by Nik Korpon
“Tell it to move,” I say to the escort. The man and his friend pound on the window, two others joining in. This procession will collapse on us in five seconds if we don’t get out of here now.
“Mister Walleus, there’s–”
A dull thump and the sound of breaking ice. The window spiderwebs around a depression in the glass. The protestor moves his hand, pointing the gun at a different spot, and pulls the trigger again.
“Drive!” I yell at the car.
The protestor gets off a third shot then starts screaming as the car takes off. There are thumps as bodies glance off the hood and front window. I look back and see the shooter holding his dangling leg in his hand. I press my finger against the window, the interior side barely cracked. Dumbass didn’t even know you need special bullets and a gun with some ass behind it if you want to get through that glass.
We hum past more protestors, darting around other cars to beat a light or speeding up to encourage people to get the hell out of the way.
After twenty minutes, we pull up to the gatehouse. I roll down the window.
“I came back for my umbrella,” I say to Tuhc. He returns that same grin then continues with whatever he’s shuffling on the desk. We pull through and pass some homeless-looking deliveryman walking along the sidewalk.
When the car pulls up to the house, I jump out the door and hurry up the steps, yelling before the door is even fully open.
“Boys,” I bellow, “pack your bags. You’ve got two minutes to grab whatever you want to keep then we’re leaving. And I don’t want to hear any arguments, Donael. Move it.”
My voice echoes. Silence except for the murmur of voices from the television in the other room.
“Boys?”
When I turn the corner, I see Cobb with his back against the wall, near the edge of the panic room door. Donael stands partially in front of Cobb, protecting him. I step fully into the room and see Old Woman Morrigan sitting on my nice, clean couch, with Doctor Mebeth beside her. Three cosantas surround them, each of them pointing a gun at me.
35
Henraek
Bastard steals my kid and holds him hostage then spoils him rotten and doesn’t have the balls to tell me about it. And does it all while destroying my reputation.
Forget history. He will receive no mercy.
I consciously have to tell myself to calm down so the residents won’t see a man who is muttering to himself and holding a shipping tube that could easily hide a pulse-cannon while walking down their street. That might be the quickest way to end up in a disused garage with a car battery wired to my chest and a bunch of assholes shouting questions at me.
As I walk down his court, I scan the lampposts for small black boxes, the eaves of houses for blinking red lights. There are two past his house, three behind me.
When I cross his sidewalk to the front door, I hear voices inside. They are not the voices of children. I set the tube down and creep along behind the bushes that line the front of the house, keeping my head below the window line. I can’t place the voices but they don’t sound like a social call. At the edge of the house, I stand and slide over inch by inch, getting a gradually larger view of the living room.
Walleus stands with his back toward me. Morrigan sits on the couch with her legs crossed, wearing one of those hats that should be banned as an affront to human and beast alike. And sitting beside her is Doctor Mebeth. Three men stand behind her, pointing their guns at Walleus while he rapidly tries to explain his way out of some new mess he’s gotten himself into. There is no sign of the kids, whether they are there, or hiding, or have already been shot.
The urge to save him first consumes me. It will not be Morrigan or Mebeth who kills him.
I chamber a round and test the window, hoping it’s unlocked. But that would be asking too much and I’ve already had my allotment of luck for today. Instead I keep my finger on the trigger, stay out of sight, and watch.
36
Walleus
“This is what I’m talking about, Walleus,” she says, waving her hand up and down like she’s having an epileptic fit. “You were supposed to meet me, and look at the state of you. You’ve even spilled food all over your pants.”
I look down at Greig’s blood splattered on my clothes and let the comment pass.
“I did go to meet you, Fannae. I went out through all those crazy sons of bitches that want to rip off my arms and beat me to death with them because you called a meet with me. I even wasted two hours in your lovely office staring at all those dead animals, waiting for you.” I clear my throat, steadying my voice and reading the body language of the cosantas. Cobb clicks quietly behind them. “But you wouldn’t know that because you weren’t there.”
