They Who Fell (7 page)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“P
eter, you fool!” shouted Jana, before lowering her voice to a whisper after a few of the other servants turned to stare. “How could you do something like this to yourself? You know what he’s like. He’ll kill you!”

“It’s not like that,” said Peter. He leaned in, trying to soothe Jana and keep the others from hearing. “I worked something out. We’ve got a deal, a good deal. He knows he’s hard to work for. But I offered him something he can’t get from anyone else: loyalty. His other servants dragged their feet and shirked their duties. He needs someone who can do their job and do it well, without him having to resort to fear or threats. And in exchange he’s going to let me live up here. We’ll be near each other. You’ll still have a friend, and maybe we can be something more in time.”

Jana’s heart sank. Peter was talking madness, and had let himself be drawn into a warped delusion. She didn’t think there was any reason to trust Ecanus, let alone to rashly pledge to him just to climb a few stories higher. The angels took these things very seriously. It was one thing to serve one of them. Any of them could demand that a servant work for them, as Nefta had Jana. But a pledge was something different. It bound the servant, totally and completely, and it was permanent. Jana could still escape, if Nefta let her. But Peter was behaving like a puppy—blinded by unrequited love or ambition, and groping around for anything he thought might satisfy them.

“You didn’t even talk to me, Peter,” said Jana. “I don’t feel that way for you. I don’t think I ever would. We grew up together. You’re like a brother. We’re friends, we really are, but that’s it.” His face sank, and he looked like he’d been struck. She felt a pang of guilt for hurting him. He could be a bit much, but he meant well. Still, the heart feels what it feels, and Jana just didn’t feel it.

“I’m really sorry. You just can’t force something like that,” said Jana. “You have to find a way to get free. Maybe he’ll let you go. You haven’t been there for long. Or maybe I could talk to the woman I’m working for. She’s close to Nefta. They might be able to do something.” She wasn’t sure how plausible that was, but Cassie seemed to be protective of her, and she had to try something. She hadn’t asked Peter to do this, and never would have let him if she’d known. But that didn’t stop her from feeling for his plight, or from wanting to do a little protecting of her own if she could.

Peter shook his head, still looking like he’d been staggered from the blow. “Jana, it’s a pledge. He’ll expect me to honor it. And I wasn’t just doing this for you. I need this. I need to be up here. You know what it’s like at the bottom. Things’ll be better this way. I know this is a shock. I don’t want to rush you. But maybe—”

“Peter,” Jana said, stopping him. He was hurt, and clinging to his dream. They’re hard to let go of sometimes, and he must have been imagining his world as he thought it could be for a long time. The servants tended to do that. Jana herself had dozens of favored fantasies, and she’d grown up learning to sink into them in her head while her body kept on with the drudgery. Sometimes she was married, raising a throng of rowdy children in a tiny cabin at the base of a range of mountains. Others, she was queen of the tower and adored by all her subjects, human and angel alike. She knew how hard it could be to get suddenly jarred back to reality. Peter had been wounded, and the last thing she wanted to do was twist the knife. She tried to think, to come up with the easiest way to let him down, before a voice from behind her interrupted.

“Chit-chat wasn’t part of your instructions. Am I to fetch my own refreshments, leaving the proceedings whenever my thirst is stirred? How does that look to the others?”

Jana turned, and then quickly lowered her head. It was Ecanus, glowering and angry. He looked her up and down suspiciously, and then moved on to Peter.

“Is a romantic rendezvous more important than your obligations?” said Ecanus. “You’d have me sit there, parched, while you tend to your own affairs instead of mine?” He spoke of anger, but his face beamed with a perverse joy. He was thriving on Peter’s nervousness, lapping up every bit of it. His wings stretched, imposing and dark. He was small, but he seemed to expand along with them, a bigger and meaner thing than before.

Peter looked as if he was trying to wedge himself backwards into the wall, hunching his shoulders and projecting a defeated air. He stuttered a “no, sir,” and then mumbled something unintelligible but deferential sounding. It seemed to satisfy Ecanus, but only for a moment.

“If your needs are more important than mine, I certainly understand. I’m nothing if not forgiving; the Maker taught me that. I’ll even show you a compassion. I believe in teaching by example. You think your desires take priority? Well, then today
I’ll
be the one to serve
you
,” said Ecanus, patting Peter on the shoulder. His smile was warm, and his tone and mannerisms were friendly, but there was a foul glee underneath it all. Peter didn’t seem to catch it. He looked uncertain, then relieved, sending a smile over to Jana intended to reassure her that all was well. She didn’t buy it for a second, and was a bit baffled that he could. But when someone’s found something they’d like to believe in, they’ll shut out all the things they’d rather not.

