by Tara Omar
John and David rose from their chairs and headed toward the stark service elevator at the end of the Central Docking Station, which they rode up to the main entrance. John turned toward the employee parking lot.
“Well, I don’t mean to run, but I have to make it to the grocers now-now,” said John, looking at his watch. “They’re running a special on sardines; I must get there before all the old cronies buy them out. See you tomorrow.”
“John, I’m really sorry about what happened,” said David, running after him.
“What, that?” asked John, turning. “Don’t worry about it. Wayne’s favourite pastime is whittling away our pay. That’s why he’s the manager. Any rate, I appreciate what you tried to do back there,” said John, patting David’s arm. “Shows character… and inexperience, but you are a soft shell after all.”
“If there’s anything I can do…”
“Yeah, I know what you can do,” said John.
“What?”
“Don’t let them get to you. There are a lot of mad, sad, crazy people in this world. If you let them all in you’ll end up spending your whole life in a crowded, miserable rain cloud,” said John. “See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” said David. He kicked a pebble against the fence on his way out of the restricted area, heading down the block in the direction of the dingy hostel that now marked his home. As he glanced up he noticed a familiar figure in the distance, leaning against a window in another building behind the fence. David froze, squinting his eyes to get a better look. Without another glance he turned and ran back toward the restricted area, around the other side of the fence and toward the figure, who had just disappeared behind an aluminium blind. David knew that face—it was Norbert Bransby.
C H A P T E R 5 2
David sneaked through the entrance to the limestone building, past a distracted security guard and down a hall toward a metal door at the end. An infrared scanner and keypad was attached to the wall near the door; before David could examine it he heard voices coming down the corridor. Without thinking, filament flew from his wrists and attached to a metal pipe near the ceiling. He climbed upward, disappearing into the ventilation system as a group of mers turned the corner. He peeped through the vent. A mer with thick glasses and a lab coat was walking with Silver, Uriel and his three advisors. It was Joseph Mandel, the head of Merish Military Arms and Research.
“There can be no mistakes this time,” said Gerard.
“That’s what we said last time,” said Tobias.
“Must we all state the obvious?” asked Silver.
The mer named Mandel swiped a plastic access card, scanned his finger and typed a passcode into the keypad near the door. David looked but did not see Norbert in the group; he shimmied through the vent on his stomach, following the mers into a hangar filled with an army of detailed wax figures of humans, some of whom David knew. He saw Imaan and Saladin, Cephas, Gill and others from the film. They were stretched and crouched in warlike positions, while several assistants scurried among them, adding eyelashes, blades and even hair accessories, so that the whole thing looked eerily accurate, as though someone had frozen a battle scene.
“Are we ready for the demonstration?” asked Uriel.
“Almost. We’re just waiting on the murderer,” said Mandel. “Here he comes now.”
A nervous-looking mer with a slight twitch wheeled in another figure. He set it in the middle of the room and tucked a split blade in Norbert’s hands, brushing out its hair with his fingers before stepping away. It was an identical image of Norbert, the same David had seen in the window minutes before.
“There we are,” said Mandel. “It is with great pleasure that I present to Your Majesty the latest in merish military arms.”
Two assistants came forward carrying a titanium case with silver snaps. The mer opened the lid and lifted out a long, twisted wristband about half the length of a forearm. The mer handed it to Uriel who turned it over in his hands as he examined it. The shiny wristband flashed colours as Uriel moved; it looked like it was made of liquid diamonds.
“What is it?” asked Gerard.
“A blade grater,” said Mandel. “As you know, in the first war the warriors could only shoot one, maybe two blades at a time. This band shatters the blades as they leave the wrist, increasing ground cover exponentially with each shot.”
“Will the blades still work?”
“Yes, because the blade is a fractal. No matter how small the piece is, it’s almost identical to the whole,” said Mandel, “similar to broccoli.”
“Broccoli?” asked Gerard.
“Yes,” said Mandel. “You know how each little piece looks like a smaller version of the big stalk? It’s like broccoli.”
“So the fate of our people rests on semi-disagreeable produce,” said Tobias.
“Yes, well that is why we’re here, isn’t it?” asked Silver. “Perhaps our vegetative vegetables have learned too much from our advisers?”
“Enough,” said Uriel.
“If I may demonstrate?” asked Mandel.
“Please,” said Uriel.
“As we’re not in armour, I suggest we all step behind the glass.”
Silver, Uriel and the advisers filed behind a protective screen nearby. The mer handed out safety glasses while a brawny assistant snapped the blade grater on his arm. He turned toward the army of wax figures and fired. A shattering sound spun through the room as the blades exploded through the grater. The mers ducked behind the glass as the blades rained on the humans like a torrent, tearing away bits of flesh and sticking into their skin like crescent-shaped claws. After only three shots the whole army had been reduced to a crumpled heap, all dotted with shrapnel like half-plucked chickens.
“Extraordinary,” said François, removing his glasses.
“We lose several millimetres in penetration with the smaller blades, but it is enough to inflict the same damage,” said Mandel. “The added ground cover seems most advantageous.”
