“Stuffed… How do you stuff a shirt?” Laia’s frown deepened. “You say very strange things.”
“Right back at you, kid,” said Mason, holding up his glass. She looked at him, her face blank. Mason sighed. “You clink glasses. Here.” He stood up, the chair complaining again, and moved around to her side of the table. Mason lifted her hand with the glass, touching the edge of the tumbler against his own. The sound was a muted promise.
“Why?” said Laia, her eyes wide. Her cheeks were starting to flush with the whisky. “The sand doesn’t need to touch other sand. It doesn’t remember all of what it was.”
“It’s not for the sand.” Mason stood, stretching, then sat back in his chair. “I don’t know. A challenge. A salute. Agreement, maybe.”
“All with a cup?”
“All with a glass,” he said, nodding. “We call them ‘glasses.’ Because they’re made of glass.”
“You said they were made of sand.”
“Yes,” said Mason. He finished off his whisky, pouring another. He held the bottle up to her, and she held her tumbler out.
“You say very strange things,” said Laia again. “I don’t understand you at all. You’re not at all what I thought an angel would be like.”
“I’m not an angel,” said Mason. He thought for a moment, then said, “Where you from?”
She blinked at him. “I… I don’t understand.”
“Tell me,” said Mason. He looked at the bottle between them. “It helps, sometimes.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Anything,” said Mason, turning his tumbler around in his hands. He could feel the edges of his words being softened by the drink. “It’s not for me.”
“I…” Laia took another swallow.
“Tell me about your brother.”
“About Zacharies?”
“Sure,” said Mason.
“He’s… He is very strong,” said Laia. “He’s stronger than me. He’s always watched out for me, as much as he could. Even when the masters…” She swallowed, then took another sip of her whisky. Her eyes looked into the distance. “He’s always stood by me.”
Mason didn’t say anything. He sat still, silent, not touching his drink.
Laia laughed, a small sound, nervous. “I remember once he…” She stopped. “I miss him.”
Mason filled her glass again. She didn’t seem to notice, the words falling from her. “He gave me my first birthday present, a piece of cake he’d stolen from one of the masters. It tasted like bottled honey. Zacharies wanted to give me a taste of the sun, he said, the real sun. He said he could still remember where we were born, and told me stories of a place we’d lived by the sea. I don’t remember the sea, I don’t know how so much water could be in one place. I thought it was a silly story, until he gave me a shell. It was only small, but I could hear the memory of where it came from when I held it, a vast ocean of blue and green. It had been lost, but he found it and gave it to me.” Her eyes looked up into his face. “I lost the shell. I lost the shell he gave to me. I don’t know where I put it.”
“Yeah,” said Mason, his voice held low, soft like a blanket. “It was only a shell.”
“You don’t understand,” said Laia. “He gave it to me. He…” She broke down, the sobs coming from her.
Mason moved around to her, pulling her head to his shoulder, stroking her hair. “Shhh,” he said. “It’s ok.”
“No,” she said, her voice cracked and broken. “I killed him. I killed that man out there, and he’ll never walk again under the sun, or see the ocean, because of me. I felt him die.”
Mason didn’t say anything. Her body shook against him, the sobs wracking her, great cries of pain that seemed like they’d never stop. He held her until she’d finished, kneeling on the old stone ground until she was ready to let go.
⚔ ⚛ ⚔
“Where…” said Laia, her words slurring. “Where’s…” She giggled, an elbow against the table.
Mason smiled, pouring himself another. He’d lost count of how many he’d tipped back, the fire of the whisky banked back with over use. The bottle didn’t seem to be touching him tonight, but Laia —
Well, come the morning she’d be wrecked. Doesn’t matter, she needs it.
Laia pushed herself upright, fixing Mason with a stare. Her eyes were wide with too much liquor, her cheeks flushed and bright. With great concentration, she pulled the words together. “Where are they?”
