by S. Cushaway
I’ve got to move. Have to find him, flank him, and take the little shit out before—
Viyr came into view again, surrounded by no fewer than ten Pegged Scrappers, all lumbering at his heels with weapons raised, their bodies torn and bloody. The Mechinae’s crown pulsed, filling the Pegs’ temporary Shelfing with the codes to kill anyone wearing a Scrapper uniform. Viyr’s eyes turned toward Neiro, the faint there-but-not smile on his pale face.
There. If I can get behind that line of Pegs, Niles will never be able to get a shot off on me before I drill him first.
Ignoring the too-quick beat of his heart, ignoring the intense ache in his back and legs from enduring more physical activity than he had in a decade, Neiro ran. He weaved through the dust, lungs sucking in the pungent odor of gun smoke, ears bombarded with shouted orders, weapons firing, and the screams of dying men. His boots hitting the ground rang louder than all of it, jolting through his nerves until his head pounded. Somewhere through the battle pitch, he heard Niles again.
“Fuck this!”
Panic rounded that exclamation, and on its heels another voice—Karraetu’s—clamored above the gunshots. “Don’t! Niles, put it down!”
Neiro didn’t stop to see what that was all about. Twenty more feet and he’d be behind the line of Pegs, behind Viyr, and—
Niles appeared from around the corner of the tannery, holding the big gun. An alarm swelled in Neiro’s head, dimming all other sound to a whisper. A bullet zinged by, so close he felt the heat of it, but even that did not register. His eyes had trained on Niles, fixed on that familiar gun as it ramped up with a cell charge, the indicator sparking.
That’s not Firebrand. That’s a static round!
Karraetu moved through the gun smoke at a sprint. “Niles, put it the fuck down!”
“Verand!” The name left Neiro’s mouth before he could remember Verand Eleid was dead, lost to Permanence. “Verand! Run!”
Viyr stared at him and his eyes flickered with the shadow of memory, but he did not move. The Pegs turned their pistols toward Evrik Niles.
Then, the static round discharged.
A boom followed, so loud and deep it swallowed the other sounds. Long tongues of electricity illuminated the street and branched outward, bright as forked lightning. Something slammed into Neiro and knocked him off his feet. The sky blurred by, colorless and immense. His head smacked the ground, and the impact forced all the air from his chest in a painful thump. Wordlessly, he screamed as the heavens became a sheet of lightning, rippling up and over him in a big arc. The charge vaulted upward, twining together, catching the static of the blowing sand, radiating from it and burning the heavens with an electrical web. Through it all, the sun blazed down, mirthless.
The inside of his skull seemed ignited by white, searing fire, only to be replaced by a fog so thick Neiro heard and saw nothing through it. His neurons hummed, his brain and nervous system twitching with the overload, while his own Shelfing—so long forgotten he paid it no mind—ramped up, flooding him with a thousand different strings of data. Files. Memories. All winding down in an endless world of gray.
Sounds thudded from far away, echoing through the fog, cutting into the meaningless parade of images and data. Neiro could make no sense of them at first, did not even understand that they were there, with him. Someone screamed—it sounded like Zres Corrin—but the sound meant nothing at all. Other voices followed, some he recognized and many he did not. Sokepta’s voice was there, pained, raised in alarm, somewhat closer than Zres’s panicked shrieks. Karraetu, barking orders. Niles yelling, stunned and confused. The sounds and voices wafted into forms, materialized into people and objects. A caravaneer’s wagon took shape nearby, big and bulky, singed black around the edges. Legs blurred by. Someone huddled on the sand over a body wearing an Enforcer’s jacket. White hair drifted across the still, weathered face, and the pale eyes were open in a sightless stare.
Orin. That’s Orin.
Neiro’s mind reeled. Something thumped near his head, and a round, beak-nosed face peered down into his own. A line of blood trickled down the tawny cheek and the black eyes held a look of dulled pain.
“Neiro. Don’t move. You caught the tail end of that static round.” Sokepta put a hand to his chest; there was blood on the Drahgur's forearm.
