The Rebellion's Last Traitor

by Nik Korpon

  I gesture to the fresh shirt, which I’ve already streaked with dirt. The vials ring in a frequency she can’t sense, but it sets my skin on fire. “I’ll meet you over there.”

  “For the love of god, just put on some pants.”

  “We can’t go in together, Emeríann. You know what they’d do to me.”

  Though she doesn’t bother to poke her head back in, I can hear her exasperated sigh in the kitchen.

  “All I’m suggesting is that you leave now so you can put some space between us.”

  The noise in the kitchen stops. She appears in the doorway. “I have to meet with some people before the funeral, confirm our plans to blow that place sky-high, then steal a car and load all the supplies in it, and I can’t very well do that when surrounded by Tathadann field scouts, now can I?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “So what I need you to do is stop whinging and moaning and get dressed like a big boy so that you can go ahead of me and not arouse suspicion.”

  “You’re doing it today? It wasn’t supposed to be for another week. Is everything ready?” I thread my legs through the pants while following her into the living room. “Have they used these charges before? You know you have to calibrate them precisely or–”

  Her hand presses against my mouth, silencing me. Her lips close to my ear, she says, “We’ve been planning for weeks. I know what I’m doing, Henraek.” Her hand comes off my mouth and yanks up my zipper. “This morning, we will mourn. But tonight? Tonight we will fight.”

  20

  Walleus

  A bell rings out in the darkness. I slap my hand around, trying to find it without opening my eyes. A glass spills over the floor. After a few rings, I finally locate the handset.

  “Who’s dead?” I say.

  “Why are you still asleep?” It’s Morrigan. The fact that she is the one calling, not one of her lackeys, should startle me upright but my head is killing me. And I don’t really give a shit what she has to say right now.

  The blinds are losing the battle against daylight. “What time is it?”

  “Time to get dressed,” she says. “The funeral starts in thirty minutes.”

  “I can’t go there.” I push myself up on my elbows, pinch the bridge of my nose. “They’ll beat me to death with my own arms.”

  “Or I will if you do not go to gather where all the rebels will be collected.” She clears her throat, a phlegmy, rattling noise. “We will provide a car. Report to me afterward.”

  Dial tone.

  I hurl the handset across the room, then tell the lights to turn on. “Slowly, amadans. I’ve got a headache.” I’m relieved to see that it was a glass of water and not the rest of my bourbon that spilled over the floor. I check out my wardrobe. Wrinkled pants, stained shirt. One shoe on and the other missing. The argument with Henraek is a ball of static in my chest. The events from the rest of the evening I can figure out by my sleeping position and clothes. I take a long pull from the bottle for a little hair of the dog then weave my way to the bedroom for some new clothes and a healthy dousing of aftershave.

  After ten minutes, I’m neat, clean, vaguely shaved, and passably sober.

  I check on the boys and find they’re still sleeping, the lazy buggers. Cobb’s body stretches across the mattress like his unconscious is trying to take up as much space as possible. In the top bunk, Donael sleeps in a tight ball, a frightened pill bug. I smooth back his hair then let them sleep, leaving a note on the counter for Donael to bring Cobb over to Neicy’s, promising her unspecified rewards for watching my child on such short notice.

  Outside, there is a black Tathadann car idling at the curb. My escort lounges in the passenger seat like an overfed housecat. I slip inside the car and the air is so cold I almost throw up. That might also be a result of drinking a bottle of bourbon.

  “You’re late,” the escort says.

  “You ever seen the inside of your own asshole?”

  “No,” he says.

  “You want to?” I cough into my fist and taste bile. “Then tell this thing to drive.”

