by J. Stone
“Then it’s true?” she asked after him. “Empress Mary Elizabeth is… dead?”
“I am afraid so, Operative,” he answered. “Get your rest. You will be needed very soon.”
Chapter 3. Vincent’s Recovery
It all came in the form of quick flashes. The darkness of the cave after its collapse. Cassie desperately digging through the debris and rubble. The light of day, as she dragged him outside and strapped him to Polly. He remembered his arm felt heavy. The second bullet had managed to lodge near the former injury, and he could barely feel his hand as the blood trickled off his fingertips. Then nothing--until the pain came. Just above his elbow where sensation still survived, a blade sliced through skin, muscle, and bone. Dr. Chester Hooke stood over him, a mask covering his face, cursing the bounty hunter for bringing him more trouble. Vincent awoke only long enough to experience the agony of his limb’s amputation beginning, and then he faded once again into the void of unconsciousness.
In the days since, he had faded in and out. He endured a spiking fever, sweating bullets into a rock hard bed. He knew he was still in Chrome City, and through the haze, he’d worked out that Cassie had got him to Dr. Hooke. He had only seen flashes of them both, but he knew they had taken care of him following the cave in. Part of him wished that he had simply perished in there, that the bullet in his gut had done too much damage. He didn’t think he could face Cassie again after what had happened.
His mind wandered in the darkness. The cave in was not the first time that Vincent and Cassie had been trapped in a mine like that. Pretending that they were explorers, the two children had decided to delve into one of the abandoned mines around Chrome City, and they eventually found themselves lost within its labyrinthine tunnels. The young boy lost his wits and panicked. If he had maintained his composure, perhaps things would have turned out differently. Maybe Cassie would not have had to leave Chrome City for the empire’s capital. They could have continued to grow up in that miner’s town, and he would have had a friend for the rest of his childhood. If he’d only protected her like he knew was his responsibility. Instead, she attempted to lead the pair back through the winding paths to the light of day. Cassie lost her footing, and she tumbled down through an open mine shaft leading almost straight down.
Her body was twisted and broken from the fall. He couldn’t reach her from where he was, and she had been knocked unconscious. He wasn’t even sure she had survived the fall. Vincent managed to make his way out of the mine and find Cassie’s father, bringing him back to where she had tripped. After the accident, Cassie slipped into a coma. The doctors in Chrome City didn’t have the specialization to help her, so she was taken back to Cultwick in hopes that they could revive her there. Vincent didn’t hear word of her treatment for many years, but he eventually learned that she had indeed survived the accident and had awoken from the coma. Until he had wound up in her adult home, he had not contacted her again. The guilt he felt toward the accident had forced him to keep his distance. He simply found himself unwilling or unable to face his childhood friend once again. Though he was now an adult and had grown to deal with his role in her injury, Vincent could not do away with those feelings. He had overcompensated for his failure by insisting he could protect Cassie and her husband from the debt collecting Graham Mining Company that had enslaved them both. If the childhood failure had been hard on him, he knew that the second one would break him. In the darkness of his mind, he wished to sleep and hide from the truth. He would not be so lucky.
Vincent finally awoke with a clear head, as a ray of early morning sunshine pierced a window and came to rest on his face. His head throbbed and his throat was dry. Immediately, he recognized the pain in both his abdomen and where his arm used to be. Bandages covered both wounds, and he found himself wearing naught but underpants and a tossed aside blanket. He knew that he had been on the mend for quite some time, but he couldn’t tell exactly how long it had been. The room was cold, but the prolonged fever was still causing him to sweat uncomfortably. The usual stubble on his face had grown into an unintentional beard, and his skin and messy, brown hair both felt greasy from days of neglect.
