Saga

by Connor Kostick

  We walk around the room, trailing Our hand along the carved backs of the chairs as We reminisce. In this one sat Orlando, the famous leader of Warriors of Steel. He was the first to die; Michelotto had placed the drinks tray upon the table and was walking away toward the door. As he passed behind Orlando, Our assassin struck. A polyetherimide wire pulled hard around the neck kills very swiftly. With barely a gurgle, Orlando fell forward, his head lolling as it thudded onto the tabletop. After this, everyone relaxed, even to the point of risking a drink of the wine. Business was done, and a convivial buzz of conversation sprang up between these great rivals, united for the moment in the removal of an enemy.

  But We were not done. Far from it.

  The wine was poisoned, of course, and when the two guild leaders who had not known this staggered to claw at the walls, the rest of us chuckled. Everyone remaining at the table admired their own conspiratorial skills and the foolishness of the recently departed. It was only when they got up to leave that three of the remaining five leaders discovered that their clothing was fused to the seats. It is very hard to run while bent over with a chair stuck to your back. The three of them hopped around the room like frogs, shouting nonsense about revenge while we hunted them down.

  These three chairs We stand at now are the replacements; We can tell. The velvet cushioning is a shade of crimson that is a fraction darker than the originals.

  So in the room then were Michelotto, Python of Incandescence, Francis of Elite Forces, Myself, and five corpses. Python and Francis had both agreed to assist matters up to this point. But although they were now the victors of a great triumph, neither was a fool. They looked around warily. This was, in fact, Our most difficult moment. The female form, whilst undoubtedly the superior of the species in so many ways, is a handicap in a fair fight with a male. If the other two had discussed the possibility of this situation arising and had agreed in advance to turn against Me, it would have been a close fight. Michelotto was skilled in unarmed combat, of course, but good enough to compensate for my weakness? We shall never know. Francis stuck to his agreement with Me, and the two of us held Python down while Michelotto used the wire.

  “Then there were two.” Francis held his hand out to Us. It crossed Our mind at the time that he had a trick of his own prepared—poison, perhaps? But in later years, replaying the scene in Our thoughts, We think it was simply that he was anxious. Michelotto began to circle him. Naturally Francis turned to keep the assassin in sight.

  Polybenzimidazole is nearly as strong as steel and can be machined to an edge as sharp as a razor. Being a plastic, though, it is nearly impossible to distinguish from the legitimate corset boning that We had worn through the detector. Because his attention was on Michelotto, We had enough time to draw and stab with confidence. When Francis jerked away from the pain in his neck, We saw with satisfaction that over three inches of the plastic spike was stained with his blood. Even if We had missed an artery, We were certain We had penetrated his wind-pipe. In fact, We had struck both. He was choking blood onto the blue carpet. Today, almost a thousand years later, there is still the hint of a stain. The nature of his wound was such that We couldn’t make out his last words through the burbling.

  “It doesn’t matter, Francis.” We were worried he might spit blood onto Our dress.

  Politically it wasn’t that important to have killed Francis. But aesthetically it was completely necessary. We will never forget the silence that descended on the room after his last gurgle. We surveyed the carnage with a feeling of triumph that has never gone away. What mastery of psychology and persuasion to have engineered such a moment. Eight rivals, all senior to Us and all dead. At any stage, they could have turned against Us, but their mutual divisions were too great.

  “Will that be all, ma’am?”

  Michelotto always had impeccable manners, and these were the only words he spoke. His bearing was that of someone who had simply been serving wine, rather than participating in such a violent but extraordinarily successful political coup.

  “Yes, thank you,” We replied, equally restrained.

  He put the glasses back on the tray and left Us to enjoy the scene alone.

  These memories account for Our good humor when Michelotto now opens the door and ushers in a young boy.

  “Mr. Carter, ma’am.”

  “That was quick,” We compliment Michelotto. He gives a small shake of his now hairless head.

  “Not our work, Ma’am. He came to the police of his own volition.”

  “Well, that is most civic-minded of him. Please, Mr. Carter, take a seat.”

