Blood On Borrowed Wings: A Dark Fantasy Thriller (24 page)

We are the frenzied throes of battle,

The cold silence of the tomb.

The potency of death’s rattle,

The heart beat in the womb.

We must each defend our castle;

We must each give up our room.

Vanguard - The First Slayer Fallen

Magglius Pyke

The days running up to the funeral were a blur of paperwork, introspection, arrangements, evasive manoeuvres and more paperwork. I kept changing the places I stayed in every night, sometimes checking in and out on the same day. I paid with credits. I slept. I left. I arranged, I varied, I was unpredictable and inconsistently late, and twice, had cancelled as I had not been satisfied that the venue was safe.

I kept moving.

The day before the funeral I retrieved my bag from its hiding place beneath the eight steps at the rear of my apartment building where I had stowed it before I had climbed up into my helpful neighbour’s apartment. That was the closest I had been to my place, my old life, since Newt.

I varied routines, planned and let the military take care of the formalities associated with a Slayer passing on. My brother’s modest estate could burn with him for all I cared. I had no right to it. No one did.

In the quieter times, in the faceless rooms on shapeless mattresses, I lay and tried to piece together some form of eulogy for him. It was custom at Slayer funerals for a family member to lead the service, along with a brother in arms. I ticked both boxes.

I did not want it to speak to the Mudhead masses, or the Slayer Vanguard or media. Nor did I want it to be sentimental or mawkishly familial, droning on about childhood memories and about the time when blah, blah, blah.

I wanted it to be personal, like I was speaking to him.

The way I figured it, the best way to do that would be to wait until the day and just do that. Speak to him.

I threw the notebook in the bin.

I looked at the time.

Late.

Perfect.

I grabbed my bag, credit and clothes and left through the motel’s bathroom window. I needed to inform someone personally of his passing, and though it could be a risk, and a big one, I owed the Doc that.

I owed my brother that.

Wakes follow lives as they follow boats;

From small waves to wash; of what came before.

Leaving ripples that dwindle; like man’s lost hopes,

From memories, to nothing, but mud on the shore.

The Internal; External

 
Urquhart Drixl

I got through the door, after the usual question and answer routine and took a seat in his most comfortable chair.

‘Coffee?’ asked Doc.

‘Why not,’ I said. It was not a question. ‘And bring your book through, I’ve got something important to tell you.’

His expression changed. ‘The drinks can wait.’ He stood, leaning in the kitchen doorway, ‘My memory may be shot, literally and metaphorically, but concern for my friends has not diminished along with it. Now, what is wrong, Drake? Huh?’

‘Write this down,’ I said. My tone was flat. I just wanted to get the words out.

He took a pen from a mug without a handle.

‘Newt, my brother, Newton Theron, is dead.’

He wrote it down. Then looked up at me. Then back down at the page, then back up at me. Then I saw something flash across his face, like a thundercloud a hundred miles up casting a shadow over a green field filled with sunshine.

I knew in my heart that it was recognition, an elusive memory illumination.

Then it was gone.

I did not know what I had hoped for, but at least there was no uncomfortable silence or feigned sympathy; for me, there was nothing worse than that.

I wondered how many more times I would have to tell him.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I…’

‘I know,’ I said.

We sat in his room, shared the quiet that unspoken sentiments allow between good friends; true friends.

‘Tea?’ asked Doc.

‘Tea would be fine.’ I said.

‘And a massive favour.’

Maternity Malleability Morality Mortality Morbidity Mortuary Moribundity.

Life Equations and Universal Patterns of Uniqueness.

Ripley Anderton

The Lowlands church was a stoic lump of grey stone streaked with indeterminable blackness so it appeared smoke damaged and crisp at the edges. There were lines still visible, etched deep in the stone attesting that the church’s construction dated back many centuries to when stone was not machine turned, but had been hewn with tools, manual skill and belligerence. High peaked windows, arches and gnarly pediments sat atop flaking pilasters and friezes, that gave the building a gravitas that only time and genuine wear could. It was as much a part of the landscape as the bedrock it stood on. I went through the side door and into the entrance hall off to the side of the nave.

A vacuous woman greeted me on reception with a real grin from behind a fake but ornate desk. Such ostentation in a funereal setting seemed wrong. Then I realised I was fixating on everything but the task in hand and nodded, and said I was the family member and ex-Slayer here to lead my brothers funeral.

‘I know who you are,’ she said. ‘My thoughts...’

I did not hear the rest of her sentence as I made my way to the waiting room marked ‘Family and Brethren.’

‘The others can join you in there,’ the receptionist shouted after me, this time determined to be heard.

‘There are no others,’ I said and closed the heavy door behind me.

