Nebula Awards Showcase 2010

by Bill Fawcett

  FIREMONKEY INCITES. A MOB SCENE. CRUSHED.

  I staggered out of the pisser into a roar that practically propelled me backward. Most of this roar was music: the high-pitched, whiny grind of a hurdy-gurdy; the dull, headachy throb of a bass propelled by staccato drumming. But some of it was shouting, a persistent chant I couldn’t understand. I recognized the tune, though: “Nonny O!,” the Horses of Instruction’s most popular song.

  The tentacle had really unnerved me, and my desire to get far, far away from that toilet was really strong. All I wanted now was to go home. Rangers don’t retreat, said Nini Mo, but they know when to regroup. The Horses of Instruction might just be starting, but I was done.

  I fought my way through the noise, which was like trying to stand against a high wind, elbowing through the crowd, trying to find Udo, so together we could make our escape. The hall was dark, lit only by intermittent flashes, and when these split the gloom like bolts of lightning, I saw a hazy, gyrating mass of people, thickly packed. The figures were indistinct, shadowy, and none of them seemed to be Udo. Where had he gone, the snapperhead, just when I needed him most? I slid between a woman in a heavy leather jacket, well festooned with chains, and a bald man coated in silvery paint, and found myself at the stage.

  Above my head, the stage lights flickered with a garish blue glow, illuminating Firemonkey, blackish-green hair straggling out from under a soggy tricorn, pumping at the handle of a hurdy-gurdy as though he were possessed. To his left, a cadaver flogged an upright bass; on his right, the duster twanged on a banjo that hung down around black leather knees. This close to the band, the noise made my ears ring and my stomach heave; Firemonkey must have invoked the biggest amplification dæmon ever to get such loudness. Forget Udo, I had to get out of the Poodle Dog before I puked. He’d have to make it home on his own. But before I could turn around and try to push my way to open air, the music stopped. The audience continued to chant. Suddenly I understood what they were shouting.

  “Azota! Azota! Azota!”

  The Butcher Brakespeare’s nickname.

  Firemonkey raised up his hand and, when the crowd quieted, cried, “She died so that we might live!”

  At first I thought he meant the Goddess Califa, but when the crowd resumed its chanting, I realized he was referring to the Butcher. Firemonkey raised his hand again, and again waited a few seconds for the chanting to die down.

  “But despite her sacrifice, we live like slaves! Should Florian not die so that we may live free? So that Azota shall not have sacrificed in vain?”

  The crowd howled its agreement.

  The queasy feeling in my stomach suddenly had nothing whatsoever to do with the music and everything to do with the fact that Firemonkey was preaching treason. I remembered the militia outside; nothing riles them faster than someone stirring up a crowd to sedition. I had no desire to end the night in the City Gaol; I would miss my curfew for sure, then. My urge to get out of the Poodle Dog became overwhelming. But despite my kicking and prodding, I was stuck. The people around me were staring raptly upward, immobile.

  “Cierra Califa!” Firemonkey cried, and threw his arms wide. A huge curl of coldfire roiled out of his greatcoat. The coldfire flowed upward, twisting and turning until it formed an insignia that glowed in the darkness like a rope of fire: the sinuous twist of an azota, a riding whip, the source of the Butcher’s nickname.

  “Azota and Cierra Califa!” Firemonkey roared, and the crowd roared back while the band launched into “Califa Strong and Mighty.” The crowd began to gyrate and bounce again in time to the music, their chanting frenzied. But then abruptly the overhead lights flipped on, and the coldfire insignia was suddenly invisible in the bright glare. The roars of excitement were pin-pricked with screams.

  “In the name of the Warlord, you are all under arrest!” someone shouted from the back of the hall. The crowd erupted into screaming and pushing. The best place to be in a stampede, said Nini Mo, is not in a stampede. But I was still stuck, pressed hard up against the stage. The crush was suffocating; I could barely breathe, and what air I was able to gasp was tainted with smoke and perfume. If I went down, I’d be trampled underfoot in no time, and there’d be nothing left of Flora but goo on the soles of a lot of supertrendy shoes.