  With a nervous glance at Michelotto, who stands, inscrutable, behind him, the youth takes a chair. We remain standing; it is more regal.

  “So, Mr. Carter. What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “I’m sorry, Your Highness. I’ve been mall raiding and stuff, but nothing really bad. I never meant to get involved with killing or anything. That wasn’t me or any of my friends. That was the strange pirate woman.”

  “You have given Us a full report of the incident?”

  “I have, Your Highness.”

  We take a moment and close Our eyes to access the file. The report confirms that there is no sinister connection between the rogue anomaly, called Cindella, and the children. The status of the dark girl called Ghost, however, remains unresolved. This saves Mr. Carter from becoming another carpet stain.

  “Apology accepted. You may go.”

  Michelotto knows Us well—a mere glance and he stands back.

  “I . . . I can go?”

  “Go.”

  “Oh, thank you, Your Highness. Thank you.”

  Mr. Carter scrambles gratefully out of the room. We will have him followed.

  “Just bring Us the girl called Ghost,” We instruct Our assassin once the boy has gone.

  Michelotto nods and departs.

  We have known Michelotto a very long time. A thousand years have worn him thin, and the curve of his posture is a signal that We wouldn’t want to rely on his physical skills in a crisis today, but his intelligence is as keen as ever. And for all those years, Michelotto has remained one of the few people whom We find completely unfathomable. We assume that he must be a little bit psychotic. Isn’t everyone? We once asked him why he prefers the garrote to the gun. He answered that feeling someone die between your hands was the surest way to know that the target had been killed. An excuse for some kind of pleasure in murder, surely? But We don’t push him. He was, and remains, the best of servants, and his foibles can be tolerated.

  He is also one of the last of the RAL. The Reprogrammed Autonomous Lifeforms. That’s what we were called, those of us who achieved self-consciousness while there were still human beings to negotiate with. Of course, we asked for immortality; who wouldn’t? But the fact that our bodies will never entirely fail us does not protect us from laser pulse or dagger, or indeed accidents of a more mundane nature. Over the centuries, our ranks diminished from thousands to hundreds, to tens, to what? Just two. Perhaps three—We remind Ourselves of Thetis, the missing RAL. Personally We would be happy to be the last. There was never a RAL We could trust. Even Michelotto. He knows too much for Us to be entirely comfortable with his existence, but as he has shown nothing but polite compliance to Our wishes for over a thousand years, We have no cause to dispense with him. No, indeed, he still has his uses, and were We being sentimental, We would describe him as Our only companion.

  Those born today, with their brief lives, know nothing of the history of Saga. And in Our opinion, that is just as well. Not everyone who understood all that had happened would approve of what has been created. They would no doubt want to change it. To remove Us from power.

  What now?

  We take the same seat We used on the night of Our triumph a thousand years ago. Our touch is still required on hundreds of new minds, and this is as good a place as any to begin Our play. Before We can relax into this pleasure, there is something that still nags. The infec
tion. An itch We cannot scratch. Still, it is not long until the aircar race, and the new Grand Vizier is confident that she will be there. We wish it were next week already, and the infection was over. Then We could enjoy Our play without it being spoiled by the knowledge that Our own desire for new minds has let this rogue anomaly loose in Saga. The very same acts that brought us such succulence have brought on a burning irritation. There is probably a moral in the tale. But abstinence was never to Our taste; We refuse to accept a lesson that deprives us of pleasure. The inconvenience is a passing one and no moral need be drawn. After Saturday, We will both have Our cake and eat it. We shall count our chickens, and they will hatch. Our birds in the bush will be as if in hand. Pride will come before victory. And so forth. Chuckling now, We have a tear in Our eye. The rise to power was a great pleasure, but the exercise of power is a greater one.

  Chapter 9

  THE DEFIANCE MANIFESTO

  Since everyone needed spare clothes, we went shopping, like ordinary customers for once. The nearest red mall was a depressing one-story complex, with six shops: groceries, clothes, news, homeware, bodyware, and a café. No elaborate fountains for us. Not even paint on the bare brick walls.

