Standing Between Earth and Heaven

by Douglas Milewski

  “We do difficult things, sir. Some of them are impossible. We do them anyway because they are worth doing. Because equality and generosity are possible, we work towards them. That is our way.”

  “You should think about that some more. Being under someone’s heel for too long makes you go wacky.”

  From the next room, a feminine voice yelled, “Berk!”

  Berk growled. “That woman won’t even let me eat breakfast. I swear, she just keeps making everything up as she goes along. Let’s find out how she’s changed her mind this time. Come on, digger. Time for your interview.”

  Berk pushed Maran into a dimly lit room to face the person that she feared. The Red Sybil sat in a high chair, her small frame hunched over a monkey brazier, smoke billowing furiously though the monkeys’ screaming mouths. The fumes gathered around the woman’s veil as if by choice.

  The Red Sybil raised her head, but did not quite look at them. “Berk, darling, what are you waiting for? Bring her in here.” The Sybil spoke like a songbird, but sounded different from last night. No, she spoke like n vulture who sang like a songbird. Her accent no longer sounded like Altyn’s.

  “Stand her before me.”

  Berk pushed Maran forward, stopping about an arm’s length away, keeping one hand on Maran’s shoulder. She felt more like Berk’s shield than an offering.

  The Red Sybil gestured dramatically. “Berk, leave us. It’s time for us girls to talk. I don’t need more of your male sensibilities.”

  Berk made a rude gesture as he bowed, then backed out of the room. His eyes never left the Sybil’s form. The Sybil did not respond to his antics. Only when the door clanked closed did the woman speak again.

  “Loam, sweetie, approach me now.”

  Maran moved one step closer.

  The Sybil lifted her veil, revealing her burned and noseless face. Across her skin ran red vines, dense and writhing on top the of pink and black skin. As for her eyes, she had none. There was nothing left there but little snakes curled tightly in empty sockets, their tiny eyes staring out.

  Maran closed her eyes.

  The Red Sybil giggled. “Is my poppet too much for you?” The voice almost sang that taunt. Her voice sounded unexpectedly easy, with an undertone of tension. “I will make you look, digger. You shall look. I shall give you the sight, and then you shall see as my poppet sees, and I shall know what you know.”

  Maran backed away. The Sybil smiled back, rotting teeth showing behind blistered lips.

  The Sybil felt about her gaunt person and took out a small brass bottle, unscrewing the top. She tapped a pinch into her hand, then dropped that pinch into her brazier. Smoky snakes erupted out of the mouths of the screaming monkeys, drifting around the Sybil. With a graceful flick of her fingers, she sent the smoke-snakes over toward Maran. They circled once before a group rushed at Maran. She covered her nose and turned her face, but still the snakes pushed in.

  The Astrean sang a few comedic notes, up and down the scale. “You can feel my little ones, can’t you? You are quite noteworthy, my little kitchen dwarf. I believe that you lied to me. Don’t do that again. Lies are mine, not yours.

  “Do my little ones feel like snakes? Did you know that snakes are creatures of death and rebirth? They kill so quickly, yet shed their skins, becoming new. That my poppet could shed her own skin and be all new. That she should be beautiful again. Do you think that she could do that? Do you know that secret? Did my sister ever bother teaching that to you?”

  Who was speaking? Was that Red Sybil or the Red Lady? Is this what Svero meant by an oracle?

  More snakes burrowed their way past Maran’s fingers, wiggling up her nose and down her throat. Sensations began. Pleasure. Beyond any pleasure that she had ever felt before, it was pleasure beyond pleasure, so much so that she lost herself and slipped away.

  The snakes took Maran to the Steel City.

  Maran walked out into the daylight. It seemed too bright. All the concrete glared too white. Maran brought up her hand to shield her eyes. Around her, Maran saw the Steel City crumbling under the weight of its own business, its own busy-ness.

  All the windows glared into her eyes. All the car windows glared in the daytime sun. Even the people seemed to glare in the sun.