  21

  Henraek

  A rare gust of wind tosses around the trees surrounding the lake in Regent Park, the branches clawing at the thick air like skeletal hands through graveyard dirt. The grass beneath us is dry and brittle, nearly the same color as sand. Emeríann stands near the pond with the other mourners, her hair twisted and pulled into a bun at the back of her head to both look nice for Forgall and not get in her way during the bombing. She bites the handkerchief folded in her fist, probably pretending she’s not crying. Standing at a distance, it’s a little hard to tell, but by the shuddering of her shoulders, I think she’s actually sobbing, surrendering herself to the moment while the priest delivers his eulogy. His robes are made of something that looks like animal skins, the coronet atop his head likely fashioned from bone and sinew. I wonder if they are boar’s bones, if this same priest presided over Forgall’s grandmother’s funeral.

  I remember years ago, at Walleus and Liella’s wedding, a strong breeze whipped through the ceremony. It lifted the flowers from Liella’s hair and knocked settings off the tables. Despite the disheveled bride and broken stemware glittering on the brick patio, Walleus had the biggest grin. You see that? he said to me. Mom’s here. Back then, he was the type to believe that.

  I look over at him, fifteen feet from me, his white suit traded for a black one, his face downturned and looking solemn – though he’s likely hungover and trying not to vomit – and wonder if he still remembers that. If he remembers being capable of believing things like that.

  The wind that touches my face, I don’t think it carries anything but dust and soot and the ashes of long-burnt bodies. I’ve seen the soul leave when I’m draining someone of their memory. I’ve seen the vessel left behind, nothing but ribs holding up their skin like the gunwales of a flimsy boat. I would love to think it’s possible for the dead to swirl around here among the living but I can’t believe that anything I can steal, bottle, and hock as a commodity could be precious enough to ride on the winds.

  There are masses of people in the park to honor Forgall today, but they are only solitary bodies. Each of them will shrivel and waste away and there’s a good chance many will land on my list, be quarantined beneath my couch before I hand them off for some money I will use to buy bourbon that’s not made in a bathtub.

  Standing so far away from Walleus will likely raise flags among the Tathadann field scouts who dapple the crowd, so I approach him, close enough that we could be mistaken for comrades but far enough that I can’t actually punch him.

  “I’m only standing here for appearances,” I tell him, scanning the faces behind him for anyone I might recognize as a scout. “You can still eat a bag of dicks.”

  “I see you’re overwhelmed with grief.” He nods. “But I’m glad you’re handling it well.”

  The wooden raft on which Forgall’s massive body rests bobs up and down in the lake, the edge of it hanging onshore and the breeze making the sheet that covers him flutter.

  Forgall’s parents stand beside the raft, dressed in country clothes that could be black from dirt and grime or by design, and the family resemblance is striking. His mother is a frail woman in body, but the tight, leathered expression on her face says she is a woman who bows to no one. His father likely once cut a terrifying profile but has since become soft and doughy. However, his hands could still crush my skull.

  “I’m surprised to see you here,” I say to Walleus.

  “Really?” he shrugs.

  “I expected to see your people here, but not you personally. Isn’t this enemy territory? The den of snakes?”

  “Yeah, well, it’s all part of the job.” He nods at the raft. “Guess we all take risks we know we shouldn’t.”

  A few people in the crowd part, and Stilian emerges from between the bodies. Walleus’s face tightens. Stilian hurries over to us with a portable memory viewer in hand and whispers something to Walleus. All I can read o
f his lips is five years ago when he shows Walleus something on the viewer. Walleus’s face relaxes for a flash as he watches, then reforms again. I try to edge closer but Stilian notices. “Are you sure it’s him?” Stilian nods. Walleus holds the viewer close to his face, squinting, then nods and sets it in a pocket inside his jacket. “Check the profiles. Make sure this is verified. Then verify that verification. This needs to be bulletproof, hear?” Walleus claps him on the shoulder before sending him on his way. His body language is noticeably looser.

  Emeríann steps forward to join a few other people who were close to Forgall, lining the edge of the lake around him. The rest of the crowd gives them a respectful buffer. From ground level it’s hard to judge how many people are here, but I’d wager a thousand or so. Most are supporters of our rebellion, I’d surmise, so that even if they didn’t know him personally they understand what it means to take a stand against the Tathadann, and in my head they will remain close friends here to honor him. I’m sure there are a healthy number of Tathadann soldiers dressed in civilian clothes here to keep an eye on things – I’ve seen no less than five I recognize from the Gallery – and likely an equal number of people who only came to see a fight break out.