  Then an iron grip grabbed my shoulders and hauled me up over the edge of the stage. I stumbled upright, wheezing. The Horses of Instruction’s banjo player had me by the arm and was now dragging me across the stage. Firemonkey and the cadaver had disappeared; the chubby drummer was still drumming, his head flinging back and forth like a pendulum, heedless of the pandemonium. The banjo player and I ran into the wings, past the amplification dæmon still caught in his protection circle. He snapped his crocodile-long jaws at us as we passed, but the charged circle held and his gnashing teeth snapped empty air.

  Backstage was a melee of frantic roadies and screaming groupies. The banjo player was taller than me and used that height and bulk to clear a path. Shoving people out of our way, we ran down a corridor, and then flung ourselves through a doorway. I fell against a row of costumes, coughing and wheezing, my lungs burning. A bright girdle of pain now encircled my waist where the tentacle had squeezed me. I coughed until it felt as though my lungs had been torn into fragments, but when I was done, despite the pain, I felt better. At least I could breathe again. The banjo player had slammed the door shut behind us and now leaned against it, regarding me.

  “You all right?”

  “Ayah. Thanks for grabbing me.”

  “My pleasure, Tinks.”

  The banjo player pulled off the wide-brimmed hat. And there was my sister Idden, grinning at me, looking exactly the same as the last time I had seen her. Except that now she was as bald as an egg.

  SIX

  SURPRISE! REVOLUTIONARY FERVOR. A HASTY EXIT.

  I gaped at Idden like a greenhorn at her first sight of snow. Of all the questions that ran through my head—What are you doing here? How did you get here? When did you learn to play the banjo?— what came out of my mouth was, “What happened to your hair?” Idden has always looked a lot like Mamma: same blue eyes, same high cheekbones, same yellow hair. Even without hair, the resemblance was still strong.

  Idden laughed, her gold lip-plug (also new) winking in the sputtering light. “I got tired of washing it. Cool, eh? Give me a hug, tiny sis.”

  We squeezed each other so tightly that the buttons of Idden’s duster ground into me painfully. She smelled like cigarillo smoke and lemon verbena, and she felt thin and bony.

  I asked, “What are you doing here? I thought you were at Fort Jones.”

  “I was, baby, but obviously I’m not anymore.”

  “Are you on leave?”

  Idden laughed. “You could say that. Toothache-leave.”

  Toothache-leave—that’s Army slang for deserting. I yanked out of Idden’s embrace and stared at her. Idden had deserted? Never in the history of the Fyrdraaca family had anyone ever deserted! I could not imagine it. Deserted! And though enlisted soldiers desert sometimes, officers hardly ever. Enlisted soldiers have to serve out their term, but officers can resign at will and therefore have no reason to scrarper. I had never heard of an officer deserting.

  Idden grinned. “Got nothing to say to that, Tinks?”

  “Mamma is going to kill you!” I said, ignoring the provocative use of my despised kiddie nickname.

  “She’ll have to catch me first,” Idden said, “and I’m guessing from your reaction that she doesn’t even know.”

  “We all thought you were at Fort Jones. Poppy just got a letter from you. But, Idden, how could you desert? What were you thinking? They’ll shoot you if they catch you.”

  “Let them try,” Idden answered. “You don’t look any taller, Tinks. I think you’ve stunted.”

  Again, I ignored the slur. That’s one of Idden’s tricks, to deflect you from topics she doesn’t want to discuss—try to rile you with unflattering personal observations and stupid nicknames. I refused to
be deflected.

  “You never answered me.”

  Idden gave me a superior little smile that I knew only too well. “Because I’d had it, Flora. I’ve been pushed around long enough. I’m sick of Buck, sick of the Army.”

  “Why didn’t you just resign? That would be better than running away.”

  She snorted. “Ha! Do you think for one minute that Mamma would let me resign? She’d never accept my resignation—I had to get out without her knowing. And anyway, I don’t recognize the Warlord’s authority anymore, so I consider my oath to him null. He’s a Birdie puppet, Flora. Obeying him is like obeying the Virreina of Huitzil. He has got to go, and all his lackeys, too. Collaborators all, even Buck.”

  “Mamma is not a collaborator! She’s just trying to keep Califa safe.”