  With a rattle, a square-nosed car roared up to Maran, squealing to a stop. Parrot-headed featherheads opened the doors and stepped out, waving about their tin guns. Several of them kept lookout. The remaining featherheads dashed up to Maran, grabbed her, and shoved her into their long and dark car whose big black seat felt slick and leathery.

  One featherhead sat on each side of her, closing the doors beside them.

  Maran still could not think quite correctly. Why was she here? The Sybil. The Red Sybil had something to do with it. The Red Lady had something to do with this. Snakes. Maran looked down to see her dress was now made of snakes.

  The driver coaxed the car out jerky and fast, bumping another car before accelerating unevenly. Behind them, bits of glass scattered about the pavement, glittering here and there. As they proceeded, the driver corrected and overcorrected again and again, beginning an unbridled argument with his own vehicle, scraping multiple parked cars before turning onto a busier street, apparently in the wrong direction. Other vehicles drove head-on at them, stopping unexpectedly, pulling out of the way and honking their horns furiously. Rude hand gestures abounded.

  From its many collisions, the featherhead car wobbled like a drunkard. The faster they traveled, the more the car shrieked and shimmied and shook, incessantly pulling itself to the left. The rubbing noise that its wheels made sounded like “escape, escape” repeated over and over again.

  Another turn took them with the flow of traffic rather than against it, and Maran swore that somehow this was even more dangerous than driving the wrong way. Their unpredictable swerving cut off the cars near them, causing a few to run onto curbs or into parked cars. Still their car pulled to the left.

  Despite the remarkably bad driving, the driver soon pulled up to a tall building and parked on a sidewalk. The moment that they lurched to a stop, the car signed in relief. The featherheads opened the doors and pulled Maran out of the dim car, back into the incredibly bright light.

  Was the sun always so incredibly bright?

  The featherheads pushed Maran toward a glass door with a doorman. They needlessly brandished their guns. The already fearful doorman opened the door, and they all walked into a fancy foyer with sumptuous decorations. There was velvet on the floor, velvet on the walls, and velvet on the chairs. Off to one side, there was a shiny door with no handle.

  One featherhead pushed a button. He pushed it again and again, impatiently. A semi-dial changed numbers. Maran supposed that the changing numbers meant something.

  The doors eventually opened, leading to a little room that took them high into the building. Maran supposed that they traveled to the very top. When the door opened again, the featherheads pushed Maran out, then down a corridor to a plain door, noteworthy only for the two featherheads who sat outside it in chairs.

  There were six of them all together, just as there were six dead at Altyn’s house. Maran was now sure that they must be the same people.

  Much squawking ensued. Eventually, the loser of the argument grabbed Maran. The other featherheads backed away from the door. The loser knocked on the door, then opened it, shoving Maran through then slamming it closed as quickly as possible. On hitting the ground, all Maran saw was the parquet floor that she had just hit. Her gut told her to keep looking down, but she refused her gut. Looking up, she saw a goddess and froze.

  A gigantic woman-snake-thing coiled on the floor, resting her torso on a daybed. She wore a shimmering red dress that flowed across her loose breasts, displaying every feminine curve. Below the dress was a feathered coil, shimmering and crimson and equally curvacious. Both her clothes and her scales sparkled.

  The Red Lady took the long cigarette holder from her mouth, waving it about like a magic wand. �
��Welcome, darling. I hope that my pets were not too much for you. If they were, then never mind them. Cuckoos are not known for their hospitality.” Her other hand held a drink with an olive in it.

  Not knowing what else to do, Maran stood and hurriedly curtsied.

  The Red Lady took a long puff of her cigarette, apparently as a dramatic gesture. Everything about her seemed practiced for presentation. The Red Lady raised her voice to someone else. “Robbie, get in here.”

  From a nearby door, a strange humanoid contraption of metal and lights rolled into the room. It spoke in a monotone, with light flashing inside its glass head as it spoke each word. “How may I serve you?”

  “Robbie, you choose so well. Get something for the digger here.”

  “Calculating.” The being then turned and whirred away, rolling smoothly on wheels in its feet.

