by T. C. Edge
And that has nothing to do with the thin veil of toxic mist that still collects around our feet.
I stare right at Cromwell and wonder just what the hell he’s talking about. I look at him and think: how on earth would we EVER need each other. I look at him and consider the idea of letting him live, let alone working together, repulsive and entirely unpalatable.
But then, my mind swiftly decides to take another path. Capricious as I am, I quickly think back to the things I’ve seen, both with my own eyes, and through the mind of West.
And I think, too, of things I’ve heard. Things that Rhoth has told me. Things that my grandmother has told me.
I know full well that we aren’t alone here. I know full well that there are others out there. Not just the tribes who linger nearby. Not just the Fangs and the Bear-Skins, the Skullers and the Roosters. And not just the Shadows either; the morphed and mutated form of man.
No, I’m well aware that there’s far more than that. If all these different tribes and clans and strange people exist nearby, then I’m fully cognizant of the fact that there are many others further away.
But, clearly I don’t know it all. Clearly my evil grandfather has an inside line that none of us here are quite aware of.
So, as my thoughts tumble, and the air seems to grow thin, we all just stare for a moment as Cromwell’s words settle. Then, a round of heads start to shake, and Beckett utters the words that we’re probably all thinking.
“We will never need you,” he growls. “Why in the goddamn world would we need you?”
Cromwell’s eyes slide to him. He’s the only one he didn’t address when he first arrived.
“And who is this?” he asks.
“My name’s Commander Beckett,” comes the quick answer from a man who suffers no one. “I am the leader of our military forces. I am the man who saw to the destruction of your little nest at the top of that chrome tower of yours.”
“Ah, I see. Well, congratulations on that. You may be complicit then, in dooming us all.”
“Dooming us all?” questions the gruff commander. “You are clutching at straws, Director Cromwell. You have been defeated, and are now trying to use your trickery to deceive us. It’s little more than a demonstration of your desperation. And I, for one, am not buying it.”
Cromwell’s eyes narrow. For a man who’s not supposed to display anger, he’s doing a very fine job at it.
“You can choose to spend your wisdom on what you wish,” he says, his calm disposition faltering a little. “But I have no interest in your opinion. This isn’t a matter of opinion, but fact. My defeat, as you call it, has weakened us all. And I say again, we are all vulnerable now.”
Beckett huffs, and prepares to speak. He doesn’t get a chance.
Instead, Lady Orlando takes back control of our side of the conversation. She remains completely calm as she re-engages.
“OK, Artemis,” she says. “Clearly, you are aware of something we are not. Perhaps you’d like to enlighten us. As of right now, Commander Beckett’s opinion is one that’s most likely shared by us all. I will, however, grant you the opportunity to convince us otherwise. So,” she says, finishing and reaching out her old, withered hand, “educate us. What is it that you know?”
I can barely contain myself as I fling my wide eyes from my grandmother to my grandfather. That thought alone is enough to get my blood pumping. Yet, there’s something in me that begins to coil around my insides. There’s a dread that, like it or not, Cromwell’s words hold no lie.
He speaks again, and the world hushes.
“This city has long been a beacon,” he begins. “People have tried to come here for years from many places, far away. I do not allow them entry. Such people are threats to the stability of our society. Yet, I am a man of learning. As a ruler, it’s important that I am aware of all threats, at home and beyond.”
He looks to Agent Woolf, who stands upright and rigid nearby. I notice my brother glaring at her with a detestation that rivals my feelings towards the witch.
“You all know Romelia,” Cromwell continues. “She is able to extract any information from any mind, given time. I have other agents who can do the same. And when people come from the wider world, we use such people to learn about what lies far beyond our borders. Let me tell you, ladies and gentlemen…the world is far from safe out there.”
His words bring West back into my mind. I think again of the attack on his village, and the brutality of the soldiers who swarmed through, killing and burning everything in their path.
Cromwell takes a deep breath, and then directs his eyes on Beckett.
“Tell me, Commander Beckett. Why do you think the people come here? Why do you think they risk so much to reach this city of ours?”
Beckett refuses to answer.
“Well, let me tell you,” continues Cromwell. “They come here because they’re running. They come here because they’re afraid. They come here because they believe that they will find sanctuary.”
“But they don’t…”
I cut in, unable to stop. Rhoth told me once of how people would risk so much to reach the city, this beacon in the darkness. How they’d come seeking safety, and be met at the walls by gunfire instead.
I glare at Cromwell, unable to stop from hating him for even a second.
“You kill them when they get here,” I growl. “Maybe you get people like her to read their minds first,” I say, pointing at Woolf without even looking at her. “But then, you kill them…”
“Yes,” he says. “Yes we do. We kill them. We cannot allow people into this city that we cannot control. We don’t know what they’ll bring with them. We don’t know who might follow. We terminate them, for the safety of the people. If a virus takes hold in your body, Brie, you do all you can to eradicate it.”
I ready my retort, but feel Zander’s hand on my arm. He shakes his head again, and my tongue is cooled.
