by Alex Leopold
It was like tapping, but an average rounder anomaly could tap across a room. A broadcaster, with their focused ability, could tap from one side of the nation to the other.
At desk one, the Irenic’s chair was empty as this broadcaster’s role was to receive emergency transmissions from the capital. Axanthic couldn't remember the last time this metropole had received any such messages, which was why he almost fell out of his chair when the anomaly picked up her pencil and began to write.
The second she was finished he grabbed the scrap of paper and began reading, his face now sweating with nervous energy.
“What is it?” One of the Irenics asked, watching him intently.
“The gateway needs to be made ready, immediately!” Axanthic said passing him the message and telling him to go directly to the old library where the portal machine was housed. “Tell them they have ten minutes! No more!”
Grabbing his own coat, Axanthic left the old church and raced across the yard toward the sheriff's mansion.
In another lifetime the yard had been a freshly cut lawn where trees and rose bushes grew. Now it was nothing more than a muddy swamp where deep pools of water collected in the network of trenches dug by the town's residents during the last days of the Directory’s attack. Much of the stonework in the surrounding buildings still bore the shell pockmarks from that final battle.
Banging his fist on the door of the sheriff's mansion till someone opened it, Axanthic found himself face-to-face with a man wearing a red hood and visor.
It was a drone.
“Eight-Two-Five.” Axanthic said, reading the three numbers on the drone’s hood. “Tell the Sheriff, Irenic Axanthic needs to speak with him.”
“He's having his dinner.” The drone's lifeless voice replied.
Axanthic shoved the message into the drone's hand. “Tell him in eight minutes the Archon’s finest ten Myrmidons will be coming through the portal. Tell him Control is coming.”
14
Buttoning his coat and straightening his uniform, Sheriff Tuatura of Metropolitan Twenty-Eight – a scaley with a beak-shaped head – dashed up the steps of the Widener Library and brushed past the armed guards holding the thick steel doors open.
Suffering from centuries of neglect the once impressive building could now only hint at its previous majesty. No one was alive to remember a time when the pillars along its colonnade weren't cracked and exposing metal rods holding them in place, or when the floor-to-ceiling windows weren't bricked up. Nor could anyone recall when the decorative finishings and marble paneling inside hadn't been stripped bare by looters, and the walls stained black from a thousand cooking fires. This was all anyone thought of the place today though.
Inside a boy was ringing a hand-bell and counting down the time till the gateway had to be ready. They had just over a minute.
“Is the portaller inside?” Tuatura asked one of the guards when he reached the second set of thick steel doors.
“He’s coming now.” Standing behind a metal bucket that was quickly collecting rainwater from a crack in the ceiling, the guard gestured toward a set of stairs that led down to the basement. Half-marched, half-dragged by two ratty looking guards, the crumpled form of a man appeared.
The portaller.
At Tuatura’s command, the second set of metal doors were pulled apart and the men groaned their disapproval when a rolling-cloud of muggy vapor poured out and enveloped them.
Damn this machine, the sheriff cursed as he pressed forward and ascended the stairs. The gateway needed steam power to drive the multiple wheels ringing the shell. At full rotation, the wheels magnified a portaller’s abilities a thousandfold and made it possible for him to create portals across a nation. This was all well and good, but it turned the chamber into a damn sauna.
The portal machine was a massive sphere, twenty-five feet in diameter and the men had spent weeks gutting the building in order to fit it inside.
“Open the shell!” Tuatura ordered as they crossed the gangway, his body disappearing as it passed through a jet of steam.
Nodding his head, one of the gateway operators pushed a lever and the two sections of the sphere separated.
In the center was an isolation tank, big enough to fit a man. The rest of the space was empty, but could accommodate as many as a hundred people if it had to.
Lowering himself from high above with bungee-pulleys, the senior operator, a bald and pasty looking man whose body emitted an acrid smell from being in such humid conditions, greeted everyone with a slap of his right-hand against his chest.
“Conformity and ob...”
“Tell me we’ll have the gateway ready in time?” The sheriff interrupted.
“We should have the machine running.” The operator said confidently but looked anything but.
The sheriff watched on as the other operators frantically scurried around above in an attempt to reset the machine. No one needed to be reminded it'd be all of their necks if they failed. The sheriff’s especially as he’d been using it illegally to make a little money on the side – all the metropole sheriffs did it.
“The transmission will come from Metropolitan Fifteen. Don’t mess this one up, Portaller.” Tuatura hissed at the man in rags as they stepped into the shell.
Inside, three operators were busy turning a hand-wheel to rotate the isolation tank so it faced the correct axis.
“If I only had more time to rest…” The portaller began but was cut-off when his worn cloak was stripped off him to reveal an emaciated body underneath.
Tuatura snatched a vial of green tonic from the senior operator’s belt and threw it to the portaller who reluctantly drank it.
“You’ll have plenty of time to rest when you’re dead.” The sheriff sniped.
The guards lowered the portaller’s body into the circular water tank.
“Which is what you’ll be if you don’t gets this right.” The sheriff added.