  Forgall and I never got along, for a number of reasons that are both idiosyncratically petty and monumentally ideological. Emeríann would say I’m a cynic – mainly because I refuse to believe that Daghda is anything but an exiled conqueror, no matter what his intentions might have been or what characteristics we ascribe him in his absence – but I think I’m a realist. Whether or not he would have done good for Eitan after the Wars, whether or not Eitan would be a different city if he hadn’t married Fannae Morrigan and been banished, whether or not his supposed return would be good or bad for us, it’s all as relevant as debating water. We used to have it and now we don’t. It’s that simple. He’s good, he’s bad: he’s not here, so what does it matter?

  Still, in our hearts, Forgall and I weren’t that different. Despite what Belousz thinks, we both knew what we were, both fought long and hard for what we believed. Sure, we might have laid waste along the road and perhaps sacrificed things we hadn’t meant to – people we loved, lives we hoped for – but we did it in the hopes of making Eitan a better place for those things we sacrificed.

  “She sent you here, didn’t she?” I say to Walleus.

  “Who?” He turns his head slowly, face conspicuously blank.

  “That’s pretty cold. Even for her.”

  He has no response, because there is none.

  Forgall’s parents proceed to the raft with a basin of gasoline in their hands, then pour it over their son. Emeríann waits for them to finish before pouring hers. When her basin is empty, she hugs Forgall’s father, gives her condolences. They stand beside Forgall’s mother.

  “Can you not stare quite so hard at her?” Walleus says. “There are people watching.”

  “I’m observing the service. I could be looking at any of them.”

  “If you’re watching Forgall’s father with that look on your face, you got other issues I don’t know about.”

  An iridescent sheen floats over the lake, mixing with the already toxic water and creating a joyfully colored halo around his body. The priest lights a cloth wrapped around the end of a three-foot branch and hands it to Forgall’s parents. They touch the flame to his body and the whoosh of gas lighting is audible. Emeríann chokes out a cry and buries her head in the father’s shoulder. Under the rustling of fire, I hear someone singing quietly. Down near the river where our brothers bled. Another voice joins in.

  Beyond them, poking out from the mountains that ring the city, are the silhouettes of the watchtowers used during the Wars, and it occurs to me that in Eitan, we are literally and metaphorically surrounded by death. On almost every corner, I know a story about someone dying or some attack being waged. Which makes me wonder: why do we stay here? Why remain surrounded by so many ghosts? Why not go someplace new and start over? But then I think, where would I go? This is my home. This is where I’ve always lived, where my few friends are, where I know, where I also have stories of Donael playing and Aífe laughing and Emeríann singing. Despite all the death and dirt and danger, this is my home, and I won’t be pushed out by anyone.

  Forgall’s parents wait for the initial fire to calm before the father lays his foot on the raft and pushes it into the lake, sending Forgall on his way. Murmurs spread through the crowd, electricity gathering. A few shouts. I breathe in the smell of his skin crackling and burning. The jumping flames are hypnotic.

  “Be careful,” Walleus finally says. He nods toward Emeríann, at the few men glancing up at her, trying to catch her attention. “OK?”

  “You sure I’m the one in danger?”

  He stares at me for a long moment, eyes searching my face for something hidden beneath the surface. Maybe looking for the time we shared eight, ten years ago, looking for something to hold on to.

  “People are talking about Daghda,” he says.

  I swallow, say, “No one talks about him. You’ll get stripped.”

  “Citizens don’t talk. But every rebel does. They always have.” He chews on his top lip. “They think he’s returning.”

  “I’m not a rebel anymore.”