  Idden looked scornful. “Safe for what? Safe for whom? Safe for the rich and the powerful? What about everyone else? Slaves—one and all. First slaves to the Warlord, who sold them to the Birdies, now slaves to them, too. Safety in slavery isn’t worth having.”

  I’d never heard Idden this worked up about anything before. She’d always been mild as milk toast and done exactly as Mamma had said. Not only done it, but acted as though Mamma’s Will was hers as well, that their desires were exactly the same. Maybe Idden had gone mad. Maybe she had Army Green Sickness—it happens to people who spend too much time in too isolated a post. They start imagining things, and become paranoid, and then nostalgic, and eventually have to be taken away to the Califa Asylum for the Unfortunate and Lost. Mamma could hardly be mad at Idden for being insane, could she?

  Idden continued. “My duty to Califa is higher than my duty to the Birdies’ puppet. I am loyal to Califa and those who died for her—like Azota Brakespeare!”

  “But she was a murderer and a war criminal,” I protested. “And she almost got Poppy killed.”

  Something flared in Idden’s eyes and she pinched me hard. “Birdie lies! They made her out to be a criminal so they could get rid of her. I knew her, Flora, and she was nothing as they say. She loved Califa, and she died trying to keep Califa free. Mark me, Flora. Change is coming. The tree of liberty must be watered with the blood of tyrants.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked, almost afraid of the answer.

  “It means, Flora, that there comes a time when we have to decide either to risk death for freedom, or to live as slaves. I have made my decision; that’s why I joined Firemonkey’s band. Califa must be free.”

  “But, Idden—”

  The shouting and screaming outside had gotten louder, and now people were pounding on the door, demanding to be let in. It did not seem a good idea to open the door, but the only other exit was a small window high on the back wall.

  Idden cut me off. “Look, I don’t have time to argue with you now. We have got to get out of here. The militia will be here any minute, and neither of us wants to end up in gaol. Come on.”

  “But we’re trapped!”

  “You’ll see—come on.” Idden unbuttoned her duster and drew her service revolver. “Fire in the hole, Tinks.”

  I covered my ears just in time; she fired twice, the shots echoing explosively. I ducked my head, barely avoiding a face full of flying debris, and when I looked back up, the small window gaped open, and my ears rang. The acrid smell of black powder was choking.

  “Ayah, Tinks, this is where you get off. But first, Flora, swear you will not tell Buck that you saw me.”

  I saw the grab coming and tried to dodge, but Idden was quick, and she’s much taller than me. Despite my kicks, Idden got me into a headlock from which I could do nothing but spit ineffectually.

  “Swear it, Flora!”

  Nini Mo says an oath sworn under duress is not binding. I couldn’t cross my toes in my boots, and Idden had my hands pinned, so I crossed my eyes and said, “Ayah, so, I promise.”

  “I think only of your best interests, Flora,” Idden said, releasing me. “You don’t want to be there when Buck finds out I’m gone. And you sure don’t want to be the messenger.”

  I glared at her. “Ayah, so you say, but you know what—you sound just like Mamma when you say that!”

  “You can’t rile me, Flora, so don’t even try. Come on, boost up.”

  Idden crouched by the window, linking her hands together into a cradle. I stepped and she boosted me up to the window, grunting. “Pigface, you’ve grown.”

  “Thanks to Poppy’s food.” I puffed, grabbing at the window frame. The edge of the sill was ragged and some glass remained, but Idden’s propulsion gave me no choice but to go through. The window opened into an alley; below me was a six-foot drop, but, lucky for me, about half of that drop was taken up by a giant trash bin. Before I could protest, Idden heaved me the rest of the way through the window. I hit the closed top of the bin with a painful thump, scrabbling for a handhold, and just barely managed to keep myself from rolling off the side. A horde of hipsters were roaring down the alley, pushing, shouting, and screaming, and it would have been bad news for me if I had landed in their path.

  Idden’s head poked through the window. “I’m sorry I missed your Catorcena. If I could have gotten leave, I would have.”

  I glared at her. “You talk pretty big, Idden. But you are going to get yourself killed. You aren’t being fair to Mamma, or Poppy, either. Think of all they have gone through.”

  “My country comes first.”

  “Now you sound just like Mamma,” I jeered.

  Idden glared back at me. “You’d better get going. Toss me a kiss, Tinks.”