Mason shrugged. Sadie and Haraway had been gone for a time. The overlay blinked at him, the time stamped at the edge of his vision, but he ignored it. Sometimes things took as long as they took.
⚔ ⚛ ⚔
It was dark outside, the color of pitch before the dawn. The cold seeped around everything, creeping in against flesh. Laia looked up at the sky, standing next to him, swaying with the liquor. Or being held up by it.
“They’re beautiful,” she said. “So many.”
“You don’t have stars where you come from?” Mason frowned.
“We have stars, silly,” she said, slapping his arm. “But they don’t look like this. They’re dim, far away. These… They’re close enough… Close enough to touch.” She swayed again, and Mason caught her. She looked up at him. “I feel…”
“You feel drunk,” said Mason. “That’s what you feel like.”
“Drunk?” she said, her eyes slightly crossed. “I think I like it.”
“Just wait until tomorrow,” said Mason. “You’ll learn that drunk has a bitch of a return flight.” He stood her back up, moving away a step.
Laia looked at the street. “There’s something missing.”
“Yeah,” said Mason. “The van. They took it with them.”
“No,” said Laia. “The stars. I mean, the rain. The rain’s gone.” She turned and smiled at him. “That’s why it’s so easy to breathe.”
“I’ll be damned,” said Mason. He filled his lungs, the air tasting of hope, and watched as Laia turned in a slow circle, arms starched out as she laughed at the sky.
⚔ ⚛ ⚔
Dawn was walking her slow pace across the sky when he saw Sadie and Haraway walking up the street towards him. He lifted the bottle in salute at them, saw it was empty, and tossed it to the side of the street. It broke with a sound like crystal rain. His optics picked out the tiny details, the weariness in Haraway’s stride, the smudge of dirt on Sadie’s face.
Haraway walked up next to Mason, her feet picking a path over the broken street. “You smell like a brewery,” she said.
“Distillery,” said Mason.
“What?”
“I smell like a distillery. We were drinking whisky, not beer.”
“‘We?’” said Haraway. She looked at Sadie. “Tell me you did not get that girl drunk.”
“Nope,” said Mason. “Pretty sure she got herself drunk.”
Sadie laughed. “Jesus Christ, Mason Floyd. You’re a piece of work.”
“Yeah,” said Haraway.
Mason frowned, then got to his feet, the movement slow. Getting old, Mason. You need another session at a clinic. “Why’s that?”
“Couple reasons,” said Sadie. “First? You didn’t invite me.”
“Wait, what?” said Haraway.
“C’mon, doc,” said Sadie, walking through the gap in the wall.
Haraway lingered by Mason, looking into his face, her eyes searching. “Oh,” she said. “I see.”
Mason took a step back. “What?”
“I’m… I’m sorry.” She put a hand on his arm. “It doesn’t matter. I didn’t realize you found it so hard.”
Mason blinked, the sky brighter by the moment. “Find what so hard?”
“If I’d known, I’d have chosen someone else,” she said, then walked through the gap in the wall after Sadie.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
“Mike,” said Zacharies, “what is going the fuck on?”
“The fuck is going on,” said Mike, brushing his sleeve.
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“What?”
“‘The fuck’ comes before ‘going’,” said Mike. “You’ve got to really lean into it.”
Zacharies corrected his stance, pushing his shoulder into the rifle. “Like this?”
“Yeah,” said Mike.
“Mike,” said Zacharies. He pulled the trigger, the coilgun pushing hard against his shoulder as the induction loops pushed the slug out the barrel. He could feel the pressure of the weapon, feel the slug — new, moulded from ancient steel, cast amongst thousands of its kind in a mighty stone fortress — leave the barrel. It passed through the mannequin at the end of the range, tearing through the centre of the chest.
“Nice shot,” said Mike. “What’s your question?”
“What,” said Zacharies, his mouth tugging at the unfamiliar words, “the fuck is going on?”
“Better,” said Mike, smiling. “Well, we’re teaching to you to use weapons. And teaching you to swear so you don’t sound like some kind of illegal immigrant from Botswana.”