Groaning, the bounty hunter sat up, leaned against the cold wall, and inspected the room. He refused to acknowledge or even look at his missing limb and had to roll himself to the side to get upright. He swung his legs to the side of the bed, holding his remaining hand over his bandaged stomach wound. His toes were bare and met the rough wood of the doctor’s ramshackle floor beneath them. The room was rather small and looked to be an extension of a larger building. Aside from the bed, there was scarce furniture adorning the room, but he saw his clothes hanging from a coat rack near the closed door. The one item that did catch his eye was a dresser on the opposite wall that had an open bottle of whiskey sitting atop it.
He had an instant thirst for the drink. Grimacing through the pain in his gut, Vincent raised himself from the lumpy bed, but only found himself tumbling forward. His strength had left him, and he couldn’t even manage to catch himself as he slammed into the floor. The bounty hunter felt something tear in his stomach, and his bandages slowly turned red, soaking up the blood. His lip had smacked against the wood flooring, and he could taste the warm, metallic blood flowing into his mouth. Vincent managed to roll over onto his back where he put pressure on his gut wound in an unsuccessful attempt to quell the pain.
From the adjoining room, he heard some commotion, and shortly thereafter Cassie rushed into his room. She appeared to have been sleeping as well and wore a set of dark tan long johns. Her curly, orange hair was tied up over her head, and she held a complicated expression of disappointment, sadness, relief, and anger across her face.
“You’ve opened your stitches,” she said, kneeling at his side.
“I’m fine,” he replied, sitting up and attempting to continue working his way toward the dresser and the bottle that sat atop it.
“You’re an idiot is what you are,” she berated him. “What the hell were you doing?”
He managed to get to the dresser, propping himself against it and eyeing the bottle above. She traced his line of vision and frowned at his act. Reaching up, on top of the dresser, he exhaustively grabbed the bottle. Vincent raised the whiskey to his lips, but when nothing came out, he scowled at the empty bottle.
“You’re pathetic,” she said. “You’re no good to me like this.”
“Then get me a drink,” he replied, resting against the dresser and dropping the empty bottle at his side.
“That’s not what you need… Damnit, now I have to go wake up Dr. Hooke, so you don’t bleed out.” Cassie left him leaning into the uncomfortable furniture, as she went back into the other room.
The bounty hunter sat there, holding the now quite bloody wound and breathing deeply. He must have passed out again, because the next thing he recalled, he was back in the bed with a fresh bandage wrapped around his abdomen. A disapproving Cassie sat in a chair next to the foot of the bed staring at the injured bounty hunter. She was now dressed for the day, and his eyes met hers, but he was not ready for them. He allowed them to next wander over to where he had last seen the whiskey, hoping that there might be a fresh bottle. He was not so lucky, however, and Cassie stood up, making her way into his field of vision.
“I didn’t save you just so you could sink into the bottom of a bottle,” she informed him.
“Then why the hell did you save me?” he asked.
“I pulled your ass out of that mine, so you could help me get the revenge I’m owed,” Cassie answered.
Vincent held up his stump of an arm for her to see. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
“The doc says that they could grow a new limb for you back in Cultwick,” she explained.
“I’m not letting no damn biojunker inject me with any of their twisted serums,” he replied.
“Fine, then have a chromesmith build you a mechanical one,” Cassie said. “Vincent, this isn’t the end. I need your help. Th
ose bastards deserve to pay.”
The bounty hunter shook his head. “Maynard was working for Viola Arkmast, the empress’ daughter. He’s too powerful. Give it up.”
“She’s the empress now actually,” she corrected him.
“And what? That’s supposed to make things easier?” he asked.
“No, just thought you should know what I’m asking,” Cassie replied. “And it’s not just him. That son of a bitch Graham is the one who started all this.”
“Damn it, Cassie,” Vincent said. “I’d be hesitant to go after them if I was in perfect health. As it is…”
“They killed my husband!” Cassie shouted kicking the chair backwards with the heel of her foot. “They killed my Felix. I’m going to do this with or without you. I just thought I could count on you when I needed your help.”
She stormed out of the room, slamming the door closed as she went. Instantly, he was filled with guilt over what might happen to her. He fought himself futilely, knowing that ultimately he would have to give in and help her. The bounty hunter thought back on what had happened to her the last time he failed to protect her, and he couldn’t let that come to pass again.
