Battle Hill Bolero

by Daniel José Older

  I’ve been dancing along the thin line of subversion for months, teasing my way toward full rebellion, and now I’ve offered myself up to them without so much as a battle waged.

  It takes a conscious effort not to caress the handle of my blade. How many ’catchers can I take out before I go down? I’ve imagined leaping across this table and cutting Botus in half so many times, but this time the calculations are real. And Botus knows it: that ’catcher beside him must be a bodyguard of some kind. He carries a broadsword that looks like it’s designed to bring things to a close with a quickness.

  “Good afternoon, Agent Delacruz,” Botus says, unusually formal. He shuffles some translucent papers around on the table.

  “Afternoon. I see you’ve brought some friends.”

  “Indeed. Treacherous times, treacherous times. Tragedies. War. Betrayals.” He looks across the table at me. I’ve never seen Botus so serious. Even when he’s upset there’s an air of exaggeration to him, like he’s never quite present for the mess around him. For once, Botus isn’t performing.

  “Speaking of betrayals,” I begin. I’ve been told I can’t lie for shit. So I didn’t practice the whole story of how I infiltrated the anti-Council forces and retrieved valuable information. I just made sure I know all the details, which isn’t so hard considering how close they are to the truth. Still, my heart gagongs at an unsteady kilter in my ears, my right hand, under the table, seems to be twitching, and every cell in me wants to run out the goddamn room and never look back. And that’s not a good condition to be in when you’re lying. I’m about to spit out the whole thing, because fuck it, when Botus puts up a hand.

  “I don’t care,” he says, and means it. He really looks weary.

  “But—”

  “Not right now. Just listen. I don’t know what you’ve done this time, Carlos Delacruz, and I really don’t give a shit anymore. You’re questionable as fuck; that much is clear. But I think you’re honest, deep down, even if it’s an honesty I despise.”

  I raise my eyebrows. None of this is going how I imagined.

  “And I think you want what I want, ultimately.”

  “What’s that, Chairman Botus?” No snark, I really want to know.

  “Peace,” he says. Then he shakes his head. “We sent a subminister to the Deeper Death last night, Carlos. After all his years with the Council, I just . . . he still saw fit to betray us.”

  “Arsten?” No end to surprises today. “Wha . . . how?”

  “Doesn’t matter. What matters, Carlos, is that clearly what we have right now is not peace. Not in the least. And it’s only going to get worse. You know it and I know it. These”—he waves a dismissive hand over his head, swatting them away—“Remote Districts rising up. Casual acts of subversion and resistance grow into full-frontal attacks, and then we’re destroying each other tooth and nail, brother cuts down brother, a cycle that will go on for who knows how long? Bah!” The chairman slumps, then arches forward, leaning across the table. “I don’t want it. Do you hear me? I won’t have it.”

  Behind him, the ’catcher with the broadsword stirs on his feet. I can’t make out a face through that visor, but something in his posture tells me this isn’t going how he planned either.

  “Arsten gave the rebels the location of our CentCom,” Botus says, listless again. “Most ’catchers don’t even know we have a CentCom.”

  I know I didn’t. I mean, I wondered, but I figured all communications stuff goes on right here in Sunset like everything else. But the ins and outs of ghost technology never interested me much.

  “Our ability to send messages to a number of our people,” Botus says, “including you, was . . . severed. So to speak.”

  I sit up very straight. No messages. No wonder.

  “I didn’t kno—”

  “Save it. We know it wasn’t you. That’s beside the point. We, and by ‘we’ I mean the Seven, now six, do not want this rebellion. We don’t want strife; we don’t want war. None of it.” He rubs his big forehead, stressed. “And we are, after all, six, not seven like we should be.” He looks across the room at me.

  And this is how it’ll happen? After all that talk of reconciliation and peace, now he comes out to accuse me of assassinating Chairman Phoebus two months ago? The bodyguard ’catcher must think so too: I can feel that glare through his helmet; his fingers flex on the handle of that broadsword.