The room smelled of past times. There were two overstuffed armchairs at one end and a long sofa took up the bulk of the space under the picture window. I dropped my piece of paper onto the occasional table adjacent to it and went over to view the scene outside. A crowd was starting to amass. A sea of hats and epaulets undulated in throngs and waves, uniforms from all facets of the Edgelands’ Guard, winged and Groundbound. I saw one man laugh then get chided by his commanding officer. Two children coursed circles around the crowds of mourners, squealing and giggling. The sound was muffled through the glass and the fustiness of the room. It sounded far away like an echo from my childhood. Perhaps. It stirred something. I smiled and remembered my brother.

The suit I wore was new, I had not had the inclination or stupidity to try and go back to my apartment and collect any of my old items of clothing. I owned nothing from my previous life in uniform either; a tattoo and scars being the only thing I sported from those days. Still the clothes were uncomfortable, like I had been shoehorned into a straitjacket, as if that would keep me here, keep me serious and dutiful, help me go through the motions and black syrup of the day. It would have to do.

I was not concerned that someone would try to kill me here; there were so many police, military and media people present that I felt reasonably secure. Even so, my crossbow was strapped inside my jacket pocket, just in case.

I had a concern far greater: that no words would come. From the waiting room’s table a blank piece of paper stared up at me; a monstrous white expanse, testament to my selfishness and ineptitude. I would disappoint everyone again.

I felt empty, like I had just turned up expecting a surprise party and found the room deserted. There was a bad, acrid taste in my mouth and though the pain in my head had subsided, my brain felt too full of noise and tiredness. I wanted the funeral over. I wanted to blink, open my eyes and be the other side of this calamitous convention. I scooped up the blank piece of paper, crumpled it, then stuffed it into my inside pocket. It seemed to me that dying was always a personal thing; but death, and all this calculated, orchestrated aftermath is for everyone else.

Maybe death should be seen as a tender mercy: the ultimate relief from the weight of living.

There was a knock at the door.

‘It’s time,’ someone said.

Stoic faced to icy wind,

The frost of my grief to rescind.

Respite from the blizzard of woe,

To the sagging oak; that once swayed and grinned

Now buckled at the weight of snow.

Noise In the Quiet of My Writing Room

Erik Bande

‘So, here you all are.’ My voice bounced off the high church walls, amplified by the curves and pillars with a booming, echoing resonance that seemed fitting for the occasion.

The occasion.

I was still thinking about it as if it were happening to someone else.

‘Here you all are,’ I said again.

Someone fidgeted nervously amidst the sea of unfamiliar faces. A cough was stifled. Shoes were looked at.
           
I tapped a finger on the empty lectern and deliberately took my time before talking again.

‘People never deal with death directly, do they? They skirt around it and apply the abstract or whimsical to dilute it, to keep it distant.’ All faces were blank, like a sea of white, cold marbles, staring back.

‘But despite what you say...He is not in a better place. He is not looking down at me. He does not live on in my heart. There are memories but those are things past. There will be nothing new from Newt.’

People shifted uncomfortably. I heard a murmur at the back of the church.

 
‘Does fear for our own mortality make us inept at facing death? Do we feel the need to cloak it in mystery and words and wilting flowers until it loses all meaning? Do I really need to stand up here, in front of you today, and wax lyrical about the grand scheme of things? About how life and death has meaning? About all the good things he did, the brave things he did, but never the bad ones? About that time when he sprayed my wings pink or made me laugh so hard, beer came out my nose? Do I? Do I?’

No response.

I gripped the lectern with both hands, leaned forward and lowered my voice. I did not consider anyone else as I spoke and spoke freely. People moved around suddenly uncomfortable in their seats. Marbles.

‘Do you know the only person I care about in this room?'

No response.

‘Me. Have you any idea of the freedom and luxury that affords me today? That I can say what I want, exactly what I want, without fear of recourse or risk of upsetting someone dear or close?’

Bleecker was staring at me from the first row, shaking his head very slowly. He looked sad.

‘Don’t,’
he mouthed.

Maybe there were two people in the room I cared about.

I raised my voice.

‘They say Newt was dead before he hit the ground, but I think that is a lie. Did not the ground rush up to meet him as it does us all? Are we not, being the centres of our own universe, the stable sun at that centre and all extraneous forces and variables mere planets around us, caught in our orbit about our bright star?’

I felt something choking and thick in my throat but I kept going.

‘Does not our gravity pull Nimbus up to meet us?’ There was total silence as my question died away into the stone.

‘It is Nimbus, not ourselves, that is the wrecking ball. Just as it is the ground that kills us, not the fall.’

I stepped away from the lectern and left the church.

I had work to do.