Grimacing, he tossed his legs to the side of the bed and prepared to follow Cassie. If she were intent on proceeding with such a foolhardy task, he would make sure she wasn’t alone. Using the bed frame to sturdy himself, Vincent rose from its surface with a grunt to accompany the sidesplitting pain. Bracing himself on whatever he could, Vincent stumbled across the small room and opened the door.
It exited out into an open living area that Cassie had been staying in. Doctor Hooke was nowhere to be seen, and his childhood friend was standing nearby, angrily packing her things into a suitcase. Silent and spurned tears streaked down her face despite what seemed her best intention. She had lost so much, and he didn’t know how to help her. Every instinct in the bounty hunter’s body knew that assisting her in her endeavor of revenge would only end poorly, but he simply didn’t possess the will power or emotional capacity to help heal her loss. So, he did what he knew.
“I’ll help,” he reluctantly said, leaning slanted in the doorframe, trying to catch his breath.
Cassie stopped packing but didn’t look toward him.
“We’ll make them pay for what they’ve done,” he added.
Still, she said nothing, but she looked up at him, her eyes wet from the tears. She looked as broken inside, as he was out. Cassie wrapped her arms around him and allowed herself to cry. The pain in his gut was nearly unbearable, but after what he had allowed to happen to her, he would suffer through it. He knew it right then; his guilt would be the death of him.
Chapter 4. Viola’s Mother
They had always had something of a tenuous relationship, Viola and her late mother. The child had never been what the mother wanted despite near constant attempts at molding her. Viola had always had a free spirit not ready or willing to be shackled by the restraints of a life directed and controlled by the demands of leading an empire. Eventually, it seemed that Mary Elizabeth gave up on her daughter, and the two drifted further apart than could ever reasonably be mended. None of this seemed fit to be recited at the late empress’ funeral, however.
Viola sat on one of the pews, seated next to her loyal attendant and mother-like figure for much of her childhood, Kyra Etee. Viola wore simple black garb in honor of the occasion. Black dress. Black shoes. Black stockings. Black eyeliner and even black lipstick. Her hair, as well, was dark black and was tied behind her except for two strands on either side of her face that fell down nearly to her shoulders. The only colors offsetting her dark clothing was her pale skin and her orange necklace depicting a horned figure, one of the many members in the Vaseevoo’s pantheon of gods.
Kyra was dressed similarly to the empress, in a simple black dress with a jacket over top. Her long, curly hair was in a mound overhead, split down the center and falling to either side. Her eyes were dark brown, and she wore hooped, golden earrings from either ear. Around her neck was draped a rope necklace with a simple glass sphere hanging below it.
Though Viola’s mother’s will stipulated that the ceremony take place in the Anointed Temple, Viola decided that church was quite simply unfit for such an event at the time. Fiona’s attack had left the main chamber splattered with the blood and gore of the worshipers there that evening. Viola had ordered the area to undergo quarantine while they cleansed and disinfected all of the biological material from the temple. She was not eager to open the facility back up either, as she hoped to stifle the growth of the church in her empire as much as possible. She was, however, bound to follow the instructions left behind by her mother as best she could.
Instead of holding the funeral at the ruined temple, she had her attendants set up the large ball room on the second floor to hold the event. Pews were lined up facing toward a small podium, behind which they had placed the former empress’ casket. The coffin itself had been custom built for Mary Elizabeth many years prior in preparation for this day. The gaudy box was made of a rich, dark wood harvested from tall trees that only grew in the swamp regions of Targeaux. Adorning the casket were intricate filigree decorations in metals of various colors, all of which were quite rare and valuable. The box, Viola thought, suited her mother perfectly--beautiful on the outside and utterly hollow within.
