Beating Heart Cadavers (12 page)

Ch. 16

The albino's hands had turned even whiter in the artificial lights, and the tiny hairs on his fingers were sticking up even though there wasn't a chill. He wished that he was standing up so that he could clasp them behind his back and hide them from view, but the Spöke who had summoned him to Ratsel's office had insisted that he sit down. Jasper locked his fingers in front of him instead and stared at the dark-haired man across from him. Ratsel was twice his age, at least, and yet he didn't have a single gray hair yet. Jasper could have hated him for that, alone.

“Sawyer – it's good to see you again. I don't think our paths have crossed since the autopsy a few weeks ago.”

Ratsel smiled at him, displaying a mouth of yellowed teeth that didn't fit with his otherwise clean exterior, and the action made his thin nose appear even pointier.

“That's correct, High Officer. Though I'm surprised that you'd remember me.”

Ratsel gave a mannerly chuckle, though there was nothing polite about it.

“Oh, I remember. You're a difficult one to forget.”

Jasper curled his fingers further inwards in an attempt to hide them from view. There was little that he could do about his chalky complexion and bright white hair, though.

“Officer Breiner had said there was something you wanted to ask me – he mentioned Matthew – I mean, Ambassador – Caine.” He sat up a bit straighter as he spoke, hoping that if he feigned ignorance well enough, Ratsel might not pick up on the fact that he knew exactly why he had been called to the office. “There's been some trouble at his home?”

“Caine had a rather … unusual visitor, so it seems, that Breiner had the misfortune of running into last week during what ought to have been a covert operation. A visitor who – I hoped – you might be able to help me identify.”

“I see, High Officer.”

“Do you?” Ratsel asked, his calculating tone in perfect match with the slight cock of his head. “So you know something about it?”

“No, sir. But I know that Matthew Caine has very few acquaintances, let alone friends.”

“And one of those friends is your sister, is it not?”

Jasper gave the Spöke an intent look but didn't respond right away. He couldn't bring himself to discuss Fields right now – not when he had watched Merdow shoot her through the back just a few nights before. Thinking as much, he tucked his feet further under his chair. The soles of his shoes were still caked with mud from the outskirts of Spöken property; he hadn't had time to clean them out properly yet.

“Ladeline and Matthew were childhood friends, yes,” he said at last.

“Meaning that they're not friends anymore?”

“I can't be certain. But my sister fled to Hasenkamp some time ago. I would be … surprised to know that she could be found in East Oneris at this time.”

“I see.” Ratsel made a low humming noise in the base of his throat. His eyes were fixed on the albino. “And were you childhood friends with our current ambassador as well, Sawyer?”

“What? No. Caine and I – the ambassador and I – never spent much time together.”

“Of course. You're several years younger than he is, aren't you? Children seem to have more difficulty bridging the age gap.”

“I am, sir. But … I'm not certain that that's why we were never friends.”

“No?”

“No. Caine Sr. never cared much for me, I'm afraid.”

“Didn't he?” Ratsel raised his eyebrows slightly. “I suppose I shouldn't be entirely surprised. I seem to remember that he and your father were at odds more often than not it certain political matters. Though … I find it strange that he didn't have a problem with your sister, as well.”

“Oh, he did, High Officer. Ladeline just never cared much about other people's wishes.”

“Yes. I don't find that too difficult to believe.”

He smiled again. The yellowed teeth were bared as he did so.

“You know, Sawyer, I don't really like being toyed with,” Ratsel said unexpectedly.

“I – I'm sure you don't, sir,” Jasper stammered.

“In a position such as mine, you'll find that you come across a wide variety of personalities. All people have good and bad characteristics, you know – mostly bad, I'm afraid – but some things bother me more than others.”

Jasper waited, his heart hammering as he debated how to respond.

“O-oh, sir?” he finally managed.

“I've dealt with an array of hapless souls over the years: criminals, murderers, sociopaths – not to mention all of the Mare-folk I've had to come into contact with – each with a staggering amount of deceitfulness or self-indulgence and an unprecedented belligerence that drives me absolutely mad. But do you know what quality irks me more than any other?”

“I … I can't say that I do, sir.”

“Weakness.”

His voice was low as he spoke the word, and it hissed around the room. Jasper waited, his shoulders still stuck in their uncomfortably rigid position, and he was saved from responding as Ratsel went on.

“Out of everything else, weakness is the one trait that I'll never understand,” he said. “Liars and boasters are serving themselves, at least, and the cunning and impulsive can be dealt with, but men who are weak serve no more purpose in life than the Mare-folk, as far as I'm concerned.”

“I – I'm sure that I agree, High Officer.”