Cremate into dust all of your possessions.

Bludgeon faith and religion with crosses of clay.

Forget the trivial, and your seedy obsessions,

Familial obligations, cast away.

You are enrolled, and not for your brothers,

You are ancient. Iron. And copper. And stone.

Cold unto nature, and so unto others.

You are here for your brothers and yourself, alone.

Mudhead Police Basic Training Song

Unknown Source

The receptionist gestured with her pink painted fingernail at a few places I had to sign on the ‘Remains’ papers. I started reading the small print. I could see people filing quietly from the church and did my best to ignore them all.

‘There’s a letter here for you too. Weirdest thing, it was not on my desk with the other mail, when I opened up this morning. I just found it here in my in-tray. I blame the cleaners. Didn’t want to give it you before the service. Company policy. Anyway, here it is.’ She passed me a thin, buff envelope then carried on sorting her in-tray.

Company policy. I sighed, signed and dated where I needed to, then turned my attention to the letter. It was lightweight and plain on both sides aside from my first name in the top left-hand corner. I thanked the receptionist and sat on one of the wooden, pew-like benches that ran along two walls of the room.

I opened the envelope. Inside, on a small piece of high quality writing paper, was a typed note that read,

‘A true friend is someone who will let you help.’

Inside the folded note was a plain white swipe card. There were no markings, serial numbers or pictures on it. On the back of the card were the black and silver strip and a small note, again typed, that gave me an address and underneath it said, ‘Next time, ask!’

Bleecker, I thought, committed the address to memory then ate the sticky note.

I placed the card in my inside pocket next to my brother’s blank eulogy and was still thinking about how I could best use it, and chewing the note when somebody spoke from the door,

‘Hello,’ Leonora said.

I knew someone would try to follow me out here but the Governor’s aide? I was surprised to see her.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘We came to pay our respects to Mr. Theron, there are so few Slayers left, we insist on going to all ceremonies. Sadly this is the first of many. The others that were killed...’ She looked down and left the sentiment unfinished.

‘Sad for who?’

Leonora ignored the jibe and changed tack.

‘I thought what you said was very fitting. Almost eloquent.’

‘Was it? Then I fear I missed the mark.’ I swallowed the paper. It stuck a little and scratched, but went down. She must have mistaken my struggle swallowing for grief or upset. Or maybe it was just the usual false, sympathetic non sequitur people always used on days like this.

‘I’m sorry about your brother.’

‘Are you?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I said: “Are you?”’

‘Of course. He will be missed. He was a good soldier, a model...’

‘Did you ever meet him? My brother.’

‘Yes.’

I was surprised but said nothing.

‘It was a couple of years ago, the Governor was receiving particularly graphic death threats; it was all kept very low key, out of the press. We got your brother in to advise on security measures.’

I turned back to the desk and toyed with a pamphlet. She carried on, unperturbed.

‘He found the perpetrator the next day, down in one of the Lowlands’ plastics factories. Brought him right to us. Really impressive.’

‘That is Newt,’ I winced at the tense, ‘ask him to book you a taxi and he’d buy you a car.’

‘He will be missed,’ she repeated.

I leafed through the pamphlet.

‘They didn’t miss him with the harpoon gun though, did they?’ I said.

‘Oh.’

‘Yes:
oh
.’ I placed the literature back onto the receptionist’s desk and turned to face Leonora.

‘Why don’t you tell me the real reason you followed me in here and stop going through the motions of small talk, paying your respects and your faux sympathy, before I read another of these religious leaflets and decide to get embalmed and put me out of this misery?’ She looked wide-eyed for a moment and then her stoicism returned.

She was like the antithesis of Pan. Her hair was short, the ends hovering around her delicate, feminine neck and defined jawline. It gave her an air of aloof elegance that would always outshine outfits or occasions. Her nose was small, almost pinched and divided two large, almond eyes. I was not sure if they were trying to be brown or green. She surpassed any indigenisation her mixed ancestry implied, both outclassing any Groundbounder I had ever seen and yet having a common touch that endeared her to people of higher official standing. And she knew how to work whichever angle the situation required. She reminded me of those female celebrities I had sometimes seen at the Angelbrawl Arena, eyebrows shaped and frozen in expressions of surprise and amusement, the cocktail party rigor mortis of winning grins and feigned interest. Impishness pervaded her professionalism; a wry smile crept along in the shadows behind her stern business-like manner. There would be a flirtatious ‘let go’ after every handshake. She knew how attractive she was in a ‘so what?’ kind of way, and she knew how to use it.

Maybe she was not that unlike Pan after all.

I then wondered why I was thinking of Pan at all and compelled myself to stop.