  When Forgall’s parents can take no more, they turn and thank the priest, then return to their collected friends and begin thanking people for coming. His father gives Emeríann a hug, pecks her cheek. A short, squat man approaches Emeríann almost immediately. His face pings against my skull, the memory of a memory, and I know he must be Lachlan Parnell. As soon as he leaves, another replaces him. From their gestures, I know their tones are hushed, but they are still very obvious.

  “We pulled a memory from the network. Daghda died five years ago.” Walleus’s eyes bore into mine, but I keep my smile hidden. I knew Belousz was full of shit. “Are they trying to scare Morrigan or inspire the rebels?”

  “Can’t it be both?” I shift back to Emeríann. The second man leaves, nodding to someone else. Then there’s a shatter and some yelling fifty feet away on the other side. The crowd parts slightly to reveal a Tathadann scout, standing above his now-smashed notation device lying on the ground. He shouts and points at a man, who promptly punches the scout in the face. Two other Tathadann – one uniformed and one in plainclothes – swoop in and pull the man away. And behind us, there’s another shatter, more yelling.

  Walleus leans close to me. “What’s going on, Henraek?” His voice quivers with anxiety.

  “There are more holes in the dike than there are fingers,” I say, “and no one has a raincoat anymore.” When I glance back, two other men are walking away from Emeríann. “Belousz was planning a coup,” I say to Walleus.

  “Without telling me?”

  “You were a sacrifice he was willing to make,” I say. “I took care of him, but you should still sleep with a gun under your pillow.”

  “Henraek,” he calls out, but I’m already making my way over, weaving around and past the forming groups. I wait for one pocket of people to start moving and use them to block me from sight until I get near her, then someone grabs my arm. I clench my fist and turn to find Forgall’s father looming over me. His wife stands next to him and appears to want to spit in my face, but I don’t know if that’s because her son died and she thinks it’s my fault or the Struggle died and she thinks it’s my fault. The mass of man leans down, puts his lips next to my ear.

  “She’s a pacifist, didn’t much like it when he took up with you all, but you all gave him something to live for. He was pretty chuffed when you started showing round Johnstone’s.” His thick accent makes it hard to understand what he’s saying, which surprises me for some reason because Forgall never had one. “Wanted to put a bullet in you, but chuffed nonetheless.”

  “I get that a lot,” I say.

  “It’s a natural reaction to seeing your idol fall. I told him good men and evil men are still men, but you know how thick he could be.” He gi
ves a half-smile. Then the two of them shuffle away with their people.

  Emeríann is standing alone. I slink over before someone else gets to her. “They’re watching you,” I say. “What are you doing?”

  She smiles. “Creating a distraction.”

  As if on cue, shouts ring out as a fight erupts on the north side of the park. Bodies pitch and move, onlookers spreading out, some giving way and others joining in. Uniformed Tathadann rush to the site to break it up as another fight spreads on the other side. A twist of smoke rises from the edge of the park.

  “You go that way, I’m going this way,” she says. “The car’s over on Erse, two blocks down. Blue two-door with white paint on the rear passenger tire. I’ll see you there in five.”

  We slip through the crowd, headed in different directions but both toward the car. Toward the trunk filled with a tangle of wires and blasting caps, of atomizers and pulse-charges. I hear my voice singing and didn’t realize I’d started. I glance over my shoulder, through the throbbing, punching, teeming mass, and in a quick sliver between people, I catch a glimpse of her singing too.

  22

  Walleus

  Henraek and Emeríann split and leave the park, weaving through the crowd. I watch the wake of parting people become smaller as they near the buildings and rubble.

  Belousz wouldn’t sell me out, not my right-hand, not after everything we’ve been through, but Henraek isn’t prone to lying. Distortion, sure. Delusion, definitely. But not an outright lie. Which makes me wonder exactly what he heard. One thing I’m positive of: Henraek was not lying about killing Belousz. My head tells me I should feel something about that, but right now all I can do is stand here and watch Henraek and Emeríann disappear into the haze of Macha like wraiths. Part of me isn’t sure if they were ever even there, like I flashed back on one of the other hundred services we’ve attended. The other part of me, it looks around and says, What the hell are you doing here?