  But no. If Botus was about to have me executed, he would be smiling. Even this new, morose Botus would enjoy a spectacle he’s been waiting to happen for years now. No, this is another thing entirely. Botus’s face remains impassive. And then I get it.

  “But I’m . . . I’m . . . alive. Partially.”

  A faint smiles appears on his massive face; then it’s gone. “I know, Delacruz, I know.”

  “I couldn’t . . . are you serious?”

  “Dead serious. No pun intended.” Another smile, equally short lived.

  Behind him, the soulcatcher takes a step back—I think in shock.

  “The Seven have always been fully dead,” I say. “Haven’t they?”

  Botus nods. “As I said, treacherous times. I don’t like it. In fact, I hate it. But the other five voted, and this is what we’ve decided. And I can’t say I don’t see some wisdom in it.”

  “I . . . I don’t know what to say.” I don’t. I feel filthy, though. The room becomes suddenly suffocating: all this dust and dimness. I want sunshine, air.

  Botus rises. “Don’t say anything. Think on it. For a day. Then give me an answer. And make that answer yes. Outside of compromise, some new reforms to the system, I don’t see how we can bring this . . . situation . . . to a peaceful resolution.”

  I’m still trying to find some words when Botus and his entourage leave in a whirlwind. The limping ’catcher is the last to go. He doesn’t spare me even a glance as he hauls ass quickly out the door and into the dim corridor.

  —

  Outside, the sun still sits high in the pale sky. It shimmers across the dark street streams of melted snow, dances across windshields and the barred warehouse windows around me. I put a Malagueña in my mouth. Take it out again.

  Was I just offered a spot amongst the Ignoble Seven?

  I believe I was.

  The eeriest part is that Botus was quite serious. I’m so used to side-eyeing anything he says, it’s unnerving to actually believe him, but I do. The thought is chilling. What would I do? Become some cold arbiter of Remote District complaints? More than likely, they’d use me to drip-drop a few tantalizing reforms over the RD’s heads and then blame me when the whole thing comes crashing down.

  A year and a half ago, the ancient necromancer Sarco invited me to take part in his deathpocalypse scheme to tear open a gash in the fabric between the living world and Hell. I was meant to be some kind of sacred doorkeeper, except the door was Mama Esther, against her will, and Sarco’s compadres the ngks had already devoured another friend of mine. I allowed myself a few seconds to taste all that power he was offering. Part of it was curiosity; the rest was because I needed him to think I’d really go along for the ride so I could jump him.

  Those were moments I’ll never forget, though. Some electric-charge imprint must’ve seared itself into my bones—I still feel the echo of that power flowing straight out the center of my chest, through my arms, out into the world. The world—it seemed so broken and pliable. Standing there in the gateway between life and death, I was a divine incarnation of my own strange predicament; where I’d always been neither/nor, suddenly I was both and all and so much more. I was the crisis of the universe, the turning point and fulcrum upon which all life and death spun.

  Wasn’t for me, though. Not my speed, all that mayhem and ferocity at my fingertips. I got the memory to cherish, the echoes still clamoring through me, and that’s plenty. Perhaps being one of the Seven would come with similar excite
ment. I get the sense Botus has never revealed his true abilities, and why would he? Subterfuge is the Council’s best friend.

  I put the cigar in my mouth again, start to light it, realize it’s backward. Then Reza’s Crown Vic rolls up. I’m reaching into my pocket to get the letter to the twins, so I can ask her to pass it along to Sasha, when the window rolls down. And Sasha smiles at me from the driver’s seat.

  “Wanna get the hell outta town for a bit?”

  “God, yes,” I say. It’s the truest words I’ve spoken in a long time.

  Sasha

  What I was most looking forward to about seeing Carlos again? That ease we always shared, even from the very beginning. It’s a strange and magical thing when two people can simply know how to be around each other without having to stop and learn.