The sight of that red smear sparked Neiro's stunned mind. He grunted, parting his lips, trying to ask, "Where’s Verand?". But his mouth would not work. Nothing seemed to work. The very effort brought the fog looming again. It almost took him, and he almost let it take him. But, just as it swept down, he fought it, pulling instinctively along the gray undertow, pushing away, drifting. . . drowning.
His head lolled to the side and he watched, uncomprehending, as Evrik Niles and Karraetu strolled past the toppled Pegs to the black-clad body of a god lying motionless in the dust.
“Is it really him?” Niles asked.
“It is. I got all the specs on him before the order came down.” Karraetu paused, calling over his shoulder. “Get them all down on the ground. Tinn, you and Panezii get the weapons. We got ’em now. They’re done.”
The words should have made him angry, made him rise to his feet in furious defiance and order the Enforcers to keep fighting, but Neiro only felt tired. He stared at Verand as his Shelfing shuffled that new memory away with another, older one. Mixing them. Confusing the files in a jumbled heap of data. Voices from long ago dubbed over the voices of Niles and Karraetu.
“Neiro Precaius, you have been hereby sentenced to Permanence for harboring Verand Eleid after—”
“No! He is innocent. He is bound to do, by Syndicate law, what a Cynops orders. I am a Cynops, and, furthermore, I am the creator of the Veraleid Corporation that Neiro Precaius has been charged with overseeing. He could not refuse me refuge when I requested it. He cannot be sentenced to Permanence for following my orders.”
Verand, laid out on a long stretcher, the Pinnet above him, ready to bring him to Permanence. Ready to erase Verand Eleid forever and reprogram that dead body with Viyr’s blank identity.
Verand, Excerii-plated trousers being jerked down by Evrik Niles, who pointed and laughed at the smooth, pale skin, unmarred by gender. The border mayor's voice became audible over the dubbed files. “It’s true then, what they say about Cynops. No balls, no cunt. Nothin’. Not even a pucker to shit from.”
Karraetu didn’t even glance at the Mechinae. “Forget the Cynops. Look at the sky. You see what’s up there? You see what that static round is bringing in?”
“Hell, Jess.” Niles shrugged, sheepish. “There’s no way a Bloom can come in this far east. It’s all out in the Belt now . . .”
Their voices faded again, but the sight of Viyr staring up at the electrified atmosphere would not.
The Shurin was right. About everything.
Warmth pressed against his cheek. Sokepta’s hand, he supposed, but didn’t care. The fog drifted back in, thicker than ever. This time Neiro let it roll over him and wash him away.
Bloom
A song Kaitar had heard Lucy Corrin sing once circled his mind, slow and somber as a vulture.
“All these devils and these beasts
They prey on the lost and the weak
And in that lonely place, O’Mary
The water I cannot drink
These lying devils have salted that water
And now I cannot drink
I pray keep me safe, sweet Mary
From that sinful place beneath
For your Light cleanses the water
And made pure from it, I will drink.”
A weary, sardonic grin tightened his lips. It had not been coincidence Lucy Corrin sang that hymn whenever she crossed his path. Though her soft, sweet voice never held direct accusation, her green eyes turned hard whenever she saw him, making him slither away, ashamed.
The devils and the beasts. Enetics. Me.
His smirk broke into a thousand pieces as the night pressed around the groaning
rover. Whatever grief and anger bloomed in his soul drowned in a vast sea of exhaustion. Wave after numbing wave, it washed over him as the low wagon crept along like a beetle lost in darkness. Kaitar’s eyes ached, vision bleary as he watched the vague outlines of rocks and shrub floating by. Sand raked across his cheek through the open window, but he hardly noticed that discomfort. Even the bruises lining his body and the dull throb of his cracked skull seemed petty now.
Beside him, Leigh slept on the hide-covered passenger seat. She hadn’t stirred for hours, not since they’d tried the Veraleid hooked to the dash and found it dead. Kaitar felt no urge to wake her, no need for the reassurance of human companionship; all that mattered was getting through the night, and the next, until they reached Dogton.