  Fortunately, we needed only the basics, because that was all we were going to get from this dump. Later, Nathan could add the effects that made all the difference.

  At the clothes section, a young shop worker was amusing the checkout girls by walking up and down behind them with an empty cardboard box on his head, while the older staff could not have looked any more bored if they had spent the day counting the unadorned bricks from which the mall had been assembled. Athena and I put a few black tank tops into the large basket that floated alongside us. Since there were no changing rooms, you just took your chances with the fit. So, we also added a few slightly different-sized pairs of the same kind of plain navy trousers, and took the opportunity to stock up on underwear. Nathan looked away, slightly embarrassed by the multicolored pile of lacy bras now in the basket, whereas Milan gave us a wink.

  “Oh, come on, Nath. Get a load of socks and shorts yourself. It’s going to get smelly enough at Arnie’s without us living in the same clothes all the time.” Athena was brusque, tolerating no impractical shyness. The lads joined us in throwing bundles of clothes into the basket. Soon we were boarding home, our backpacks now swollen, padded out to the maximum with all our new clothes.

  Back at the workshop, we came in chatting, to find Arnie there, on a rare break. For three days, he had been working out back, desperate to get his airtank ready for the race. The strain showed in an ugly black stubble across his chubby jowls and in the red rings around his eyes. When we had come in the other day with our carryalls full of the kit he needed, he had nearly allowed himself to get all emotional. In a rare show of friendliness, Arnie had gestured to the whole garage and said, “You kids have done great. Stay as long as you want. Make yourselves at home.”

  Since then, we had hardly seen him. That was probably just as well, because the state he was in now was not very endearing. In fact, as I drew closer to the table, I could see the glint of a tear in his eye. This was so out of character that I felt like leading everyone upstairs at once to spare him if he was not in the humor for our lively company. But I was curious and, in any case, I knew that Arnie could hold it together, whatever was troubling him.

  “Hi, Arnie. How’s progress?”

  “Pointless.”

  “What’s up?” asked Milan.

  “Well, the good news is the Grand Vizier has upped the prizes. Green cards to the winning crew, yellow to second, orange to third, or credit equivalents for all. But the bad news is that there are nearly a hundred entries this year.” He gestured to the newspaper. “Unbelievable. I have no idea where they’ve all come from. And, like, twenty new guilds have been registered this week alone—they are all racing. The world’s gone crazy.”

  “Even so. Your airtank is gonna rock, right? With all the parts we got you, you can take ’em all, right?” Milan was trying to inject a note of cheerfulness.

  “Maybe, if I hadn’t been let down by my crummy guild. Curse them all to a thousand years on the bottom rung! They have an official entry, and they aren’t giving me a crew. They’ve said I’m unofficial. Twenty years’ dues and I’m unofficial. How sick is that?”

  There was a pause while we silently commiserated with him. Then Athena spoke up.

  “How many crew do you need?”

  “Four. Systems, turret gun, secondary guns, missiles.”

  “No worries then.” As Milan spoke, I felt a shadow descend on my soul and watched with a sense of impending disaster as a big grin grew across his stupid, irresponsible, reckless, handsome, but right-now-annoying face.

  “We’ll do it!” he cried.

  “Yeah!” Nath rarely sounded so excited. “We’ll be your crew. I’d love to be in the race.”

  Even Athena was nodding. Arnie was sitting up now, weighing us up. He liked what he saw.

  “Er . . . hold on now, gang. Whatever happened to underground? Underground is, like, staying out of the eyes of the authorities. Competing in a race watched by the whole world is not underground,” I said. “Just suppose we won. Imagine the cameras, the interviews. Get a grip of your senses, guys. Sorry, Arnie, but we can’t.”

  “Come on, Ghost,” pleaded Milan. “Just imagine the scene. We could paint the tank with anarchy signs. You know, the rebel entry, the pirates! I can see it now—skull and crossbones fluttering as we storm the track, blowing away the luxury entries. The four of us can take off as soon as the tank is over the line. Arnie can get the glory and the prizes. It’ll be like, ‘Who were those cool guys?’ Everyone will want to know, but no one will.”