“The simple fact of the matter is that there are threats out there that I have been monitoring for some time,” continues the Director. “Threats that are now very aware of what you have done to this city. You have brought down the beacon. You have turned off the lights. And now, they are beginning to gather.”
He turns again, lifting his right arm, and swaying it over the world behind him.
“These woods protect us. The mountains protect us. Even this toxic mist protects us. But above all, I have protected us. My grip has been tight for a reason. It hasn’t just been about promoting my people above yours. It has been about securing our future against the wider threats beyond. But my grip has been torn from this city, and now we are exposed…”
He lets his words hang again. I turn my eyes to the floor, to the lingering green fog, and then towards the edge of the woods where it grows thicker and more potent.
For so long, we’ve been told that the Consortium were trying to clear it, rid the world of its poisonous fumes. Perhaps that isn’t true at all.
And, once more, West enters my mind. The arid lands on which he lived were so very different. No woods, no forests, no little streams and hills.
And no poisonous mist.
“The fog,” I whisper in the sudden silence, looking at my feet. I lift my eyes back to Cromwell’s. “You haven’t been clearing it at all, have you? You’ve been keeping it here as a barrier…”
A tiny smile works into position of my grandfather’s face. In another situation, at another time, you might consider it an old man looking upon his granddaughter with pride.
“I told you before, Brie, that you were perceptive. Yes, you are partially right. This toxic fog does not cover the world. It does not dominate the lands far from here. We have maintained it for our security, only clearing it where we wish to. But its effectiveness is weakening, just like us. It will not hold back the incoming tide.”
“And this tide,” says Beckett. “What exactly are you saying? That there’s another army out there, preparing to attack? I simply don’t believe yo
u, Director Cromwell. How can we trust anything you say?”
“You don’t have to trust me,” he says. He scans the group again. “I can see it in your eyes. You’ve had experiences with the local tribes. You know how dangerous they can be. And you know that they are just the tip of the iceberg. And yes, I fear if we don’t join our forces, we may just be overrun.”
“Join forces?! You are delusional, Director,” laughs Beckett incredulously. “You really think we’d let you slither back in the door?!”
Once more, the interaction between the two men draws a single flickering eyelid to Cromwell’s face. The anger that brews inside him comes forth with such minute expressions, giving me and others access to his frame of mind.
He isn’t quite as detached as he might have us all believe. In fact, while he may never understand love, or devotion, or any such positive emotion, he certainly gives way to the more negative traits of the species: anger, hate, the towering structure of his own ego.
Oh no, my grandfather isn’t immune to such things at all.
I assume, however, that the rest of our little posse shares Beckett’s incredulity. It would be hard not to, given the simple and undeniable fact that, for many years, these men and women have worked towards the man’s destruction and little more.
To now turn the other way, and link arms with him is an almost impossible thought to get ones head around.
And yet, it appears that the one person who might hold him with the lowest of regard, the one person who might wish him dead above all others, is considering his words very closely.
I look at Lady Orlando now, and see her stare silently at the man she was once married to. The man who gave her a child and then took that child away. The man who signed her death warrant, and that of the family she had only just found.
She looks at him, and a growing frown starts to build above her eyes. And a starkness appears within them. And the old wrinkles that cut paths across her cheeks and chin and around her lips start to crinkle and deepen.
And then, finally, as Beckett’s laughter subsides, she merely whispers out into the dawning quiet.
“OK, Artemis,” she says. “You have my attention. Tell your men to stand down, and I will do the same with mine. This public forum has served its purpose. I think it’s now time for us to speak in private.”
12
I spend a troubling few minutes thinking that I might be left out of the loop as a transformation takes place.
Agreeing to Lady Orlando’s terms, Cromwell orders for his men to pull back and gather at their vehicles. Our men are required to do the same, the soldiers on the wall moving down from their perches, and the team of hybrids around us retreating to the other side of the gate.
Then, to my surprise, Cromwell suggests that we find an indoor location back in the city.
“I will leave my men behind,” he says. “I hope that is enough to show you just how serious I am.”
“Not enough,” growls Beckett.
“Enough,” says Lady Orlando, nodding and glancing at her military commander. “We will not harm you, Artemis, and risk further death to our people. You have made it impossible for us to kill you, whether we’d like to or not.” She fixes him with her most serious of stares. “And believe me, there’s nothing any of us would want more.”
Too damn right, I think, my eyes equally narrow as hers.
The gates, which have remained open, now see the odd sight of our negotiation party crossing the threshold along with our sworn enemy. Of all the many ways I thought this day might turn out, this certainly wasn’t on the agenda.
Beyond the gate, just to the right, is a building, used by the City Guards who tend to this post. The structure is small, fitted with an office and recreation room downstairs, and accommodation upstairs for men assigned here for days or weeks on end.
As our soldiers take up position outside, Lady Orlando leads us in. No one speaks as we go and, while I thought this might be merely a private talk between the ex spouses, it turns out that we’re all invited.
I would suggest that I’ve never felt quite so uncomfortable. As I move inside, I go straight for the far end, towards a small windowsill where I take a seat. Zander comes with me, perhaps wishing to keep close and police what I say and do.