Gerard turned a figure over with his foot, looking at the tiny crescents stuck in its front.
“The humans won’t stand a chance,” said Gerard.
“Unless Silence sends a miracle,” said Tobias, crossing his arms.
“What do you think, Silver?” asked Uriel.
“If murder is the object, then the object he invents shall manage,” said Silver. He glanced toward the ceiling.
Uriel nodded.
“How quickly can you manufacture?” asked Uriel.
“About 18 000 a day,” said the mer.
“I want the squads armed and trained by Zahara’s viewing ball. Start with the Palace guards, then the militia in the Highlands, then the army in the Midridge. Wait on the people in the Lowveld until further notice,” said Uriel.
“Very good, Your Majesty,” said Mandel.
“Most excellent, Sire,” said François.
The mers filed out of the room but David didn’t notice. He was too busy staring at the decimated army, which was now starting to bubble with ugly, wart-like lesions as the blades pulsed air through the wax. These figures represented people he knew, people who had already lost so much of their lives to the war, like Norbert, and those who still had hope for valour, like George. He knew all would meet the same agonising death, cut down like animals in the cruellest of abattoirs.
David dropped through the vent and ran from the building toward the hostel, ignoring the shouts from the startled security guard as he tore through the doors. The image of the battered wax figures hung heavy in his head. If the mers went to war, the humans would not survive it. David knew what he had to do. He grabbed his dagger and bottle of poison from under the floorboard in the hostel and raced toward the Palace, intent on finding the mer King.
C H A P T E R 5 3
Uriel bent over a copper stove in a damp corner of the Palace, surrounded by the sour smell of c
urdling milk. Six ornately-carved cheese presses stood against the wall next to him, looking like empty gallows. He pressed muslin cheesecloth into the bottom cavity of the press nearest to him and removed the pot full of curds from the heated bath on the stove, throwing in a handful of sea salt before stirring once more. He spooned the shiny milk solids into the press, folded the corners of the muslin over and strung a gold weight to the empty gallows, watching as the pressure squeezed the whey from the cheese, which began to drip through the bottom into a ceramic bowl under the press. David watched him in secret.
Let’s see… cheesecloth, weights… cheesecloth, thought David, fingering the bottle of poison in his hands. He crouched near a coral fountain at the end of the hall, at the corner of where two corridors met. As he peeked beyond the wall David could see Uriel moving inside the kitchen; he was much broader and more muscular than David. Like Norbert’s kill, surprise would be the only element David could use for success. He thought through his plan.
Okay, throw myself at the King… knock him off balance. Then break the bottle over his mouth like Norbert did and hope for the best. I could maybe hit him with the weight or the dagger, though if the shield is as Norbert said, it won’t make much difference. Perhaps I can cover his face with the cloth so I don’t have to watch him die… I can’t watch him die.
Just then a ball of fluorescent fur burst through the coral fountain, landing on the marble floor with a smack. It bounded down the hall toward Uriel, barking happily as it waddled down the corridor. It was a small, silver seal. Uriel turned.
“Treble, stay. You know you’re not allowed in here,” said Uriel
The seal barked and wiped his nose with his flipper but did not cross the threshold.
“That’s a good boy,” said Uriel. “I’ve got some penguin-flavoured parmesan, just for you.” He reached into his pocket and tossed a smelly piece of cheese into the hall, and the seal fell backward, tripping over his flippers as he lunged for the morsel. He chewed it up and waddled back toward the fountain, his fur shimmering a rainbow of colours as he moved. As he climbed into the fountain he stopped and stared at David with bright blue eyes the colour of lapis lazuli.
“You,” breathed David.
David knew it was him, the seal that had bit him what felt like decades before on the banks of the Chumvi River. He felt the inside of his chest tense and race, but before he could think another thought, the seal slipped into the fountain. David almost leaned over to follow him but caught himself, careful to stay hidden from Uriel’s view. A splash sputtered several metres away; the seal had surfaced in a coral fountain near the end of an adjacent hall. He climbed out and waddled down the corridor; David forgot Uriel and raced after him.
C H A P T E R 5 4
David raced past the corner of the Palace, colliding with the coral fountain as he overshot the turn. Regaining his footing, he sprinted down the corridor, scanning around and behind him as he searched for the seal.
“Where are you?” asked David.
He doubled back and checked the fountain, but the seal was nowhere to be found.
David flinched as the sound of a heavy bass drum reverberated through the hallway, followed by the clanging of metal. The drum sounded again; as it echoed David noticed the sounds had a distinct rhythm, like a mix between an orchestral symphony and a tribal war chant. David followed the beating sounds down a passage to a set of swinging double doors. He slipped inside.
Nearly thirty mers were standing near the wall of a large studio, watching a performing group in the centre. Mers were jumping and spinning to the beat of the clanging metal, some on the ground, some hanging from the ceiling, engaged in what looked like a mix of acrobatics and modern dance. Their hair and markings were glowing even in the sun; they weaved between one another and flipped from the ground to the air. Between them hung a web of filament the size of a hot air balloon still connected to their wrists. Unlike the feathery strands David had seen Raphael spin, this filament was tough and unyielding. Each beat of the drum and jolt of the bodies moved it only slightly; as the mers pounded through the movements, the web inched into shape as though it were being hit with a hammer and anvil. David stared, wide-eyed.