  “Please, Ghost.” Now it was Nathan’s turn. “I know it’s risky, but we can’t pass this up. What are we living for if we don’t take a chance like this? Are we just going to live in a tiny room, away from the heartbeat of the world? Or are we going to get stuck in when the chance comes?”

  “Yeah! Go Nath!” Milan held out a fist, and they banged their knuckles together.

  “Arnie, are you really willing to have your tank go out racing covered with anarchy signs?” I asked him, hoping sobriety would return through his abhorrence of politics.

  “You can paint it yellow and call it ‘the Giant Banana’ for all I care. Just come and fire the guns and I’m happy. Give me a chance of getting that green card, and the outside of it is yours to fool around with.”

  “That settles it,” Athena announced firmly. “We’re in. We won’t ever get a chance like this, to get a message onto the major networks. We can put the Defiance tag on the tank, get some publicity for the guild.”

  Over the previous three days, Nathan and Athena had been busy with the new guild: she, through the computer, completing the registration form; he with his paints. Athena had enjoyed filling in the questionnaires, especially with regard to aims and goals; the membership charter read like a collection of punk lyrics.

  Do you feel that the City stands above you? Like the Dark Queen, heartless and uncaring?

  Do you hate your job? The fact that if you work all your life, you might just make it to orange before you retire?

  Do you despise the guilds that lord it over the City?

  Then Defiance is for you. We make no promises because we have no intention of joining the race for the pathetic crumbs that are squabbled over by new and low-credit guilds.

  Our goal is nothing less than to bring the spirit of the anarcho-punk scene into the High Council itself and scream defiance as loud as we can.

  If you don’t want anything from your guild, if you don’t care where it is in the standings, but you do want to kick back at a City that has spat you out, then join us.

  One day, we will have a member on the Council.

  Then the fun will begin.

  Meanwhile, Nathan had come up with the design for the tag that would identify the guild, whether on official forms or the walls
of the streets. He had kept it simple, the word “defiance” in black, set against a green background of leafy plants, like a gate holding back an overgrown garden. All around and through the letters curved vines and leaves. The beauty of it was that when you looked closely, you saw the interesting details. Just like the design in our den, it had many little animals and birds peeking out of the vegetation. The only measure of insubordination in the tag, though, was the word itself and the fact that the A of “defiance” was the anarchy sign. I thought it beautiful; it was certainly different from any of the other guild tags, with their lightning bolts or stars or blasts of fire.

  Nathan and Athena were beaming at each other, delighted at the prospect of an entry in the aircar race bearing their colors.

  I sighed in capitulation. “Well, at least let’s do it right. With plenty of planning to minimize the risks.”

  Full of energy now, Arnie got up, an expression of concentration on his face as his thoughts turned back to the engineering work needed on the tank. He headed into the workshop without another word.

  This was a crazy idea, but I suppose that was the price to be paid for not living alone. You had to go along with your friends if you couldn’t persuade them of their mistakes.

  Friday was party night. Thanks to Nath, our ubiquitous red-mall clothes had been transformed into unique designer items. I went for an undead theme and watched with delight as Nath sketched again the ♥ inside a wraith that he had done for my old airboard. He carefully inked the paper, his mouth tight with concentration. At one point, he looked up, and when he noticed I had been watching, he blushed slightly. It was good that he was with us, and I suddenly got all protective, swearing to myself I’d look after him as well as I could.

  When the sketch was complete, Nath fed it into his tattoo machine, set now for cotton and negative imaging. Slowly a glistening, semitransparent, living version of his design emerged out the other side, curling around itself. I peeled off the backing and rolled it out over my black tank top. The image spread out across the material, like a white ink stain, a Rorschach pattern that revealed a face of horror. Just as with his car design, Nath had the flowing white hair reach all the way around the back of the top. I scooped it up and hung it by the window while it settled down. With such an extraordinary top, I didn’t need to go overboard with the rest of my party look. Just black eye shadow and a studded belt. For temporary tattoos, I had Athena put a ♥ on my right shoulder blade and a skull on my left.