  The Red Lady turned back to Maran and smiled, and Maran wished that she would never smile. It was the kind of smile that you get just before someone asks you to do something awful. “Darling, it is such a pleasure to have you here. You are one of my sister’s people. I have never spoken to one of your kind before. She was always so selfish with you, keeping you so close and never sharing. Please, have a seat and make yourself comfortable. Do as you please, we’re all girls here.”

  Maran looked about and took the only seat possible, which was a leather chair sized for someone far larger than herself. The chair would have been big for Osei, and he was the tallest human that Maran knew.

  The Red Lady continued her feigned good-natured monologue. “I do believe that you are the least noteworthy of all the visitors that I have ever had. You are not a general, nor a warlord, nor even a spurned queen. Why is it that you fascinate me so?” The Red Lady rested her chin on her her hand, blinking with extra vigor.

  Maran did not know how to respond. “I don’t know, ma’am.”

  The mechanical man returned with a brown bottle in its pincer hands. “Sasparilla,” it intoned. Its arms extended outward, offering the bottle to Maran.

  Maran hesitated.

  The Red Lady smiled a disarming smile in just that way that made you nervous. “Go on, poppet. It won’t hurt you. This food will not bind you. Do not worry. You are already bound.”

  Maran still did not know how else to respond, so she took the bottle. She tasted it, analyzing the liquid on her trained tongue. As best as she could tell, the drink was sasparilla root and clover honey somehow made fizzy. She could almost make this herself.

  The Red Lady smiled. “I’m glad that you enjoy that. Robbie is so good at those things. Now, down to business, little digger. I have you. There is no escape. I talk. You answer my questions. There are no alternatives.

  “First, who made that getup for you? It really doesn’t show off your figure enough. You have quite ample breasts and terrific hips, so why not use them to your advantage? The fellas really do enjoy the show. Good bubs really do help you get your own way. You should show more skin there, too.”

  Try as she might, Maran could find no words to reply to that comment.

  “I see you look challenged there. Maybe I should start with an easier question, my bug-eyed Betty. So, what do you think of my plan so far?”

  Maran’s brain raced, putting together the pieces that she could. She spoke as fast as she thought. “I’m not sure what your plan is, ma’am. The Red Sybil came to Jura City. She ordered some of your cultists to get themselves killed, presumably so that you would have servants here in the Steel City. Then, you would try to get some Ironmongers killed. Your servants would capture the dead Ironmonger souls for some reason.”

  What reason? What could she want? The Red Lady did like secrets, and that meant the secret of steel.

  “So, you killed some Ironmongers so that you could capture their dead souls, and with those souls, learn the secret of steel at your leisure, except that your plan didn’t work. Nobody knew the secret.”

  Maran paused there. That seemed too obvious. The Red Lady always played games within games. Maran hesitated, then spoke again. “Except, that’s not your plan. That can’t be your plan, because you plan on betraying the Malachites. And you plan on betraying your Red Sybil. You plan on betraying everybody, even me.”

  A wide, vicious smile appeared on the Red Lady’s red painted lips. Her venomous teeth, pointed and poised, showed through her false smile. “Oh, you are a sharp one, Betty. There are Emperors that don’t get that. My sister taught you well. Here’s another lesson for you: no plan survives the enemy unscathed. You must always be open to chance. It’s really much like playing tiles. Some else’s discard is your opportunity. So, my old plan did not fare so well. Now I have a new plan, and now it’s time for me to discard. My little poppet is dying and I need a new one. Your turn. Can you guess who will be my new poppet?”

  No Greater Secret

  The mechanical man pushed Maran into the kitchen, an overly pink room with blue pastel accents. Even the tiles were pink. Sitting in that room was a large wooden box, varnished, with a small glass window on it. Through that window, Maran could see a moving picture devoid of all color.

  “Look into the screen,” intoned Robbie.

  The mechanical thing did not need to tell her that. The glow of the device itself captured Maran’s attention. She knew the faces in the screen. She saw Strikke speaking with Svero. Their voices came through tinny and sharp, but it was definitely their voices.

  Altyn walked into her view.

  “It’s Malachites,” Altyn said.