‘We’re interested in finding your brother’s killer.’

‘We?’

‘The Governor and me.’

‘You have a say?’

‘I always have a say.’

I smiled, ‘I bet you do.’

She ignored the taunt.
‘We wanted to recruit you, get you involved in the investigation.’

‘I am already involved.’

‘Officially.’

‘Fuck official.’

She hid her distaste behind a slow, exaggerated blink.

‘You would have our considerable resources at your disposal.’

‘I have all the resources I need.’

‘With all due respect, Mr Theron...’

‘Let me stop you there. Any sentence that begins with those words needs reconsidering.’

‘No. You need to reconsider.’ She folded her arms over her small breasts; her jaw sat proudly forward. She was used to getting her way.

‘I need nothing from you,’ I said.

She came closer. ‘We can make this very difficult for you.’

‘It’s already difficult.’

‘Credits. Mudheads. Access to records. Weapons. Anything you need at your disposal.’

‘OK then. Go on. Surprise me. Why?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Why? You have whole task forces ready and trained to conduct investigations into the ins and outs of a Lowland Swampfly’s hole, so why do you need me?’

‘You want the real answer?’

‘I know that is asking for a lot, from a politician.’

She brushed some of her short dark hair behind her left ear. It made her look more impish, pixie like. Working the room.

‘I had a feeling anything less would not be heard, or believed anyway.’

Now I was interested. Not in her involvement, or mine, but in the hope that she might reveal something that shed more light onto what was going on with me. To me. Around me. About what had happened to Newt. She lowered her voice. Lead me by the point of my elbow to a corner of the room away from the eavesdropping receptionist. We looked conspiratorial.

‘This is a high profile case. As you know with the Horizoneers now garnering momentum with some public backing, empathy and media attention. They botched their last attempt at launching a sky vehicle to, what had they called it... ah yes,
bridge the gap
. Next time they might actually pull it off.’

‘Good,’ I said.

Leonora shook her head. ‘Mr Theron, Governor Rose needs a boost. Something to raise her profile and make her more, shall we say, accessible. More amenable to the common man. We are involving you for selfish reasons. Honesty. There. You see, it is possible.’

‘So how does getting an ex-grunt, shovelling your shit on some personal vendetta, aid your cause?’

‘Oh, do not be so naïve, Mr Theron. Since Bethscape, you and your brother have enjoyed some favourable coverage in the media.’

‘Yes, and some not so favourable.’

‘You survived; you both did, where others fell. The people needed heroes in that aftermath. They needed...’

‘I was no hero.’

‘The people who gave their lives, then?’

‘They did not give them, they were taken away.’

It went quiet, I felt something choking up in my throat again. I did not know if it was grief, tiredness or choler. It did not matter. I just wanted to keep it in until the day ended. Needed to.

 
‘None of us were heroes. We were just doing our jobs. Walking along, as ordered, doing our jobs.’

‘You cannot truly think that.’

‘Look, I’ve shunned you, your government, your boss, your military, the world and his own pet windshark. What do you know about what I really think? And, more to the point, what do you care? Cram it, Leo. Now tell me something useful or leave me to my business.’

She frowned when I said ‘Leo’, clearly it was the only thing I had said that had had any impact at all.

‘Exactly. Backing you, in this, now, is the perfect coup, it would give us the boost we need.’

‘We?’

‘Nimbus, Mr. Theron. Nimbus needs Governor Rose.’

And here I was again, an expendable pawn on the Queen’s diagonal.

I rubbed my chin, thinking it was strange to find it clean-shaven. I needed time to think about what she had said to me, the machinations and implications, but I did not need time to think about my next course of action. I had already made up my mind. But I did not need to tell her that.

Yet.

Maybe I could use her.

Leonora folded her arms.

‘Can I have a ride?’ I asked.

‘Where to?’ she sighed, ‘I will have a car sent...’

‘With you. It’s important.’

She looked into my eyes for a long time. Looking as she did, she must have been used to advances, propositions and fine lines in bullshit, from all angles, work, rest and play. She sized me up and nodded almost imperceptibly.

‘Okay. For your brother. I’ll talk to one of our...’

‘No. No driver. I will drive. You and me. I will have you back before four thirty.’

She looked puzzled, ‘Give me a moment. I will go and inform the Governor.’

She pulled the hem of her jacket straight, looked down to check her blouse and lines of her buttons, then left.

The receptionist, who was doing her best to pretend she had been ignoring us, looked up at me smiling.

‘She likes you.’

‘This is my brother’s funeral and I would thank you to have some respect.’

She looked down at her paperwork and then turned her back to look for something in a drawer.

I had no idea why I had just taken it out on her.

Maybe I had a point though.