  What I wasn’t ready for: those two words, “God, yes,” spoken with zero inhibition, like he even surprised himself when he said them. Caught the whole world off guard with that simplicity. I’m sure it was a long time coming, probably many sleepless nights, knowing Carlos, but it was all worth it for that moment. And just like that I’m stricken again, and all I want is to ride him, feel him all around me, let him take me in every way imaginable and then collapse in a limp, panting heap on his chest and let sleep do its thing.

  Dammit.

  That wasn’t the plan.

  He’s still got that easy charm—that I expected—but he moves more lightly now. He slides into the passenger seat, completely unable to conceal the huge smile on his face.

  “Happy to see me?” I ask.

  “You have no idea. I’ve had the strangest day.”

  “I can only imagine.”

  I pull us around to Third Avenue, where traffic trundles along the highway overhead, then catch the nearest on-ramp, and we’re cruising on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway toward the Verrazano Bridge.

  “So they told you about the little setback over at CentCom?” I ask. Takes everything I got not to let this grin out.

  “Yeah, I didn’t even realize there was a . . . Wait!”

  I let it dawn on him, keep my game face on all the while.

  “How did you . . . you . . . you did that?”

  Finally, the smile comes loose and my whole face is made out of it.

  “I missed that smile,” Carlos says.

  “Consider it my peace offering.”

  “What? The smile? Offer accepted.”

  “No, slick-ass. Fucking up CentCom.” I want to punch his shoulder, but if I do it’ll turn into a caress; I know it will. My hand will betray me, and if I caress him I’ll have to pull over and fuck him. I keep my eyes on the road, hands to myself.

  “How did you even . . . Wait.” He gets real serious, turns to face me in his seat. I ignore my pounding heart. My heart’s not pounding. Why would it?

  “Thank you.” He doesn’t smile when he says it. It’s not a play, just the truth.

  “I would say, ‘My pleasure,’” I tell him. “But it really wasn’t. Turns out they keep throng haints out there too. One took out some old spook named Dr. Calloway they had running things.”

  “Damn, I met him last year. Slipped Riley and me some inside info ’bout a ghost zoo the Council was trying to set up.”

  “Yeah, well he’s part of the masses now. A throng haint ingested him, and then me and Janey shattered it. Took some work, though, believe me.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Jesus ain’t got nothin’ to do with what’s going at the Spine Islands.”

  “That’s where Council CentCom is?”

  “Mmhm.” I swerve around a tractor-trailer that’s hogging three lanes and zip up onto the bridge. Carlos puts his seatbelt on. “Whatsamatter?” I laugh. “You scared?”

  “I’m good,” he says through clenched teeth. “Just don’t do highways very often.”

  The bay between Brooklyn and Staten Island stretches out on either side of us, sparkling in the afternoon sun. It almost feels like a spring day, if you can ignore all the snowdrifts and brown sludge.

  “Wait,” Carlos says, “does the Council know you took out their favorite toy?”

  “We didn’t take it out, not fully. Wasn’t time for that, what with the throng haints. But I made sure to pull your thread. And I don’t know if they know it was me. I was actually gonna ask you that.”

  He shakes his head. “No idea, it was a . . . strange conversation. But the babies . . .”

  “They’re safe,” I say. “Gordo took them to stay with some family he got outside of Boston.”

  “Are you sure they’ll be—”

  “I asked Reza and Janey to go with ’em.”

  Carlos finally sits back, exhales. “Oh. Well, then they’re about as safe as two babies can be.”

  I smile, and for a few seconds we both pretend to ignore the way all that’s passed between us wells up like a tidal wave. Staten Island passes, houses and hospitals and hills.

  “Where we headed, anyway?” Carlos asks.

  I pass him my phone. “Call the Iyawo. She’ll be under Recent Calls. Put it on speaker.”

  He plays with it for a second, then says, “Miguel? Miguel the taxi driver?”

  “Carlos.” I roll my eyes. “We just started talking again after nine months. Don’t be that guy. Okay?”

  He shrugs. “Fair enough.”

  The Iyawo’s phone rings twice, and then she picks up. “Hello?”

  “Kiyawo!” Carlos says. I roll my eyes, and I’m sure she does too.