“They don't know their own minds. They carry on not even for the sake of carrying on – but rather because they're too feeble to simply end it and put the rest of us out of our misery. They're ineffective – and there's no room in this world for ineffectiveness. And I'll never understand a man who hides behind feigned reasoning in an attempt to get what he wants. If I'm to be lied to, I'd like to hear the lie – not find out what the true agenda is after the fact.”

“Of – of course, sir.”

Ratsel moved his tongue through his mouth and pushed it out over his teeth, puckering his face as he went. For a moment he looked as though he might spit, but then his face relaxed again.

“Do you like your job here, Sawyer?” he asked abruptly.

The albino straightened.

“Very much, sir. It's an honor to serve Oneris in this way.”

“Yes, it certainly is. And, in your time serving us, have you killed any Mare-folks directly?”

“Directly, sir?”

“Yes. By yourself – your bare hands.”

Jasper looked at the High Officer oddly, wondering if he was simply reading too much into the conversation or if somehow word of what had happened a few nights before had worked its way back to him. He licked his lips anxiously.

“There was – one – sir.”

“One?” Ratsel looked mildly impressed, seemingly having been expecting another answer. “Well, one's all it takes to make a man a proper Spöke.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And this is good to hear, really,” Ratsel went on. “I had been a bit wary when I first drew up your name for the task that I wanted to speak to you about today, not because I think that you're unfit for the job on the basis of trust, mind you – I don't hold your sister's actions against you – but because it is a rather … delicate matter … and not one for the faint of heart. I certainly wouldn't want it to be the first time you got blood on your hands, let's say.”

He chuckled again and Jasper felt his stomach tightening, but he knew that he wouldn't go back on his words now. Even if he hadn't personally killed his sister, he felt as though he had played a large enough role in her death to acquire some credit, and he didn't need the High Officer thinking that he had never taken place in a Spöken execution before.

“I'm up for whatever task you need done, Mr. Secretary,” he said with a low nod. “Anything at all.”

Ratsel smiled.

“Good.”

He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a file to slide across the desk. Though Jasper had never received one before, he had handled enough Spöken paperwork to know what it was. The files were often brought in by government officials who had gotten tips on Mare-people who hadn't divulged their conditions or who were perceived to be threats to Onerians. A Spöke would receive the file with the necessary information, determine that the person in question really was a Mare-folk (or be certain enough, really, as there was no way to know for certain until the body was slit from the neck to the stomach to reveal the heart), and carry out the deed. There was nothing illegal about the work that the Spöken did – after all, the organization had been formed by the government – it was simply just a matter that needn't be disclosed to the general public. People would become more cautious in their actions, and the Mare-folk would take more care to hide themselves; and, of course, there would be complaints when people went missing and uproars if an Onerian was misidentified as a Mare-folk. But it was no matter: the Spöken were accurate – most of the time.

“I'll see to this right away, sir,” Jasper said, picking up the folder with quivering hands as though he had just been handed a sculpture made of the thinnest glass.

“Yes, immediately – I'm afraid there's no time to waste.”

Ratsel stood up and Jasper quickly followed suit, tucking the folder close to him to keep it safe. It wasn't until he had crossed the metal hallways to the lift and returned to the closed doors of his small office that he dared to look at it again, and in his apprehension he almost didn't recognize the surname in the upper right hand corner indicating whom he was supposed to kill:
Caine
.

Ch. 17

The softest of light was coming from the window, covering her arms and face in a warm glow like the blankets that had been pulled midway up her form. In the quiet, with her eyes still shut, it was easier to untangle what had happened since the last time that she had had consciousness, though the only thing that she felt quite certain of was the fact that she wasn't dead. Even that, of course, was just an assumption.

Fields slowly opened her eyes. The space in front of her was blank and white, but she didn't have the energy to turn her head from side to side to look further around her. She was lying on her side rather than face-forward as she had fallen, and as her fingers bent into a closed position in order to clutch at what laid beneath them, she could feel the cotton of sheets rather than the muddy swamp waters that she had been expecting. After another moment or so, she realized that there was a pillow cushioning her head. Though she knew that she hadn't somehow dragged herself to safety, she also knew that it was implausible to think that someone had recovered her. A pain cut through her heart at the thought, and she raised a hand up in an attempt to feel her back. A bandage was wrapped about her torso, and her heart – as far as she could tell – was intact.

For a long while she simply lay there without moving. It seemed impossible to think that she would be in an Onerian hospital, and for a while she thought that she had somehow been transferred to Hasenkamp where one of the Mare-doctors had taken care of her. But the sunlight on her arms was too warm for that time of year in the north, and the air smelled like the magnolia trees that only grew in East Oneris. And coffee, she thought, taking another deep breath in. It smelled like burnt coffee.