He stepped out of the shell and it closed behind him.
“Thirty seconds!” The young boy shouted.
Lying back in the isolation tank’s reclining bed so only his face was visible above the water’s surface, the portaller, Tipler was his name, tried to concentrate through his exhaustion. When was the last time he’d slept? He couldn’t remember. Pain and fatigue were the only constants in his life now.
“Ten seconds, Portaller.” The sheriff’s voice penetrated the water, as the wheels on the shell began to spin.
The senior could rot for all Tipler cared and he wished he could go back to the time when he’d been able to resist the Directory’s demands. They’d tried to break him and failed. Normalize him, but he was too old for it to stick. They’d almost reached the conclusion they were going to have to kill him when they captured his wife and children. That changed everything.
At five seconds the power was turned on and hundreds of bright, spidery electric volts leaped from four transmitters to the connectors along the shell. Inside the tank, Tipler placed his hand into a metal glove that connected him to the machine and pointed to the other metropole.
The young boy shouted, “Time.” And Tipler placed his free hand on a lever.
Somewhere a sand-glass would be rotated and a tank of salt water would start draining into the glass tubes that wrapped the shell. As they passed the connectors, the water would become electrified.
Tipler now had ninety seconds to bridge his gateway with its twin. If he failed it'd be hours before he had the strength to try again. Plenty of time for him to go to the broadcasting room and listen to the sounds of his family being beaten.
Closing his eyes, he forced himself to calm and felt the tonic and the machine magnify his abilities. Then he threw his mind into the big-black.
As he moved his consciousness west, closer to the intercept point, he felt his chest begin to squeeze and his mind start to ache. He was losing clarity and the portal would suffer because of it.
Pushing himself harder, he bridged the last hundred miles
and converged with the other portal. Pulling the lever, he released the second tank, which flowed around the shell and turned it into a ball of multi-colored light.
In that instant, both shells were one. Then, in a burst of steam, the machine announced the transmission was complete.
“Open the shell!” The sheriff ordered.
When the two ends came apart, a wave of tightly packed ravens rushed out of the shell and drove the sheriff off his feet.
As the ravens flew out into the night, Tuatura picked himself. He had to move quickly or trampled by the eleven figures in black riding out on horseback. One was Sekhem, the other ten, Myrmidons.
Quickly, he attempted to blend into the wall beside the senior operator who looked positively terrified. Who could blame him, in a society run on fear, the Myrmidons elicited a whole new level of terror.
“Which one of you is the Sheriff?” One of the Myrmidons asked as he directed his horse across the gangway.
When he passed beneath a suspended lamp, his reflective mask turned a shade of red. This was the one they called Control, Tuatura realized.
“Conformity and obedience!” He said slapping his chest and stepping forward tentatively.
Control nudged his mount in Tuatura’s direction and the horse came so close to where he was standing the sheriff could feel its warm breath on his face.
“Tell your officers to round up every man, woman and child in the city and bring them to the Old Yard for questioning.”
“Did you say, everyone?” Tuatura was sure he hadn’t heard the Myrmidon correctly.
In response to the sheriff’s hesitation, one of the Myrmidons leaped from his horse and quickly approached him. As Tuatura was already backed against the wall there was nowhere for him to go when the Myrmidon's hand shot-out to grip his throat.
“Your orders were simple.” The Myrmidon hissed. “Get everyone in this rat hole into the Old Yard immediately, including you. Understand that?”
Tuatura felt the strength of the man's hand around his neck. He held him so easily, so precisely, he was sure the Myrmidon had done this a thousand times before. If he wanted to, he could crush Tuatura's windpipe in a matter of seconds, psychic abilities or no psychic abilities.
“I understand.” The sheriff managed gasping to speak.
“When is your next transmission through the whispering network?” Control continued, his voice calm as if nothing were amiss.
“Nine o’clock tonight.” The sheriff replied meekly as he tenderly massaged his neck.
“Tell our informers the reward for any crink they bring in just tripled.”
“What’s happening?” The sheriff asked running alongside Control’s horse as he rode out the library and into the night. “Does this concern the runaway Irenic?"
Nakano was her name, Tuatura remembered.
“Yes.” Control said from his mount. “And we know she came through this way.”
15
Nakano was only alerted to the ghostback's presence a second before the giant wolf appeared. It raced out of the dark forest and was about to attack her when it stopped short, suddenly confused.
With few options available she’d shadowed herself and her horse from the beast. It was an invisibility trick which worked by swaying the mind into disbelieving its senses so that your presence became nothing more than an apparition.
Sniffing the earth to try and regain her scent, the ghostback – one of the smaller colossals – repeatedly shook its head to try and clear its mind as if it knew something was wrong. Unlike people, animals – especially predators – were all natural instinct, and for this reason were harder to deceive.
If only she could communicate with the wolf through the tuning, she thought. Then she could order the beast to leave her be. Unfortunately, that anamoly power was a rare ability which she did not possess.