“It’s not important. We’re beyond your lack of personal hygiene. You refuse to bring Belousz to me for questioning, which I believe is because there was in fact no operation. You have failed the Tathadann with your constant recklessness, allowing Henraek Laersen to commit acts of violence against and endanger the city of Eitan.” She nods to the cosantas, who step forward. Donael twitches, head spinning as he takes in the room. “The punishment for treason is stripping.”
“You’re not going to do that,” I say, pulling back my shoulder blades to expand my chest. “Not with Daghda coming.”
Even though Greig already told her, she still stiffens at the mention. “The man you refer to is not an issue. And if I could strip you twice, I would for invoking his name.”
Mebeth clears his throat. “I appreciate you resolving the problems with Aífe.” I see Donael glance at me. “But your – how do we say it? Prowess? – is quickly fading. You have too much baggage, in your memories, in your life. You could not take care of that six years ago, so now we will do it for you.”
I clear my throat. “You need me, Fannae.”
“How, exactly?”
“There’s a coup brewing inside the Tathadann. You’re the top of their list, above me even. I helped you put down one uprising, and I’ll help you put down this one, too.” Donael stares at me. I flick my eyes, hoping he knows where the panic room sensor is.
“And what do you have that Greig does not, aside from high cholesterol and the lingering aroma of spiced meat?”
“A pulse, to start.” I put some bite in my words and her face blanches.
Her lips thin, part around her teeth. “You bastard.”
“And twenty years’ experience in the field on top of that. Fannae, I know formations, explosives, intelligence, counterintelligence, first aid.” The words flow, my lips moving on their own, forming theories, creating simulations, building a future for my family and me that doesn’t involve stochae. I construct a world for her that balances on a pinpoint, precariously positioned above the heaving masses of mothers eating their children and neighborhoods massacred for a glass of water, held up only because of the skills and speculations inside my skull. “I know the men fighting with me and the men I’m fighting. You want to keep the Tathadann whole, keep Daghda out, you’ll need everything I’ve got.”
I’m almost out of breath when I finish. The cosantas have leaned away slightly, taken aback at the breadth of the new reality I’ve laid out before them. My skin burns bright with possibility.
“Walleus,” she says. She inhales through her nose, her eyes closed tight. Exhales. Opens. “I would rather die at his hands than live another day with you around me.” She looks to the cosantas. “Take them all. Strip them. Dump them.”
The hell you will.
I lunge, snatching at that wrinkled, veiny neck of hers. Mebeth scuttles aside. When my fingers are close enough to almost feel her skin giving, I taste static electricity. The heavy swings his gun again, connecting with my mouth. My teeth tear into my cheeks and blood leaks into my throat. I hear the pneumatic hiss of the panic room door. My boy, my boy, my boy who – specks of light cover the room as the cosanta rakes his gun across my nose. He swings again but I get my hands up quick enough to grab his forearm a
nd use my weight to flip him. I raise my fist and feel cold metal sink into my back, forcing me to a knee. It burrows down, digging deeper inside my flesh then is yanked out.
Pivoting on my knee, I throw my arms in front of my face. Morrigan has my fireplace poker reared back and ready to swing.
“You could have at least behaved like a man. Even Macuil accepted his fate with dignity.” She motions for the two men to lower their weapons, the other one picking himself up.
“Leave him,” Mebeth says. “I have tests that need bodies.”
“No,” she says. “I’ve been waiting for years. He is mine.”
She begins to swing the poker, the claw end facing down and wet with my blood, as if she plans to open my head with it. Then it flies out of her hands as her right eye rockets from her head, followed by a large bloody chunk of her brain.
