by wildbow
“I thought you’d died,” Kinney said.
“What a shame. I’m still alive. Now, we’re working with a set deadline. The poisonous gas needs to be prepped, and then there are the parasites. Where are we with the fisteria?”
“Another lab is handling it,” Arandt said. “We still need to test it.”
“That’s fine. What about the fast moving stitched?”
“Handled, and already loaded into a wagon, ready to be brought wherever we need them.”
“Excellent. We have two hours.”
“We need three,” Kinney said.
“The Infante gave us two.”
“Because of what you said, earlier,” Kinney said. The look in her eyes. It was tantalizing. Pure, utter, abject hatred for Evette.
“Figure it out. And while you’re at it, we’ll need this heart issue sorted out. Fix my heart, so I don’t need this ticker.”
“You’re joking.”
Evette shook her head, her expression serious.
“I’ll reach out to someone. I know someone who is good with this sort of thing. And you can go fuck yourself for making me take the time to do that.”
“I want you to do the surgery,” Evette said.
Kinney stared at her. The hatred took on a new dimension.
“You little bastard,” Professor Kinney said, “Are you aware I despise you? That I actually want to see you dead? You’re putting your very heart into my hands?”
“I’m aware,” Evette said. “I’m also aware that you know the stakes better than anyone. If another doctor made a mistake, they’d be more likely to get away with it. But a failure on the part of someone invested in all of this, letting me die, when the Infante clearly prefers me alive? No. He would not abide such failure.”
“Clear a space on the counter,” Kinney said. “Lie down. If we’re going to have to do this, we might as well start sooner than later, so I can focus on what I need to. With luck, you’ll be sore and tired enough that I don’t have to put up with you for a solid hour to an hour and a half.”
Evette smiled.
☙
This made for her second trip to Gomorrah in the span of a day. She rode in a nondescript carriage, one that could have belonged to any civilian in the city, and she rode in the company of twelve stitched, arranged in rank and file, in an interior that had only two seats.
She held Shirley’s hand, unsure of what to say or do.
She recognized the colors the stitched wore. The red and purple ribbons on their left arms were supposed to mean the gas would create ringing in people’s ears. To Evette and her future victims, it meant ‘methane’. Explosive.
The stitched themselves were flammable. The other gases had trace amounts of methane in them, and, from what she had been able to reason, wouldn’t stifle the rolling explosion when the time came.
For now, they smelled like burned air and formaldehyde, and their presence made the interior of the carriage oven-like, to the point that the glass of the windows was fogging up. The outside was wet, with pouring rain, but it was as hot a day as she had ever experienced, all the same. It was unbearable, and she suspected this was a punishment. Chances were good that Kinney had called in a favor, to ensure that the higher-ups that were managing the distribution of forces put Evette in with the stitched.
Other vehicles would be moving into the neighborhood by other routes, by meandering paths, all with the same location in mind.
Mauer was supposed to be here. If he wasn’t, it would at least be a collection of his soldiers, all gathered in one place.
The moment the vehicle slowed, she reached for the door, opening it, and let herself out, pulling Shirley after her. She had to jog, then walk briskly to keep up with it, following it to the destination.
Further down the street, another carriage door opened. A man stepped out. Skinny, with longer hair than was conventional, and a ragged, unkempt beard.
But Evette could tell that the man had a gun, and she suspected that any one of Mauer’s men with binoculars would be able to tell, too.
He knew his way around guns, from the way he wore his, which suggested a soldier, but he’d worn a gray lab coat when she had first been introduced to the man, which suggested a doctor. His unkempt appearance suggested something else altogether.
She assessed him as a damaged, curious man who looked enough like someone non-Crown and non-Academy to blend in. So he’d been promoted. He served a role here.
Part of that role was to wrangle her.
“Sylvester?” the man asked. “And companion?”
Evette gave him a nod.
He gave them a once-over. Evette had left her shirt unbuttoned, so it wouldn’t rub up against the fresh scar across her chest. The scar was ‘Y’ shaped. Kinney had a sense of humor. The scar drew attention.
Shirley drew more, and Evette was grateful for that.
“I’m Lou,” the man said. “And I hope the person who did those stitches was a first year student, and not anyone with a coat.”
“Black coat.”
He frowned a little.
“I made an enemy of her,” Evette clarified.
“I suppose that’s alright then. What are you up to, outside of that carriage?” he asked, as she drew nearer.
“I’m getting some fresh air while I look for a vantage point. Someplace high up.”
“High up is dangerous, and makes it slow to move around.”
“Fast to move around when you fall,” Evette said, giving the man a smile.
Lou made a bit of a face, then said, “Alright. While you’re looking, you’ll want to know what you’re keeping an eye on. Look past my right shoulder. You’ll see a collection of buildings with a sign on one face.”
The buildings were red brick. The branches that grew along the side of them grew in such a way that they followed the rigid lines set out by the mortar, zig-zagging and very inorganic. The sign, faded, had once been painted but now peeled. It had had a woman on it, once, but now only had a blob that suggested an hourglass figure.
The faceless, blurred image struck a chord in Evette, so similar to the broken Lambs that shadowed her now. So did the hourglass, suggesting the deadline, the time limit.