The low wagon’s front tires bumped into a shallow depression, throwing sand. He stomped harder on the accelerator and the engine rumbled pitifully as the vehicle rocked forward. The heavy tires caught traction and heaved the bulky machine upward. As the wagon bed hit the depression, the axle squealed like a stuck pig. The back wheels spun, their thick tread grinding into the loose earth. Slowly, the rover rolled out of the shallow hole, swaying like a lazy drunk.
When the low wagon reached level ground, Kaitar killed the engine, pulled the door open, and crawled out, disgusted. He didn’t want to smell the musty, dirty canvas tarp hanging overhead, didn’t want to hear the grinding engine, or feel the bump of tire rubber. Without bothering to see if Leigh had roused, he put a dozen yards between himself and the hated machine. Cold night wind slapped his face, but even that felt like a caress compared to the fetid stink of the low wagon.
I’ll never ride in one again after all this. I can promise myself that much.
He halted, took a deep breath, and stared up at the countless stars pinpricking the sky.
Futility.
The single word drove an iron spike of pain along his cracked skull. With it came a sensation worse than pain or fatigue—loneliness. He turned the notion over in his mind, pondering it the same way he might study a strange plant or bone. Futility seemed to fit in every nook of his life, wedging itself into each memory, every action. His entire life was crammed full of that bitter fruit, and the seeds scattered behind him like a dismal trail.
Somewhere to the south, Romano Vargas lay dead and butchered, dumped in a shallow grave alongside Gren Turren. A handful of rocky, red soil covered their faces now. Death had also claimed a squatter woman named Marty and a brute called Lein Strauss—all in that same low pit filling his memories. Other forms lay there, too, so long dead their faces had rotted away with the years—Shyiine and Shyiine-half-breed slaves, some of them killed by his own hand in the Sulari fighting pits. Some had starved, others had been whipped to death, and some—like Senqua’s mother—had willed themselves to die. Lurking at the bottom were the ghosts of Estarian bandits and Sulari squatters. A Pihranese scout named Broach was in that hole, and other Enforcers from the hard, early days of Dogton when Toros bloomed from Pirahj.
And there he stood, Kaitar Besh, at the edge of that grave marked Futility, looking in and wondering why he was still alive at all.
Fuck it. I’m done. I can’t do it anymore. I’m sick of seeing people die for Worm Glass and for water.
He rubbed his face until the graveyard in his mind buried itself again. A new plan began to sprout from death’s soil; a pale blossom, not quite vibrant enough to be called Hope, but close kin to that bright concept.
I’ll leave. Maybe I can just live in the mountains. There are hidden springs in the foothills. No one’s mapped them all yet. I could find one, live there alone.
The pale bud turned rosy, petals unfurling with bright glory until it was Hope. If he could just be alone and someplace quiet, away from people, away from—
Chirrup.
The little flower of excitement blooming in his soul withered as the threk glided past the low wagon. The other sat on her haunches in front of the rover, regarding him with mild curiosity. The first inched closer, eyes burning. She halted, lifted her muzzle, and sniffed in his direction.
“All the animals and beasts . . .” Kaitar said quietly. “Did you track me this far, girls? Smell the death on my thoughts? Heh. Damn, I can’t even get a break from the two of you, can I?”
The spines and feathers on their heads rose at the sound of his voice, but they did not move or show any inclination to attack; he was not their prey. The woman in the low wagon might be, but she was safe in the vehicle. Intelligent as they were, threk could not open doors.
The frigid night air cut across his forearms where the thin shirt didn’t cover. The larger of the two threk blinked her shining eyes as Kaitar sank to the ground.
“Your mama isn’t here, girls. She’s locked up in Neiro’s office.”
The smaller beast circled so close he smelled the odor of dried blood on her red-brown scales. A long snout bumped against his arm, the nostrils dilated, taking in his scent. The threk sneezed once, then trilled at him. Kaitar touched the feathers rippling along the scaled head, stroking lightly. They were stiff and rough rather than soft like bird feathers. The bigger sister continued to watch, yawning, her long tongue curling out.
“I should have just killed the two of you instead of letting you out of that cage. But I didn’t, did I? So now you trail along behind. Scaring Molly. Killing people. I’m already enough of a monster without two more following me.”