“Where is Botswana?”
“It’s a shit hole. Doesn’t matter.” Mike nodded down the range. “Give it another shot.”
Zacharies sighed. “I don’t understand the point of this. The…” He swallowed. “The link?”
“The link, yeah,” said Mike. “The link you’ve got. What of it?”
“Can’t it do this?”
“Not very well,” said Mike. “It’s pretty good at mapping out targets, telling you where you should fire. It’s pretty lousy at the math of moving objects. Especially without optics.”
“Optics?”
“Eyes,” said Mike, tapping his temple. “We can replace your eyes, give you an overlay of your own.”
“What’s wrong with my eyes?”
“Nothing,” said Mike. “Everything.”
“It’s just that this seems so inefficient,” said Zacharies.
“What?” said Mike. “You’ve got a Metatech milspec coilgun. There’s nothing to not like about that baby.”
“No,” said Zacharies. “Why do you look down it?”
Mike blinked. “I’m not sure I understand the question.”
“Like this,” said Zacharies. He held the weapon to his shoulder, lining the sight up against his eye. “You told me to look down it to target.”
“Uh,” said Mike. “You got a better way?”
Zacharies looked at him, hefting the weapon. “Like this,” he said. He reached out, felt — the mannequin, standing at the end of the range. Others standing beside it, five in a row. He felt the coilgun in his hand, the shells held in the magazine, the burning heat of pooled energy at the base of the weapon. The shells yearned to be used, their purpose clear — Zacharies closed his eyes, lifted the coilgun, and pulled the trigger five times. The weapon clicked and whined, each shot punctuated by the shattering sound of a mannequin.
There was a moment of silence. Zacharies opened his eyes, looking at Mike. “That way,” he said.
“Fuck me,” said Mike. He pulled out his packet of cigarettes, absently offering one to Zacharies. Zacharies held up a hand, and Mike took one from the pack, lighting it. “Did you… Did you just use some Jedi shit there?”
“What is Jedi?”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Mike, “but I know what we’re watching on Friday night. Bring you up to speed. Did you… You just shot five targets with your eyes closed.”
“Yes,” said Zacharies. He frowned. “It’s the best way.”
“It’s the best…” Mike swallowed, then took another pull on his cigarette. “Can everyone from your world do this?”
“No,” said Zacharies.
“No?” said Mike. “That’s it?”
“The gift works differently. I can touch things. Like Laia.”
“She can do this too?”
“Yes,” said Zacharies. He looked at his feet. “If she was here.”
“What about the asshole?”
Zacharies swallowed. “The Master?”
“Yeah. The asshole.”
“No,” said Zacharies. “He can’t touch things.”
“That’s a relief,” said Mike.
Zacharies turned the coilgun over in his hands. “I don’t think you understand.”
“Probably not,” said Mike. “My mother used to tell me that a lot.”
“The Master,” said Zacharies, “can’t touch things. He can touch minds. He is much, much stronger than me. Or Laia. That’s why he is the Master.”
Mike nodded, looking off into the distance. “And he’s with Reed.”
“That’s why I asked,” said Zacharies.
“What?”
“What the fuck is going on?”
“Yeah, I’m beginning to get it,” said Mike. “You’re worried about the new drug.”
“Yes,” said Zacharies. “You mustn’t drink it, Mike. Promise me.”
Mike laughed. “I don’t touch anything made by Reed, as a general rule. Against company policy.”
“Or let anyone you know touch it.”
Mike stopped laughing. He looked Zacharies in the eye, his lips pursed. “Can I ask why?”
“Do you believe in angels, Mike?” Zacharies looked down at the coilgun. Heaven has the most wondrous things.
“Not as a general rule.” Mike held a hand out for the coilgun. “Lemme see that.”
Zacharies handed the weapon over. “What do you believe in?”