“We’re using all of the resources you suggested,” Lou said. “All from multiple directions. It’ll be some time before we act. You said he might spot us before we get everything in place?”
“He might.”
“Let’s hope he doesn’t. We’ve got three nobles overseeing things, but they’re keeping their heads down.”
“Three? Montgomery?”
“I don’t know who, exactly, except that the young First is nearby. Be mindful.”
The First. The Ogre. August.
Evette nodded. She was already soaked from the rain, and it did nothing to mitigate the heat of the outside. It helped rinse the smell of formaldehyde from her, if nothing else.
She surveyed the area, picked a tall building, and let herself inside.
This was it. The pieces were being put into place. She would need to survey the arrangement before she made any calls, decided to pull the pin, and blow it all up.
“You’re playing with fire, you know,” Gordon said, as she reached the stairwell. “You’ll go to pieces when it counts.”
She ignored him.
“We’re too slow,” Jamie said. “You can emulate Sylvester given time to tackle things as a general problem, but it’s clunky, flawed, and when you try to handle too much and let it all pile up too much, it can be too great of a burden. That’s when you crack at the foundation.”
It was true. But what else was there to do? Evette picked up the pace, moving up the steps doubletime.
“We’re all twisted up,” Helen said, hands on her hips. “Wearing a mask. You know you’re not Evette, you’re just Sy, burying the monster inside, and you’re not doing a very good job of hiding it, mister.”
Her heart hurt. It had been fixed and glued together, with strips of something or other worked in
there to patch it up. It beat in time with her feelings, now, but it had been abused in the surgery, and the meds that were supposed to temper the pain weren’t as effective when Sylvester was as drug resistant as he was.
“You’re all tangled up,” Mary said. “The Infante thinks he’s the one pulling your strings, setting you up so you hurt Mauer more than you hurt him, or you remove yourself as a problem. Mauer thinks he’s got you on his side, working on this conspiracy with Gomorrah, that you hate the Crown and Academy more than you dislike him. But the only sure thing here is that the weapons you’re deploying are double-edged ones. The only guarantee is that you’ll hurt yourself.”
She couldn’t maintain the pace of taking the stairs two at a time. She slowed, and she hated that she slowed.
She rounded the bend in the stairs, moving up, because the Lambs liked being up high, looking down, working their way from an advantageous position to a more secure, familiar one.
“Sy?” Shirley asked.
“I’m losing my mind, Shirley. I’m not really Sylvester, anymore. I’m sorry I dragged you with me.”
“I don’t understand. What happened?”
“For all of my life, or the only years of my life that really counted, I’ve taken a drug, to make me adapt, to make me change. It makes me liquid, they call it. So that I can fit myself to a situation, learn new skills as I need them, forget skills and habits as I need to forget them.”
“I know that much,” she said.
“But in molding myself, I made myself fit to the group, to the Lambs. I fit the void that was left when two of the Lambs that were supposed to exist ceased to be. As the Lambs fell away, were wiped blank or killed, I spread myself thinner, to fill those gaps. I couldn’t keep to that. So I broke away. Left them. Jamie followed.”
They reached the top of the next flight of stairs.
August was there. With a group of soldiers gathered around him. He wore a suit jacket with long sleeves, shorts, and high socks, and he had a menacing aura to put any warbeast to shame.
Evette and Shirley bowed, before retreating further up the stairs.
“So long as I had Jamie, I could remember what the other Lambs looked like. How they acted. But we fell out. A lot of things fell out. And now there’s a kernel of doubt because I’m not sure I can remember any of the faces.”
Evette continued, with more energy now, because if she stopped, then Shirley would say something, and she didn’t want Shirley to interrupt.
“I get a glimmer, like the memory is there, the face is accurate, and then I question it. I wonder if it’s because I want to see them all so badly that I’m filling in the gaps wrong. I’m worried I’m going to pursue a fiction, build lies upon lies, so I pull back, and the doubt keeps getting bigger. I’m not seeing their faces in my head anymore because I won’t let myself. I’m not seeing my face anymore.”
“No falling out is worth this,” Shirley said.
“No,” Evette agreed.
“Then stop this? Because you’re frightening me. Can’t we go back?”
“If I go back, they might not be there.”
“But they might be,” Shirley said. “Or Jamie might be.”
Evette wasn’t articulate enough to answer just why that spooked her. She only shook her head.
Her heart hurt so badly, even with just the brisk ascent.
But if she slowed, then she might have to slow further, later. If she slowed further, she might have to stop.
A direct answer to Shirley’s statement wasn’t possible, but she was able to say, “Things are in motion already. The pawns set in place. The only thing needed is a word, and then a match. Or a spark. Between the weapons we’re using to weaken Mauer and our makeshift bomb in the midst of the Academy’s ranks, combined with territory as neutral as any we’ll find in New Amsterdam… it should be bloody on both sides.”
“All three sides, you mean,” Shirley said. “We’re a side, aren’t we?”
Evette smiled.
“That’s not supposed to put a smile on your face,” Shirley said.