A scaly muzzle bumped his hand for more petting.
“Not going to do me the favor of biting my head off, I suppose.” He pushed the threk’s head away. She snorted, her tongue sliding along his boot, leaving a long stringer of wet, poisonous saliva.
“Go on, both of you.”
The animal rubbed up against him with an affectionate growl before turning to join her sister. Both trotted into the darkness without a backward glance, leaving him alone.
Kaitar sighed heavily. They would follow him to the foothills, too, he guessed. The wind kicked up, whipping his hair back until his scalp tingled. He rose, listening to his boot heels crunch against the rocks and sand as he walked back to the low wagon. By the time he pulled himself into the rover and slid behind the wheel, the frail hope that had so briefly taken root was gone entirely.
“Kaitar.”
He gripped the shifter and glanced at Leigh, startled by her voice. Her expression was slack with terror.
“Saw it all, then.”
“. . . I saw enough.”
“How’s the rib?” Kaitar jammed the low wagon into gear, wishing he could press himself against the hide coverlet and vanish between the crack in the seat. For a moment, he thought she might hurl herself out of the low wagon in a volley of shrieking.
Just when he opened his mouth to ask again, Leigh spoke. “It hurts, but it won’t kill me.”
He cleared his throat. “Will you be able to drive after it gets light?”
“Yes. I’ll drive when it’s light, so you can rest.”
“All right.”
The engine revved, and under the grind-and-growl, Kaitar muttered the words to the hymn without meaning to, matching the machine’s hum.
“The devils have salted the water
And now I cannot drink
I pray keep me safe, sweet Mary
From those devils and those beasts.”
“What was that you said?” Leigh asked, the unmistakable tremble of fear in her voice.
“Nothing.” He shrugged. “Just some Harper bullshit I heard someone singing once. Keeps coming to mind. Just tired, that’s all. I want to get back. Check on my mule. Have some tea and pepper bloom cigarettes.”
She studied him from the corner of her eye. “Those threk . . . those were the same two from the first night. They follow you, don’t they?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” Leigh turned toward him. “Why do they follow you, and why didn’t you tell us they would be?”
“Futility.”
The Enforcer did not ask what he mea
nt, nor did she look in his direction again. For the remainder of the night they drove in silence, listening to the axle creak and the wind howl.
Hell
Just past the high limestone walls surrounding the five-acre complex, the domed bathhouse roof loomed over the inner court of the Sulari Sun Plaza. Through the layers of years’ old dust, Gairy could still make out the intricate sun-and-moon pattern on the vaulted roof. That delicate beauty never held much meaning for him, and had even less now. Fifteen-foot statues—carved from marble and onyx in likeness of the first Sulari princes—guarded the entrance to the great plaza. Those statues had scared him as a child, but now only looked dejected and tired, coated as red as everything else. The crimson-and-gold silk banners were little more than torn, faded rags flapping against the gale.
Just a forgotten pile of junk now. Like me, I guess.
He plodded alongside the wall, weary and sick. It had been the longest ten-mile walk he’d ever taken, and that was a pitiful thing for a man who had once been able to make such a short journey in three hours’ time. Senqua, too, stared at the abandoned plaza as she limped along, her face pale with more than the pain of a sprained ankle; she remembered the slave markets and the violent fights in the plaza arena, too, no doubt.
Gairy’s father had been the man hired to clean that bloody sand after the matches and pick up the mess left by both Sulari nobles and Pihranese commoners—scraps of uneaten food and torn bits of cloth from the dresses of slave girls that entertained between fights. Often, the hard, stone benches had been sticky with more than spilled wine. The plaza had been Gairy’s introduction to what went on between a man and a woman, and not much of it had been pretty.
Even more vivid than those dismal recollections were memories of the bodies, sprawled on the sand, discarded by their owners after the fights. No cull worth remembering died in those pits; the Sulari princes never recorded the name of any slave who had cost them a wager of water or Worm Glass. Most of the dead slaves had been Shyiine, but some showed traces of Druen blood.