“Hey,” whispered a voice.
A mer with short, lime green hair was standing near the door. He pointed to his feet.
“Shoes.”
“Oh,” said David. He pulled off his shoes and left them with the assorted pile near him, looking up at a dancing mer who somersaulted to the ground from a one-armed handstand. Kajal was dancing near him. The mer moved toward her as the beating intensified; she grabbed his arm and threw her body over his back in a twisted flip, pushing her hands up toward the ceiling as she landed. All the other mers thrust their hands toward the ceiling with her, and with the last beat of the drum they forced their hands downward, snapping the filament from their wrists. The light on their markings faded, while the massive web of filament crackled as it hardened into a bluish iron. As it finished it looked both complex and artistic, like a cross between a tapestry and a tangled sphere.
“Good job, team,” said Kajal, wiping the sweat from her forehead. The mers around her were panting and sweating, while the mers that had been watching from near the wall ran forward with drink bottles. Kajal grabbed one from the mer with short, green hair. He pointed to David in the corner. She waved and motioned to him to come nearer.
“Okay team, let’s get this monster into place,” she said. The wall behind her broke open into two three-storey doors. The mers who had brought the water ran around the metal, shooting it with thick strands of filament as they pulled it through the open doors.
“We were wondering when you were coming. I sent a messenger to the hostel, but they said you weren’t there,” said Kajal, taking another sip from her bottle. “Come, I’ll show you around.”
She led David into a glass room overlooking the city. A long balcony stretched out along the wall above the doors, with staircases on both sides and a collection of plans posted against the wall. The metal orb was positioned below the balcony; several mers were hooking pipes from the metal to a row of gumdrop-shaped aquariums. The aquariums were filled with patches of sea grass; to the right of the aquariums stood a row of desks, where mers were working on computers that had four-dimensional screens. The computers looked similar to the televisions in Aeroth except the images were made of water instead of light. They were displaying tiny replicas of the metal in front of them, with a list of equations and readings on the side. Kajal called to a mer behind one of the computers, the same mer who had warned David about his shoes.
“Are we almost ready to go, Glen?” she asked.
“Yep,” said Glen, as he typed on his keyboard. “We’re going live in three… two… one.”
A stream of water gushed through the orb, twisting around the metal strands in ways David was sure defied the laws of physics. A few passers-by outside the glass stopped and watched, clapping as the last bit of iron was covered with the strange flow of water, like a fresh coat of snow on a barren tree. Kajal smiled.
“These are the filtration systems I was telling you about,” said Kajal. “The water runs around the iron, through these funnels and into the aquariums containing the sea grass. Then we track the growth patterns.”
David took a closer look at the grass inside the aquariums, all of which had stunted growth and bare patches. He poked his finger through the glass; it was the same wobbly kind he had seen at Raphael’s house.
“The crop circles represent current sea conditions,” continued Kajal. “There’s an excess of sulphide in the water that’s stunting the growth of the vegetation, which is causing the famine. The sea grass is the most sensitive, so that’s what we’re using for research.”
“Are all crops grown underwater?” asked David.
“No, of course not, but all crops use water, so it’s affecting all of them,” said Kajal. She
led David past the aquariums toward a flight of side stairs leading to an open balcony above the iron orb filter.
“Where’s the sulphide coming from?” asked David, following her.
“We don’t know,” said Kajal. “There’s a whole team of university researchers looking into it, but they haven’t found anything yet.” She paused, looking at the pendant around David’s neck.
“You know amber is nearly impossible to replicate. Did you spin it?” asked Kajal.
“Oh, this? A friend gave it to me,” said David.
Kajal leaned over the railing.
“Do you have the stats for me, Glen?” she asked.
“Still processing,” said Glen. Kajal nodded.
“Who’s the friend?” asked Kajal.
“Oh, uh… she died… a while ago,” lied David. “I think she got it from her grandmother or something.”
“Oh,” said Kajal. “How unfortunate.”
“The prototype filter you just saw us finish is made of iron, as are all the filters we make. The sulphide binds with iron and is removed from the water, but there’s a problem.”
She pointed to a crevice on the filter. Inside the niche David could see a reddish-brown scab.
“Rust,” said David.
“Exactly,” said Kajal. “The thing rusts out before it can really be effective. As you saw, iron is a hard metal; it takes a lot of effort to construct on this scale. Everything has to be right, every time. We can’t replace the filters fast enough.”
“So this is the plotting against the royal house, then?” asked David.
“Yes.” Kajal turned to the wall behind the balcony, which was also the outer wall of the Palace. It was covered with posters of graphs, blueprints and equations. Kajal waved her hand across them.
“We plot the shape of the filters here,” she said. “If any of the built prototypes show significant improvement in filtration efficiency or significant reduction in oxidation rate, the designer will win the prize. The whole thing is as public as possible, so the people can stay involved.”