Even now, the coffin was empty. Whether it had been a final act of defiance or legitimately the best course of action, even Viola was uncertain. She had ordered that her mother’s body be burned, out of fear that the infection might still be within her blood. She had commanded the same of all the other bodies that had perished from the Carrier Plague, and her mother would prove to be no exception.
Situated atop and beside the bodiless casket, were a bounty of beautiful and exotic flower arrangements that had been shipped in from across the known world. Perhaps most disturbing to the young empress, a giant, hand-painted portrait of her mother hung from the wall behind the coffin. The painting had been commissioned when Mary Elizabeth was many years younger, and Viola could hardly recognize the image as depicting her mother. The woman she had come to know had long since lost the spark of beauty she once had. Rather than gracefully growing into her age, she had attempted to cling to her youth through biological implants, surgeries, and experimental tonics that her scientists and doctors concocted for her. Viola always felt that the outcome was quite opposite of her mother’s intention, but the former empress didn’t seem to have any such reservations.
If he hadn’t perished during Fiona’s slaughter, the lord reverend, Hugh Blackmoore, would have spoken at the funeral. Within the short time since his death, the church had already appointed a new man to take up the mantle. Elias Salem was several years younger than his predecessor, which still made him some time past ancient by Viola’s counting. If there was one thing that the Church of Biosynthesis had proven themselves capable of, it was dragging out the natural lifespan. The results were obvious but fairly frightening to behold. The empress believed that they had not yet perfected youth in needle form.
Salem’s skin was pale, nearly to the point of translucence, and his hair remained only in the most technical of terms. White, straw-like strands clung desperately from his scalp, matted over his head, while short bristles protruded from his upper lip and chin. His coal-colored eyes were sunken deep into his skull, but his nose and ears had failed to halt their growth. Simply put, the man looked beyond death. Viola was sure whatever twisted concoctions his zealous transcribers had dreamed up, Salem had eagerly injected himself with. There was no telling what flowed through his decrepit veins.
The new lord reverend orated about something or other, but Viola was disinclined to listen to his blathering. Being in that place, surrounded by those religious people reminded her of her childhood. When her father yet lived, the family attended daily ceremonies held by the church. Both her parents had been deeply involved in the church and encouraged Viola to attend as well. She realized that it wasn’t
until her father’s death that she began to drift away from the church. Viola was grateful that she had never made it to the age when one was expected to undergo the baptism, while he lived. She was certain that if he had survived, Viola would have met with such a fate.
Following his death, however, Viola found herself in a very dark place. Her mother quickly became the enemy, and the young girl had to turn to other sources for comfort in her mourning. Because of her mother’s noninvolvement or outright hostility, Viola came to embrace her handmaiden, Kyra, as a surrogate mother figure. Forcefully brought from Targeaux as slave labor when she herself was but a child, Kyra served in the Sovereign Tower, assisting the royal family with their every need.
Raised in the city of Bogne, Kyra was taught the island nation’s practice of Vaseevoo, a spiritualistic religion that worshiped a pantheon of gods and practiced arcane rituals. Seen as barbaric and primitive by the elitist culture in Cultwick, the customs had long since been outlawed within the empire. Kyra, however, never quit practicing the religion, performing the ancient rites in secret.
As a child, Viola interrupted her handmaiden in one such ceremony. Had Viola uttered one word of what she had seen that day, Kyra would have been sentenced to a swift death. Not only did she not reveal this secret, she actually embraced the religion, asking Kyra to teach her its practices. Though it took some convincing, Kyra eventually agreed to teach the young girl about Vaseevoo.
Even from a young age, she knew that there was something different about the practice. Something forbidden, secret, and shrouded. Through the precise art of its conjuration, Viola was able to make things happen. She could make people do what she wanted. She could change the fundamental properties of things. She’d even managed to bring life where there was none. Everything started so small, but over the years, Viola had learned to harness the power at an enormous scale. Because of this hubris, she found herself in her present condition. If she’d known the consequences of destroying all of Fiona’s feral remnants, perhaps she would have made another decision, but she was where she had positioned herself.