37
Henraek
The three cosantas stand staring at Morrigan’s prone body, a burnt-red halo blooming from her skull over Walleus’s carpet. Mebeth crouches on the ground with his hands covering his head. I vault up onto the sill and tuck my face behind my arm before hurling myself through the cracked window. I land on my shoulder, reopening the gunshot wound, and roll behind the couch for cover. Two shots whistle over my head. Back against the couch, I risk a glance around the corner and see a fat pill bug in a linen suit lying on its side, grunting and clutching his leg.
“Get out of there, Walleus!” Old habits.
He rolls to his feet and launches himself at a cosanta, groaning again when they crash to the ground. I fire and clip one of them in the neck. He falls over the couch, gurgling and writhing on the floor. There’s a red smear across the couch that is no doubt going to really piss Walleus off.
“You demon.” I stand above Mebeth, my pistol floating inches from his nose. “You destroyed my wife. You knew everything about her and you preyed on her weakness.”
“Henraek.” He holds a palm out, as if it will stop a bullet. “You know there’s more to it. Nothing is ever as simple as it seems.”
Behind the couch, Walleus struggles with the man. They grunt, gasp as someone lands a heavy gut-punch. The man climbs to his knees, a massive feat with Walleus hanging on his back, and throws them both backward, smashing into the wall. As they fall to the ground and trade punches, chunks of plaster fall from the wall, leaving a large Walleus-shaped hole.
“I saw you in the memories. You ordered Aífe dead. Why?” I crack the butt of the pistol on the crown of his head. He crumples. “What did she do?”
“You of all people should know how damaged memories can be.” He looks up at me, a rivulet of blood winding down his forehead. “Concho Louth.”
“What?”
“The goal he scored. You said you played with your son in the park.”
“I didn’t say a thing to you about my son.”
“Every rebel recounts it as a magnificent strike off his chest, a feat of athleticism. But he stumbled and it deflected off him. It was luck.”
“It doesn’t matter.” I set the pistol against the bridge of his nose.
“Did you actually watch it happen, or did you reenact it so many times that it became real?” He swallows, his eyes looking past the barrel up at me. “How do you know?”
“You can’t rewrite someone’s past to your liking.” My voice cracks when I yell.
“Your friend Walleus might not agree.”
Something slams into the side of me, my vision splintering as my head hits the wall. I roll aside as the cosanta brings his fist down and breaks through the plaster. Before I can get to my feet, he throws himself at me again. We tumble backward, my hand stuck beneath me, my pistol out of reach. There’s a click, then the door slams. Mebeth. I should have shot him when I had the chance. The cosanta’s thumb searches for my eye but I bite as hard as I can, and when he yanks his hand back, he’s thrown far enough off-balance that I can right myself.
Arms poised and legs crouched, we face each other like ancient wrestlers, waiting for the other to make the first wrong move. He feints with an arm but I’m not fooled, so he dives for my knees. I come down with an elbow on his spine. The whoosh of breath leaving him is tactile.
I wrap my legs around his waist and squeeze, rest his chin in the crook of my elbows and pull. His arms slash and beat on me but in this position he has no power. The thumps become slaps as the blood rushes from his head, breath leaves his lungs, unable to return. His gasps are throaty, slowly asphyxiating, and when I reposition my legs and give one last pull I feel the pop I’ve been waiting for, that holy space between his skull and his spine. His body falls limp, head lolling forward with no muscle control to keep it up. A small pool of urine forms at his waist, some of it soaking into Walleus’s carpet and some wetting my thigh. Head tipped forward, chin down, he will no longer be able to breathe, and with a severed spinal column nature will soon repossess his body.
I push him off and glance around the corner, pistol leveled, my shoulder throbbing. Walleus has the man in a front bear hug, crushing him like a boa constrictor. He shifts his weight and throws the man forward, raises a fireplace poker above his head, then drives it down with a scream that comes from some dark place deep inside him that men only hear before their death.