“Don't try to get up –”

A hand came from behind her and took her by the shoulder as she attempted to rise from the mattress, and after the initial shock brushed past her and she realized whose voice it was, an ease came over her form that allowed her to lie back down. She should have known who had found her.

“Professor,” she murmured, but couldn't think to say more.

Mason stood and came around to the other side of the bed in order to see her. Crouching down, he observed her with a worried frown.

“How do you feel?”

Fields blinked.

“Pissed.”

“Do you remember anything?”

“I remember being shot in the back. It's not really an easy thing to forget.”

“Do you remember anything that happened afterwards?”

Fields rolled her eyes up to the ceiling. Mason seemed to be waiting for some sort of philosophical answer, as though being shot through the back might have bled out her cynical views on the world and cleansed her of the cavalier beliefs she held about existence. Had her neck not been so sore, she might have shaken her head.

“I was walking down a tunnel towards a light,” she said in her vaguely indifferent way. “Or it could have been a pit of flames. It was hard to tell: everything was dark and wet.”

Mason ignored her disregard for the seriousness of the situation.

“They shot you through the back,” he said. “It barely missed your spine before going towards your heart.”

“Good thing I don't have a heart, then.”

Mason's lips pulled together.

“Good thing you have a metal one, more likely,” he said, seemingly uninterested in her attempts to make light of the situation. “And don't try to get up.”

He stopped her as she tried to sit up again, and she was too feeble to go against his light touch. Even in her drained state, though, she was present enough to realize that the secret she had spent so long harboring was out, and there was nothing that she could do to cover it up again.

“I don't suppose the doctors who removed the bullet consented to sign a non-disclosure statement, did they?” she asked unavailingly. She looked around the small room again, but her limited field of vision only gave her a view of the wall next to the door. She wondered if there was a guard waiting outside readying to take her back to the Spöken now that they all knew she was a Mare-person. Maybe they would bring her back to headquarters where Jasper was, she thought irritably. Then he could shoot her again properly.

Mason frowned at her.

“I didn't take you to a hospital, Ladeline.”

He shifted as her eyes snapped over to him, seemingly knowing that her mind was running through the calculations of what the statement meant.
Doctor Mason
, she thought. She had guessed it all along, and her assumptions had been validated numerous times by the little information that he had given her about his past profession, and yet it didn't fully hit her until that moment. And it wasn't so much because he was stating it outright now, but because he was saying it in relation to what she was, as well.

“So I apologize in advance for the way I stitched you up,” he continued, the nonchalance in his voice seemingly there to overpower another tone. “My resources were limited and – like I've said – I'm not a doctor anymore.”

Fields slowly rolled over so that she was facing him, grimacing at the pain between her shoulder-blades, though oddly more at ease now anyhow.

“So that's why the government's always checking up on you,” she said. “You're a Mare-doctor.”

“Was. It's been years since I've practiced.”

“Lucky me,” Fields deadpanned.

Mason smiled.

“I did a good job – given the circumstances,” he backtracked. “It's not as easy to patch up a metal heart without resources, supplies, or a team.”

“How'd you do it?” She sat up at last and rubbed her hand over her heart. It seemed to be beating consistently, she decided, though she felt a little off balance even so. She gave the room another glance. “I doubt you've been hoarding a medical kit for the Mare-folk all of these years.”

“No, that tends to be the sort of thing that the government gets after me about,” he replied. “But given how and where the bullet entered your heart, there was a fairly easy fix – which is a surprise, since I would have thought the Spöken would have better weaponry.”

“I'm sure that they do – unfortunately, they were using my gun.”

She had bought it off of a Mare-folk named Sunset when she had first moved up to the Wastelands, and though he had assured her that it was fully functional, she had later found out that copper fouling had nearly ruined the barrel. She would have to thank him for lying to her when she returned to Hasenkamp.

“They had your gun?”

“It wasn't my best moment,” she said. “How bad is it?”

“Well, your heart was – essentially – leaking,” he said. “Leaking's better than bleeding, of course, but it's never a good thing anyhow. Otherwise, it was functioning fine as far as pumping and beating went, but if it had continued to drain it would have been a problem. So I – after removing the bullet – poured cold weld epoxy on it. It was a
bit like fixing a car radiator, really.”

Fields grimaced as she attempted to straighten her back.

“That might be the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me,” she said dryly.

Mason smiled.

“That doesn't surprise me, Ladeline.”

He waited a moment as she adjusted to sitting upright, her eyelids heavy and her hair still dirtied from swamp water that he had not quite been able to properly wash away, and she stared off across the small room for a long moment before speaking again.