The wolf continued to circle her and she could feel it becoming harder to sway. Her fragile mind was failing her and soon the illusion would be broken. Before that happened she had to lure the wolf away.
Carefully she pushed a thought into its head that it had picked up another scent no more than a mile away. For a moment the colossal hesitated. Then as quickly as it arrived it was gone.
Nakano shivered, as much from the cold of the night as from the sharp pain stabbing into her head. She was deteriorating fast. She needed to hurry. If she didn’t get to the Pathfinder soon, it might be too late.
Cooper’s father spoke quietly, his eyes mesmerized by the fire.
“Our time in the Borderlands is over. Now there’s a gateway in Harvardtown, it won’t be long before this place is swarming with Directory soldiers. Before they come, we need to be over the mountains to the north, and into the Great Unknown. It’s the only place we’ll be safe.”
“We should leave the souks immediately.” Mayat insisted. “We put ourselves at risk remaining here.”
Cooper looked at her in dismay. Why so soon? She’d waited her whole life to be here, surely they could give her one more day before they took her even further into the wilderness.
Thankfully, Acadia came to her rescue.
“As much as I’d like to agree with Whiskers here, we don't have all our supplies yet. One more day here maybe a risk, but a greater one would be to make the trip north without enough provisions. We could starve.”
“We stay one more day.” Her father agreed, then addressed Mayat.
“I need you to find out what Moloch knows. Specifically, if he suspects me.”
“I’ll be back at first light.” She said as she covered her face and hair with her head scarf.
“I’ll walk the perimeter.” Acadia stood and reached for his weapons. “The rest of you should get some rest.”
Cooper hadn’t said a word since her outburst and tried to follow Riley into their tent without catching her father’s eye. When she passed him, he called for her.
Turning on her heels, she took a step closer to the fire so he’d see the resentment on her face.
For a moment he said nothing and when she looked into his eyes, she thought she saw something she hadn't expected, regret. Immediately, she knew if he apologized she’d forgive him. She silently begged him to do it.
“Don’t forget you have the last watch of the night.” He finally said and looked at her critically.
“I’m yours to command, apparently.” She bristled and gave him a mock salute before marching away to her tent.
On the other side of the souk, Moloch’s men led Pickwick into a large tent where they found their leader staring spellbound into the fire. Pickwick made to step-forward and address the trapper but Moloch's men held him back and told him to wait until he was finished.
Finished with what, Pickwick wanted to ask, but he’d already learned these men asked the questions, not the other way around.
As he watched the fire, the trapper leader jotted something down into a notepad on his lap.
“You have a crink for me?” Moloch asked eventually after snapping out of whatever trance he’d been in.
Pickwick did his best to smile humbly.
“Not one. I have three.”
16
A strict curfew meant the hours before daybreak were usually a quiet time in Harvardtown. This morning however, was an exception. Still more than an hour before sunrise a large open square in the center of the city known as the Old Yard was alive with activity. Surrounded by lit gas lamps and dozens of armed guards, every citizen in Harvardtown stood silently in long lines waiting to be questioned by the Squeaks.
Women and men, the young and old, the healthy and the sick. There were no exceptions. Everyone was going to have their turn. The lucky ones were sent back out into the night to re-join the line and wait. The unlucky were dragged into a nearby building. That's where the Myrmidons were waiting. So far many had entered, none had left.
Standing on the building’s roof, Control kept a detached coolness from what was going on below his feet, preferring instead to monitor
everything using his telepathic abilities. He was aware of every line of questioning, every beating and every cry for help, and felt neither pity nor remorse for those being tortured under his orders. In fact, he felt nothing except a rising irritation; it had been over eight hours since he’d arrived in the city and so far his men had uncovered nothing as to the location of the runaway Irenic, Nakano.
He wanted results and if he didn’t get anything soon he'd be forced to use more extreme measures. He’d burnt a city down before to find a traitor and was prepared to do it again.
Stepping out onto the roof, an aide of the sheriff's called-out and disrupted his thoughts.
“A message from Sancisco, Senior.” The young Irenic announced.
In his gloved hand was a folded piece of paper and he bowed his head as he held it out.
“Did you read it?” Control asked calmly from behind his mask, making no move to accept the message. Instead, he kept his eyes trained on the Old Yard and his hands locked behind his back.
The aide blinked back his shock.
“Senior…” He stammered. “I’d never…”
“Read a private message? Of course you would.” The Myrmidon remained still and all the Irenic could see were the fires reflection dancing on his mask.
“I give you my word.” The aide said.
“Then how is it by reading your mind I know the Watcher wants to inform me that one of her better predictors sensed something important is about to happen?”
The aide tried to stammer out a response but Control held up a finger to silence him and the Irenic found he could no longer part his lips to speak.
“This is my fault.” He continued. “My men and I had no reason to come to this metropole before, so you’ve never had the chance to properly meet us. Allow me to correct that mistake.”
He removed his mask and gloves and placed them in his coat pocket. The aide’s face went wide with shock when he discovered the most ruthless killer in the Directory was only in his twenties.