The rest of our troop – Freya, Beckett, Rycard, hover around us at our end of the room. The members of the Consortium, with their white suits and pale, rather empty complexions, fill the opposite side, along with Burns and Agent Woolf, who sticks close to the ex-Commander.
In the centre of the room is a small table. My grandparents are the only two to sit at it, making it clear just who speaks for each side.
I watch on, quite unable to take my eyes off my grandfather or to remove the burning glare from my hazel eyes. When I do, I do so only to pass the scowl to Agent Woolf, who maintains that smug little look of hers. The rest of the Consortium hardly enter my thoughts. I’ve never even heard them speak, and the manner in which the meeting outside went shows just how subservient they are to their leader.
He is their cause.
In truth, any animosity I have towards them gathers and is transferred to their master. I see them in a similar manner as I do all Savants: just cogs in his machine, albeit large and rather more important ones. They stare with such blank, detached eyes that I do wonder whether they would, like the remaining Savants in Inner Haven, swap straight to our side if their ruler bit the dust.
And, having him alone here, I can’t deny the temptation to see that through, despite everything he’s said, and the safeguards he’s so smartly put in place.
I just want him dead.
I just want revenge…
My brother is all too aware of how I’m feeling. The link between us gives him a direct line into my general state, one that grows more powerful the closer we are together. I can gauge the same, of course, but am less trained and practiced as him. And, given my propensity for heightened feelings of emotion, I’m probably sending out signals right now that make it all too clear how I feel about Director Cromwell.
His hand, once more, comes across and lightly rests on my shoulder. He gives it a squeeze, drawing my eye.
“Stay calm,” he whispers, for only me to hear. Although, I suspect Beckett, with all his gifts, can hear as well. “Let Lady Orlando do the talking, OK?”
I make eye contact with him only briefly to ensure he can’t read my mind, given the thoughts that are splattered all over it. Assessing how I feel is one thing. Reading my direct thoughts is quite another.
“I will,” I say. “No more outbursts, I promise.”
I imagine that it’s a promise I’ll find it difficult to keep.
In the privacy of that small office, the negotiation looks set to resume. As we all shuffle into our respective spots, and another short silence falls, a tapping begins to sound on the roof and the windows. The skies, threatening all day to open, have begun to empty their load. And our transfer to this indoor space looks suddenly like clairvoyance.
“Good timing,” says Cromwell, sitting across from his old wife. “You always did have a good nose for the weather, Cornelia.”
“Pure coincidence,” she says. “The rain never crossed my mind.”
He lifts an artificial smile.
“Indeed. But here we are, all alone,” he says, surveying the room. His eyes fall on Rycard. “Did you ever have a posting here at the western gate, young man?”
Rycard shakes his head.
“I was a patrol guard,” he says. “Mostly in the western quarter.”
“Ah, I see. You’re a Hawk, yes?”
“Half,” he answers bitterly.
“Half indeed,” laughs Cromwell, his affectation unconvincing. “I understand you suffered that wound during the attack on the market not far from here?” Rycard stares without offering a response. “You do understand that it was nothing personal?” continues Cromwell. He swings his eyes to all of us once more. “Nothing I do or order is personal. Yet I see
such hate in your eyes. You have all clearly taken it personally.”
“Artemis, stop fishing for a reaction,” states Lady Orlando. “Or are you trying to explain yourself?”
“By no means. I operate on the sole basis of serving my people and advancing our prospects in the world. I am well aware that you do the same, and I do not hold it personally against you for destroying the High Tower, and murdering so many innocent souls. I would expect you to do the same.”
“Some things are personal, Artemis,” says Lady Orlando.
He leans back on his chair, drawing his old fingers from the polished metal table.
“You’re referring to how you were treated all those years ago, Cornelia?” He shakes his head. “No, that wasn’t personal either. You broke the laws that, let me remind you, I did not set. As Deputy Commander of the City Guard at the time, I was forced to sign the order for your termination. I’d rather not have done so, if I’m being completely honest. You were a worthy wife, but you didn’t give me a choice.”
Lady Orlando shuts her eyes for a moment. It’s the first time I’ve seen her begin to lose her composure. No doubt she’s thinking again of their daughter, Elisa.
My mother, Elisa…
I shut my eyes too. I take a deep breath and flush away the thoughts. When I open them up, I see that my grandmother has too.
Her lips part slowly, and cool words come out.
“You’ve made your point, Artemis,” she says. “But let’s not talk about the past. It is the future we are here to discuss.”
“Yes it is, my dear. Now, let me ask you all something,” he says, looking specifically at Beckett. “Do you believe what I told you outside?”
Beckett, once again, seems to have trapped his tongue somewhere at the back of his mouth. Cromwell’s eyes turn to Freya instead. She makes a strange, grunting sound and heaves her neck into a single, reluctant nod.
Then, Rycard. He nods as well, equally hesitant to concede anything to the man.
Finally, his eyes join Zander and me on the windowsill. He smiles at the sight of us, his grandchildren.