“How long have you known?”

“I had my assumptions from the beginning,” he said. “As I'm sure you did about me.”

“Guessing that you were a Mare-doctor was a bit easier, given that you have the title and all. If people were able to just pick out Mare-folks by glancing at them, then the Spöken would be out of jobs.”

“I didn't glance at you and know it,” he replied. “And, for what it's worth, you didn't make it easy.”

“I should hope not.”

“And Jasper's one, too?”

“Not according to him,” Fields said grimly. “He's still under the impression that he can wish things all away.”

“But he can't really know,” Mason said. “He must be in severe denial, at least – why else would he take the risk of becoming a Spöke?”

“Some people have the worst choices in careers.”

“But what about his heart? He has to get it charged periodically – and somehow I doubt he's standing in line with the rest of the Mare-folk waiting for the facilities to open every morning.”

Fields shrugged.

“I don't know. Maybe he doesn't need to anymore.”

“You can't just stop needing Hilitum because you deny that your heart needs to get charged,” Mason countered. “It doesn't work that way.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Mason looked at her closely, a frown forming over his dark eyes.

“What're you saying? You don't need to get your heart charged, either?”

“Maybe not permanently, but I certainly don't need it charged often. Jasper's the same way. That's the only reason we were never found out our first few years at the orphanage, or while we were living with the Sawyers. We would've ended up in institutionalized housing if they'd known.”

“But how often do you get it charged? Yearly?”

Fields made a face as she picked a clump of mud out of her hair.

“More like every seven years or so for me. Jasper might be holding out longer.”

“Seven years?” Mason repeated. He stared at her in disbelief. “But that's unprecedented – I've never heard of a Mare-folk who didn't need Hilitum at least biennially, and most need it at least every week –”

“Surprise, surprise. We're not all the same.”

“I never said you were, Ladeline. I just meant that this type of information could be useful – especially given that they're shutting down the charging facilities. If we could harness whatever it is that makes your condition different than other Mare-peoples, we might be able to find a cure –”

Fields waved her hand dismissively and turned her head away, the tips of her brows arching in irritability. A part of her rather liked that Mason was so firm in his belief that the world would ever change enough to make it habitable for people like her, but the larger, more practical part simply found his views painful to listen to. And, considering that she was operating on over-the-counter medications to combat the sharp ache in the center of her back, she didn't need any more pain at the moment.

“I'm trying to help you, Ladeline,” Mason said, catching her expression. “Don't you want to find the cure for the metal leaching? It would solve everything –”

“It would solve nothing – because there's nothing to solve,” Fields said. “Some of us have metal hearts. There's nothing to be done about it.”

“There's plenty that could be done about it, if you were willing to try –”

“What would you have me do, Mason? Walk up to the government and offer myself as a lab subject for them to practice on? Ask Jasper to do the same? You know what they'd do: hand us over to the Spöken and let them tack us on to their kill lists.”

“I thought that that was your plan was when you went up to Hasenkamp – to try to figure out a way to live without having to hide who you are.”

“My plan was to get my brother and bring him up to Hasenkamp where we could both hide away for the rest of our lives – which worked out exceedingly well, as you can see.”

Mason chewed the insides of his cheeks as he thought, seemingly aware that she was right and yet searching for an alternative even so. After a moment, though, he let the subject drop.

“Did you find him, at least?” he asked. “Jasper? Before the Spöke shot you?”

Fields gave a wry smile; it twisted her face unnaturally.

“Oh, I found him,” she said. “He
was
the Spöke who shot me.”

“Jasper? No, he wouldn't do that ...” Mason started, looking more upset about the incident than she was. “Not to you, at least.”

“You'd be surprised what people I've tried to be good to would do to me. And don't think too much about it, Mason – there's nothing to do for him now.”

“That doesn't sound like you. Not in regards to Jasper, anyway.”

She attempted to shrug before realizing that her injury wouldn't allow it and instead carried on in an indifferent tone of voice.

“I'm just being practical. Things don't tend to change, Mason.”

He looked at her closely, trying to discern if she could truly be so indifferent or if a glimmer of emotion could be hiding just beneath the harshness of her expression. He sighed, realizing that he couldn't tell.

“No, but people sometimes do,” he said. “Does Matt know?”

“Of course not. You know what he thinks of the Mare-folk.”

“I do, that's why –” he paused, backtracking. “I thought that that might have been what the two of you fought about.”

“Nope.”

“Of course. And you're not going to tell me what you did fight about – even still?”

“I'm sure you'll find out eventually, Professor. Just like everything else.”

“Like the fact that it was Matt who killed your father, not you?”