“You don’t need superstition or religion to explain why people are cunts. You just need some friends at your back, and a big gun.” Mike tossed him a glance, then shouldered the weapon. He pulled the trigger five times, the whine and crack hard against the concrete walls of the range. The targets shattered and splintered, one of them falling to pieces, an arm and the head falling to the ground in white fragments fine as powder. “See? Doesn’t take Jedi powers.”
Zacharies tipped his head sideways. “Now do it with your eyes closed.”
“What?”
“You had your eyes open,” said Zacharies. “It’s like you don’t believe. In the power of your friends, or your… your gun.”
Mike sighed. “Ok.” He shut his eyes, turned his back to the range, and put the rifle over his shoulder, pointing down the range. There was the slightest pause, like the breath before lightning, and then the coilgun whined and cracked five more times. Each shot hit, the remains of the broken mannequin shattering into dust, another falling in two pieces with the dull sound of breaking plaster.
“That’s not bad,” said Zacharies. “I don’t think you understand yet. Could you… Could you set me up some more targets?”
Mike pulled out his cigarette packet again, taking one. The finger of flame from his lighter reflected off his eyes as he looked at Zacharies. He blew the smoke at the ceiling. “Do I look like your chai wallah?”
“It’s not that, Mike,” said Zacharies. “Clearance, remember? Your… assholes? Yes, your assholes here won’t let me go to the toilet without a minder. I can’t even get toilet paper from the dispenser without a code. Which feels strange.” He frowned. “I didn’t know what toilet paper was until two days ago.” He held out a hand for the coilgun.
“Fine, fine,” said Mike, and walked to the edge of the range, opening a door out into the firing zone. Zacharies turned away, his back facing the range. He hefted the coilgun, listening to the sound behind him of Mike shifting and moving mannequins into position.
“You got them setup yet?”
“I guess—” Mike stopped as Zacharies hefted the weapon over his shoulder, and — each mannequin stood, the plaster of the bodies hewn from old stone, riverbeds washing the lime down from the mountains. A man stood, the flesh of his body warm, surrounding the furnace of bright technology, the beat of his heart, the blood in his veins moving faster — pulled the trigger five times, the coilgun’s whine followed by a crack of plaster.
“Jesus Christ!” said Mike. “I’m gonna—” He stopped speaking as Zacharies turned around, eyes still closed,
and opened them.
“Five targets,” he said. “Five targets, and one… friend. I didn’t see you set them up. I didn’t use my eyes. Five hits, no misses. I didn’t shoot you. And you were moving around there pretty fast. Do you believe?”
“I believe I’m going to punch you in the face,” said Mike. He walked around a broken target back to the edge of the range. “I’m actually going to hurt you.”
Zacharies shrugged. “I’ve got a better idea.”
“Yeah?” said Mike, his face close, eyes bright.
“Yes,” said Zacharies, holding out the coilgun. Mike looked at it, then walked back out of the firing range to take it. “Wait here.”
“Wait… Wait here? Where are you going?” Mike looked down at the coilgun. “You want me to shoot you in the face instead of punching you?”
A small smile tugged at Zacharies’ lips. “I want you to believe.” He walked past the gate to the range, stepping out into the fire zone. “Turn around.”
“No,” said Mike.
“Turn around, Mike. You don’t believe. Not yet.”
He saw Mike swallow, then turn around. Zacharies continued to walk around the range. “Fire whenever you’re ready.”
“I… I might hit you.”
“Yes,” said Zacharies. “You might. Your technology, remember? Place your faith in that.”
“I can’t see,” said Mike. His back was to Zacharies, head tipped forward to look at the coilgun in his hands. “I—”
“It’s ok,” said Zacharies. “It’s going to be ok.”
“I don’t want to punch you in the face.”
“I know.”
“I mean, I can hear your footsteps, but the error margin—”
“I know.” Zacharies continued to step around the range, placing his feet with care around the edges of broken plaster. “I trust you.” He walked until he stood directly between Mike and one of the targets. He closed his eyes, breathing in, the smell of plaster dust and something sharp and acrid around him.
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