“I’m smiling because you’re clever,” Evette said. “I respected you in the first place because you were clever. You just needed confidence. I wish I’d done better by you. I should have left you behind.”
“I’d feel glad I came along, if only because I was able to change your mind about all of this,” Shirley said. “But I don’t know that I can?”
She’d made it a question. Or she’d made it a plea.
Evette wasn’t sure which.
“If nothing else, let’s make sure we have a view,” Evette said.
Shirley didn’t say anything as they made their way up two more flights of stairs.
Evette stopped in her tracks as she was confronted with two more Lambs.
Jamie and Lillian, together, standing at the top of the next flight of stairs, staring her down. Their backs weren’t turned. Their expressions weren’t happy.
“Poison and fire,” Evette said, walking up the stairs, toward the pair.
She walked past them, and onto the roof proper. The walk up the stairs had been enough for her to almost start to dry off. In the downpour of warm water, she was quickly drenched again.
Shirley hung back, keeping to the shelter afforded by the doorway that led down to the stairwell and building interior.
Evette spread her arms, taking in the scene, while letting the rain soak her. She knew she presented a good target for one of Mauer’s shooters, and that she risked tipping him off. She suspected—or the phantom Lambs suspected, after a full night of deliberation—that Mauer wouldn’t run, and that Mauer wouldn’t shoot.
Mauer had other things to focus on. Enemies of a less ambiguous sort.
“Sylvester,” the voice came from behind her.
She turned. She was close enough to the ledge that she could have slipped and tipped over.
Jamie. Jamie with a face, rain streaking his glasses.
“I thought you’d come back here at some point,” Jamie said. “I staked out the area. Saw the people and carriages moving in unusual ways.”
“You’ve been following me,” Evette accused.
“Of course!” Jamie said, with uncharacteristic intensity. He drew closer, and she moved, almost to back up, except that would have meant stepping back and into the void. She moved to the side instead, maintaining the distance between them.
“Good,” she said. She nodded to herself. “Good. Take Shirley. Then go.”
“Only if you come with.”
“I’m seeing this through. It’s meaningless and petty if I’m not here to take action. I have to hurt them, cripple both sides, and then step in. Surgical strikes.”
“I know, Sy. We talked about this for months on end. But you know that we planned something bigger than this. It was supposed to be more elegant.”
“I memorized the keywords. Lipreading. I know how to control the stitched. The soldiers and doctors are the only concern, and I have ideas for dealing with them. I can take August hostage. Take the Ogre.”
“You could, I’m not denying that you’re theoretically capable.”
“It’s the same it was when we fought the Baron. Just need to arrange things, set the tone, I can make this elegant.”
“You can. But will you? Will it really work out that way? Sylvester, I want you to stop. Take your mind off the mission for a moment. Listen to me.”
Evette scowled. She glanced over her shoulder, at the scene below.
“Listen, damn it,” Jamie said.
He stepped closer. Again, Evette circled around to one side.
If she just got a little closer to the stairwell, she could make a break for it.
Or to the side of the building. She could see where Jamie had looped the rope and slid down. He must have been on a different building, had seen her enter the building below, and moved over while she climbed the stairs. She could use that same rope to descend.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m just�
�I’m sorry. At Corinth, I was hurt. I handled that badly. I gave you the wrong impressions, I asked you to live up to unfair expectations.”
She was close to being able to make a run for downstairs. She walked slowly, measuring her steps, avoiding looking at Jamie directly.
“I knew you were hurting and lost from what had just happened with Lillian, and I pressured you. I want you to know, when I came looking for you in Tynewear, my feelings for you weren’t a factor. I said that because I was hurt, I wanted to make it clear that my feelings were real, so I exaggerated, I…”
He raised his hands, then let them flop to the side.
“I was running away, in my own way. Bending the truth, to try and make things clearer, while not having to be honest.”
Evette paced.
“Give me back the Sylvester that doesn’t get innuendo. Who pokes fun at me, and who I can poke fun at in return. The guy who makes me tea and who I can listen to music with. Give me back the guy I can scheme with, as we figure out how to take on the most powerful people on this side of the ocean. We can conquer the world together. All of the rest of it, any other feelings, they’re unimportant noise. Give me back my friend.”
She could hear the hoarse note in his voice.
“Please,” Jamie said, for emphasis.
She reached for her belt. She found the gas canister.
Something to cover her retreat.
She unclipped it from her belt, pulling the pin with her thumb in the same motion.
Stepping out from the doorway, reaching out, Shirley seized her by the wrist, holding that same arm firm, keeping Evette from throwing.
The canister, still firmly clasped in one hand, began spewing gas. Evette waited patiently for the gas to force Shirley to back away, to release her.
“Drop it,” Shirley said. “And listen to him.”
Evette didn’t move. Jamie watched all of this, silent.
“Drop it,” Shirley said.
She pressed the sharp point of a scalpel into Evette’s back. When Evette didn’t react, the scalpel drove in a little deeper.
The canister fell from Evette’s hand. Shirley kicked it over the edge of the roof.
A long moment passed.
“That was silly,” Evette said. She jerked her arm, but Shirley didn’t release it. “Now they know where we are. You just tipped off both sides of the conflict down there.”