  “Wait . . . this Carlos? But this is . . . y’all hanging out?”

  “Long story,” Carlos says through a smile.

  “I bet it is.”

  Mama Esther’s voice erupts in the background like a loving thunderclap. “Carlos and Sasha? What?”

  “That’s what I’m sayin’!” the Iyawo squeals. “Mama Esther’s all giddy now. It’s kinda scary.”

  “Hush, child,” the old house ghost chides.

  Carlos and I keep our eyes on the road. “You find what we were looking for?” I ask.

  “Girl . . .” The Iyawo sighs. I can imagine her shaking her head. “I found it. You ready?”

  I’ve been getting ready. I thought I was ready; then the thousand could’ve-beens flocked around my heart again, the best and the worst and the truly absurd. I shake my head. Fuck it, we’ve arrived. Deep breath. Then, “Yeah, what you got?”

  “Turns out there aren’t that many Aisha Floreses in the United States and only eighteen in the tristate area. Of the eighteen, one went missing five years ago: Aisha Flores of 729 Coral Lane, Sunport, New Jersey.”

  “Aisha,” Carlos says quietly. The last word he spoke before I murdered him. My name.

  My heart thuds along in a slow, frantic march, pounds against my face, my wrists, becomes the whole world.

  “That much we knew,” the Iyawo goes on. “I just wanted to fill C in.”

  “I’m already lost,” Carlos says. “But keep going; I’ll catch up.”

  “The Sunport Public Library digitized their microfiche four years ago, and you’re supposed to have a library card to access it but . . . well, you know.”

  In the background, Mama Esther snorts.

  “Anyway, it checks out. According to the local papers, Ms. Aisha Flores, twenty-seven, disappeared without a trace along with five other Sunport residents, including her brother Darren.” Trevor. “She leaves behind her husband, Juan Flores, and parents, James and Sarah Raymond.”

  I know what’s next. I don’t know how, but I know, and without my permission, tears slide down my cheeks.

  “A few weeks later,” the Iyawo says, “James and Sarah Raymond died in a car crash. A month after that, James’s parents, Jane and Reginald, were killed in an electrical fire. Sarah’s were both dead already.”

  I’m shaking my
head, because I know it all; it’s all somewhere in me, this aching truth: they’re all gone. Another bridge takes us out of Staten Island, into New Jersey. It starts snowing as we cross the state line.

  “It goes on,” the Iyawo says. “But . . .”

  “It’s okay,” I say, even though everyone knows that’s a lie. “I know.” Carlos’s hand is on mine. I don’t know when he put it there, but his skin is cool like mine, and his heart, his lifeline is shattered, just like mine.

  “What about my . . . husband?” It doesn’t feel true, that word, but it must be.

  “Juan Flores’s body showed up in Prospect Park a few months after you disappeared. He was decomposed pretty bad, and animals had chewed his face off, so they had to ID him from dental records, but it was him. Sounds like he might’ve ODed. Some kind of bizarre murder, then delayed reaction suicide was suspected, but there was no proof, no witnesses, nothing.”

  I shudder. That empty face beneath the visor.

  “Checked the other names out, the ones that disappeared that same day. It took some work.”

  “You’re amazing,” I say through a sniffle.

  “You okay? I can stop, we can do this ano—”

  “No.” Comes out sharper than I meant it. “No.” Softer this time. “Keep going.”

  “So, there’s a couple I couldn’t track, not yet, anyway. One I think was a drifter, this guy Samuel Bennacourt, another a nurse. Celine St. Martin was apparently a beloved schoolteacher and grandmother. And then we have Andre Salazar, twenty-six.”

  Carlos sits up very straight. “That me?”

  “Seems to be,” the Iyawo says. “You worked at Video Hut and were taking adult-ed classes in filmmaking.”

  Now my hand is on his, and his clutches his thighs.

  “Don’t got much else, but Carlos . . . the situation with Sasha’s family? I’m sorry. It’s the same for yours. All within a week or two of your disappearance.”