidden resources all over the city south. The Gray Revenants knew that, as Wax had known it then. Secret places where the Ministry, planning for the worst, had stashed its most prized possessions. Who knew what undiscovered treasures they’d socked away and lost forever when the Heat came?
Merrick stood up suddenly. “Okay, you win. Close the borders.”
Shelder glanced around as if expecting some trick. “Completely?”
“Shut down the Olney Street border station. Turn it into a normal barricade like it used to be, but make it twice as strong this time. We’re going to reopen it someday. But you’re right—we can’t afford to right now. Not yet. Not until the trains start coming again. I want to unite this city, but I’m not going to watch the north starve while the southers attach themselves to us like leeches. We need to stabilize our way of life before we start inviting them into it. Call the division commanders. Time for a meeting.”
“Yes, sir.” Depliades saluted and left.
Merrick went purple again before he emerged from his office and entered the conference room. “Hopefully by now Mr. Depliades has informed you all of the changes,” he said. “I’ve decided to listen to your plea and close the borders. Muties, zoomheads, gangers, knee-scrapers… I want everyone out. Round them up and ship them back where they came from. Anyone who causes a disturbance, or anyone who commits a violent crime, Mobile Ops and the Sentries have my express permission to use deadly force. Also, cripples, invalids, those with mental health problems, and anyone who refuses to work, is hereby banished from North Belmond. We’re paring down, gentlemen. Desperate times, as you’ve wisely pointed out. Make it happen.”
The captains nodded their relief and rose to do their new Commissar’s bidding.
“Hold on. Just one more thing. Captain Buckwald, I want two Mobile Ops platoons dressed in full gear and mustered in the south barracks yard in one hour. I’ll need a set of fatigues for myself as well.”
Natter’s mouth twitched. He was a twitchy sort of fellow, a habit which often gave him away when he least wanted to be figured out. “May I ask what for, sir?”
“We’re going on a field trip. During my brief time with the Gray Revenants, we discovered an inhabited church next to an old plaza called Union Park. The Revs believed the people who lived in the church were hiding some kind of huge holdover from the days of the Ministry. We staged a big raid against the place, but we didn’t get very far. If nothing else, I saw some livestock wandering around inside. They’ve got to have some way to survive in there, being that they make only limited contact with the outside world. Even if we don’t find a huge score, it’s a food source that might help us hold out here a little longer while we wait for the caravans.”
“You’re referring to the Order of the Most High Infernal Mouth,” said Ibrahim Newhook, the broad-bellied commander of the Signal Division, stroking the gray patches beside his pointed black beard.
“That’s them. Yeah.”
“Commissar Wax had a standing agreement not to interfere in their affairs,” said Newhook.
“Why?”
“He didn’t tell us. His orders were to leave them alone.”
“Well, the Order doesn’t have that agreement with me,” Merrick said.
“You want to march through the city south and knock down their door for a couple of goats and some chickens? We have thousands of people to feed, even after we deport the southers.”
“There’s more there,” Merrick said. “I know there is. I’m going to find out what they’re hiding.”
“You’re… going with them?”
“It’ll be just like I used to do with Mobile Ops in the old days. I’ll lead the mission myself.” Wax never did that when he was in charge, Merrick thought proudly. Wax never put himself in danger; never risked life and limb for this city he claimed to love so much.
“As you say, sir.”
“That’s all. Now get going. I want that border sealed by midnight and the city cleared out over the next few days.”
“Am I to understand this is only a temporary closure?” asked Dietmar Wohrman, the Artillery Division’s straight-laced, shaved-headed commander.
“That’s right,” Merrick said. “Someday Belmond will b
e unified. At the moment, we can’t afford to let a bunch of rabble roam the streets, making things unsafe for the rest of us.”
Wohrman inhaled through his nose and gave a slow, delayed nod.
“Shelder is in charge while I’m gone,” Merrick said. “He’s not to make any decisions or take any action whatsoever unless it’s entirely necessary and can’t wait a few days. By the way, Captain Buckwald. I’m a size forty-three waist and a size forty-one chest.”
Natter Buckwald looked at him blankly.
“For my uniform.”
“Right. Got it. What was that again? Forty and thirty-one?”
“Forty-three and forty-one.”
“Okay. Was that chest, or…?”
Merrick clarified one last time, then dismissed everyone. He returned to his office, got high again, packed a bag for the trip, and descended to the Hull Tower’s lobby with a complement of Scarred bodyguards, intent on meeting his excursion force at the barracks. He’d tried to come down here at least once a day to heal as many people as he could, but he hadn’t gotten around to it as often lately. Without frequent trips to the power station, he’d been forced to limit his activity.
Despite his many marathon healing sessions, the crowd hadn’t lessened in size by any discernible measure. Whereas citizens’ original complaints had included things like hernias, cancers, venereal disease, broken bones and bacterial infections, people were coming to him now for things like pulled muscles and sore throats. You give them a miracle, and they want an extra helping, he thought sourly.
His bodyguards guided him out the door and began shoving their way through the crowd. The people swarmed him, crushing him inside a ring of muscled soldiers. They got stuck for a few seconds as the bodyguards in front dealt with the press in their path, and Merrick felt the brief, panicky sensation of drowning.
As they retreated from the building, the crowd moved with them. That was when Merrick knew he had no choice but to stop. He screamed for everyone to clear away, that he’d heal them if they calmed down and gave him some room. They calmed, but no one wanted to give up their spot, so they stood around like cattle, able to hear but too dumb to move.