  Svero growled. “I think you’re wrong. Malachites take head shots and they don’t miss. These guys were taking body shots. They’re Flintlanders.”

  “I assure you, they were Malachites.” Altyn spoke with her calm and assured voice.

  “I think you’re wrong,” stated Svero, just as certain, “but the boys want to execute some Malachites, so we’ll go with Malachites. No matter who they were, we’d tell ‘em Malachites. That’ll get their blood boiling. I assume that they were trying to steal the secret of steelmaking. Am I right? That’s a rhetorical question. I don’t care what they were doing, the boys don’t want to hear anything else.”

  “I don’t know what they were doing. I do know that they have Maran and that she is alive. She has a concussion, but otherwise seems well. They also have Siberhaus. I believe him dead.”

  Maran wondered how Altyn could know that. The only possible way was going to the Ammelites. She must have suspected Maran of cooperating with the enemy. Altyn did not trust her.

  Svero shook his head. “I’m sorry to hear about Siberhaus. I will miss him. He was a warrior in his own way. Fortunately, they won’t get any major secrets from him. Unfortunately, that leaves Maran and Maran is invaluable. They’ll want to break her. Locate her as fast as possible. We have to send in a hit squad to kill her before she talks.”

  Maran felt afraid. Svero was going to kill her because she was kidnapped? She should have known that he would betray her. He cared nothing for life. He was looking for this opportunity the whole time.

  Altyn shook her head. “No, sir, I disagree. They don’t know who she is. That works to our advantage. She has a concussion and she isn’t thinking clearly. She said she was a cook and they believed that. Once she cooks for them, they will know that she speaks truthfully. It will take a while before she can identify which of you knows the secret.”

  So Altyn thought that Maran would betray secrets, too. Maran felt disappointed that Altyn thought so little of her, but Altyn was an Astrean, and they always did think too much of themselves.

  “Nobody in this room knows the secret,” said Svero. “The secret is far too valuable. I’m a machinist by training. Only our most trusted workmen become steelmakers, and only they know the secret. They live in their own section in the center of the guildhall. They are always guarded. They never leave the forge without their guild master’s permission and always with an armed escort. If attacked, the escorts are ordered to kill the steelmaker immediately.�
�

  “That seems extreme,” said Altyn.

  “It is extreme. This is a secret worth dying for. We’ve killed hundreds to keep this secret to ourselves. We would kill thousands without hesitating.”

  Svero certainly liked killing people. Maybe Maran should betray them. Maybe she should let out their secret. Maybe fewer people would die if everyone knew how to make good steel. If everyone had terrible weapons, who would dare use them? If everyone was well armed, war would be too terrible and there would have to be peace.

  Altyn paused, letting the last topic rest. “Another subject, sir. I will eventually need soldiers against these Malachites.”

  “Grab your old troop. They know who you are. They’ll follow you. Hell, Reckoners would follow you if it meant butchering Malachites.”

  The doorman entered, stopping the conversation. “Arany, Vodie of the Horsebreakers.”

  Kurfurstin Strikke sat up. “News about Quema. Admit her.”

  What about Quema? Maran leaned forward toward the screen, intent on learning more. Had she succeeded in rescuing Quema? Was she well?

  Arany entered, jingling in her iron-adorned coat, bowed, and addressed Strikke and Svero. “Howdy, Kurfursts. I rustled out that damned bullet. It weren’t movin’, then it came out easy as a bunny from a burrow.” She opened her hand, showing them the small stone ball. She placed the bullet into Svero’s hand. “Freifrau Quema’s gonna live. She’s sleepin’ it off now.”

  Maran breathed a sigh of relief. She had done well by helping Quema.

  Strikke breathed in relief as well, then stood. “Thank you, Arany. You don’t know how much that relieves me. It means everything.”

  “It was my duty, ma’am.” Arany smiled.

  Strikke smiled back. “Stop by my seamstresses on the way out. Have Weber open the safe for you. Take any bolt of cloth you want.”

  “Wait,” said Svero. “What about Gammy?”

  Arany shook her head. “I had to amputate. The upper arm bone was just too shattered and my skills too meager. He is sleeping as well.”