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  “I got another way to go—better get yourself out of this alley before you are blocked in. Fine, keep your kiss. If I’m dead next time you see me, you’ll be sorry you were such a stick, Flora.”

  And then Idden pulled her head back inside and was gone.

  I jumped off the trash bin and squeezed between its side and the wall: A tiny bit of shelter but better than nothing. That window hadn’t been such a good exit after all; at the far end of the alley, the militia had already thrown up a barricade. At the other end, the rioters had pulled another bin in front of the club’s fire door, and from behind this barricade they were shouting and screaming at the militia. Me, the monkey in the middle.

  How was I going to get out of here? If you get in, said Nini Mo, you can get back out again.

  Something much larger than a brick hit the wall above me, which sent a roar of noise through my ears and practically knocked me down. Now everything sounded distant; my ears were ringing. Cautiously, I again peered around the edge of the trash bin. The militia were firmly entrenched at the far end of the alley; behind their stacked riot shields, cavalry had formed up. The riot line broke open to allow a caisson to pull forward. Behind it came another carriage, upon which sat a gleaming fieldpiece: a gas gun.

  Gas guns shoot canisters containing a burning acid smoke. One breath of that and you are coughing up the bloody shreds of your lungs. Get the stinging smoke in your eyes and you will be lucky if you ever see anything again. Despite my best efforts, panic began to bubble up my throat. I was no longer the monkey in the middle. Now I was a sitting duck.

  If you need a light, said Nini Mo, look up for the stars.

  Above my head, a fire ladder dangled, its bottom rung just about out of reach. Jumping didn’t close the gap, and if I tried to heave the trash bin into range, I’d expose myself to the firing. The cannoneers had unlimbered the gun and swiveled it around until its barrel pointed down the alley. The barricaded hipsters began to jeer loudly. The battery ignored their cries, and the gunner began to sight the gas gun.

  Not for the first time did I bemoan getting the short end of the Fyrdraaca stick, height-wise. Even with my highest hop, I could not reach the bottom rung of the ladder. I pulled off my sash and began to scrabble in my dispatch bag for something weighty to tie onto the end, with the intent of making a grapple that I could use to pull the ladder down. A brick hit the wall above me and shat
tered into dust.

  “Pigface Psychopomp!” Nini Mo says you should always remain graceful under pressure, but it was hard to be graceful with death whizzing over my head. My long wooden pencil case was pretty heavy; maybe that would work. I was tying the sash around it when the lid of the trash bin swung open and a tousled head grinned down at me.

  “Hey, Flora, talking to yourself?”

  “It’s about time you showed up, Udo.” The sudden relief at seeing him almost made me feel faint. “Get out here and pull that ladder down before we are snorting our lungs out our noses.”

  Udo jumped out of the trash bin and reached a hand back to haul the Chickie out after him. She was wearing his greatcoat and both of them had mussed hair and smeared lip rouge. Udo didn’t need to climb on top of the trash bin to snag the ladder down; he just reached up one long arm and pulled.

  A gas canister whizzed by us, trailing sparks and smoke. This put a hustle into our scramble; it’s amazing how fast you can move when the threat of scorched lungs is literally hot on your heels. The Chickie went up the ladder first, in a flurry of black skirts; I was next. At the top, the Chickie paused, blocking my way.

  I started to give her a good shove, and then saw, beyond her, flickering red light.

  The roof of the Poodle Dog was on fire.

  SEVEN

  FIRE, TO THE HORSECAR. A SHOOT-OUT.

  The fire had not yet fully engulfed the roof, so we were able to weave a path around the little licks of hot flame. But the thought of all the flammable alcohol and hair products that might still be in the club below, coupled with the wafting gas behind us, made me very eager to get off the roof as fast as possible.

  We were not the only ones who had thought of this escape route; on the far side of the roof, other clever shadows were creeping out of the stairwell and dashing past the flames to leap the gap between the Poodle Dog and the warehouse next door. We rushed to follow their example. The buildings were packed so tightly together that the distance was not too great; but still, it wasn’t a short jump. Udo went first, his half-undone braids flapping, then turned to offer a hand to the Chickie, who ignored the gallant gesture. She made a graceful ballet leap and a graceful ballet landing on the other side.