His back rises and falls in great heaves that slowly begin to calm. Rolling off the body, he sprawls across the carpet, hands resting over his face. His thigh is a deep, wet red, ragged strips of flesh and cloth in the middle. Blood speckles him. Beside him, the man’s face takes a severe dip where the fire poker has caved in his eyes. A gelatinous glob sticks to the handle.
Walleus cocks his head when he sees me, ignoring the pistol trained on him.
“I haven’t seen that uniform in a while,” he says, then shakes his head. “You’ve put on weight.”
“You are not the one to talk about weight.”
“This is true.”
“Where is Donael?”
He pushes himself up to his feet. “Henraek.”
Something washes over me. I don’t know if it’s closure, acceptance, or hatred. I don’t know what separates them.
“I know you have him. I saw you in the kitchen with him.” My finger caresses the trigger, the barrel inches from his face. “I saw Aífe and Mebeth. I know she told them everything. I know you took my son.”
“Henraek.”
“How did you do it?” I lower the pistol, raise it. “How did you look at me every day at work, at the bar, at coffee, and keep a straight face, knowing every night that I mourned my son he slept in your house? How does someone do that?”
“Don’t play martyr, Henraek. You weren’t a great father when he was around anyway.”
“But I am his father. I could have changed, made myself better. He should have been with me.”
“Put that gun down. You’re not going to shoot me.”
“Not until you answer.”
He sighs like he has so many things to contend with and I am the last of his priorities. I see him crawling beside me in fields, hunched over a table full of maps in the back room of the Parkhead, holding me up at the memorial we had for Aífe, dressing me in Tathadann civvies on leaving the prison, pulling me up off the bar every year on Donael’s birthday.
“I did feel bad. Those first couple weeks after Aífe died, after everything went sideways, I felt terrible. I actually cried once.”
“Don’t give me your sob story.”
“I saw it was wrecking you but I did it because it was the right thing to do for him,” he says. “I know you won’t admit it, but he was better off here. He had food. He was safe. He could go to school and become more than we ever did.”
“I could have provided that.” I shift the gun to my left hand, set it between his eyes. My right hand hangs at my waist. “He should have been with his father.”
And he gives me the knowing smile that has made everyone he’s ever come in contact with want to bust out his teeth with a hammer, gives it to me bigger than I have ev
er seen it before.
“Henraek, he was with his father.”
His words echo through the air, morphing, twisting, splintering. The room crumbles quietly around me. I blink, and I blink, and I blink. He opens his mouth to say something and I hear blood roaring through my skull.
I drop the gun and lunge at him, swinging my right hand up. The needle pricks his temple, slides in as silent as the breath between his lips. His eyes open wide, shocked, staring at me.
I remember watching those eyes light up as we neared the power substation, zigzagging a whole platoon of men through a field and razor wire. Clear liquid dribbles into the vial.
“You liar,” I say to him, my breath crashing against his face. “You duplicitous, lying, conniving snake.”
I remember seeing those eyes glass over as he stood on a makeshift altar on the patio of Liella’s favorite restaurant, some place that made great meatballs and was later razed as an early warning to dissenters, as Liella stood resplendent beside him in a handmade wedding gown, he in a suit with a bowtie that had taken us twenty minutes to figure out how to tie. The vial hits the halfway mark, the years he held my son – my son – the moment he abandoned the Struggle, all of the answers to my questions coming to me.
“I would have died for you a hundred times. I’d stand in front of a hundred bullets to save you.” His eyelids flutter, lips quiver and seize. My hands tremble. “I would have forgiven you, you stupid son of a bitch. I would have understood but you lied to me, over and over. Were you ever honest with me? Even once?” My throat is scratchy and I didn’t realize I’ve been yelling. A wave of tears rips through my throat. “This was not how it was supposed to go. You were going to be my inside man. You were going to work with me, like we used to, like when we had something to fight for, like when we were happy. You lied to me then you abandoned me.” My voice cracks as I scream into his face that’s quickly going blank.