“Water! Bring the poor boy some water! Slake his thirst before you turn to mine!” called Ecanus, snapping at one of the servants manning the refreshment station. They were all huddled together behind a table, nerves on edge. A small, brown-haired boy broke from the group and ran to Ecanus with a canteen, almost tripping over himself before finding his feet in the nick of time. The boy handed it to Ecanus, who unscrewed the top and extended it to Peter.

“Have a drink, then,” said Ecanus. “Don’t be shy. You’re the master today. Your attendant beseeches you, satisfy yourself. Learn what it is to have your needs met by another.” He waited, his face all smiles and his eyes all daggers. Peter thanked him, took a sip, and then screwed the top back on. Peter’s nervousness was leaving him, and he held out the canteen to the boy.

“You must still be thirsty, child,” said Ecanus. “Have some more. It’s for your health. Go on.” His smile grew a little bigger, and his eyes grew a little nastier. Peter wasn’t thirsty, but he supposed it couldn’t hurt. He unscrewed the cap of the canteen. Again he took a sip, and again he held it out to the boy.

“Thank you very much, sir,” said Peter. “It’s very refreshing, and I’m ready to resume my duties.”

“More,” said Ecanus.

“I’m fine, but I appreciate the kindness,” said Peter. “I never even hoped I’d have a master who would put me before himself.”

“More,” said Ecanus firmly.

Peter stood alone, holding the canteen and giving Jana a pleading, confused look. But she couldn’t help him, and couldn’t think of anything to do. She wasn’t sure how far Nefta’s protection extended, or how much it could be relied upon. Even if Ecanus didn’t discipline her directly, he might demand that Nefta do it. Or he might simply do as he pleased without care for the consequences. There was no one to stop him here, and no one to turn to. He could kill them and deal with the political aftermath later if he was so inclined, and sanctions from Nefta wouldn’t do Jana any good if they were posthumously administered.

There was nothing else for Peter to do but drink. He put the canteen to his lips and began to chug, pausing to wipe his lips and steel himself for the rest. He finished it to the last drop, and then handed it off to the little boy. He looked relieved. His stomach was full, and he was ready to be a servant again.

“Thank you, sir,” said Peter. “I’m sure I won’t be thirsty for a while.”

“Boy,” said Ecanus, calling to the child as he was rushing back to the refreshment station. “Bring him another. He looks positively parched.”

Now Peter began to turn pale, as it all sank in. The little boy dutifully ran back, holding up a fresh canteen to Peter and then quickly retreating to a safe distance. He held up the canteen and took a few tentative sips, probing to see if Ecanus would tire of the game and let him stop.

“Go on,” said Ecanus. “Finish it.” His eyes darted back and forth between Peter and Jana, imbibing their fear and their pain.

In the end, all Peter could think of was to try to please him as best he could. He drank frantically, enthusiastically, trying to prove his fealty to Ecanus by following his instructions with fervor. He drank every drop, and then bowed his head and tried his best to seem remorseful for his prior insubordination.

“Thank you, sir,” said Peter.

“More,” said Ecanus, snapping at the little boy again. “Bring us a jug this time.” Again the boy rushed to the refreshments station, and he returned holding a large jug, meant for serving a group. Peter’s eyes popped. He was full, and was starting to feel sick. He wasn’t sure whether he could finish another. The canteens had been filled to the brim, and there were many, many more were these had come from. But he had to try. He opened the jug, and began to drink. Midway through, he was losing his momentum. He paused, his stomach bulging. He bent over to rest, took a few more sips, and then took another break.

“Keep going,” said Ecanus, and so Peter did. He finished the jug, and looked again to Ecanus in defeat.

“More,” said Ecanus.

“Please,” said Peter. “I’m so, so sorry for my behavior. Please. I was a fool. I’ll never do it again. Please.”

“You’ll drink another, or I’ll turn my attentions to her,” said Ecanus. Jana shuddered. She’d done nothing to draw his wrath, but that hardly mattered. Ecanus knew weakness when he saw it, and he’d latched upon Peter’s weakness for her. Ecanus moved closer to her, flicking his wings about and brushing his blackened feathers against her face. She jumped back; she couldn’t help it. The sight of him made her skin crawl. He licked his chapped lips, running the tip of his tongue across them, and grabbed Jana by the nape of her neck. Then he turned to Peter, smiling, and waited.

This time, Peter motioned for the boy himself. He was brought another jug, and he drank. His belly was distended, and Jana could see the bloating underneath his clothes. Water was running down his cheeks, but he kept going. Ecanus cackled, holding Jana’s head firmly and aiming it at Peter so that she had no choice but to watch. His breath wafted over her, a putrid smell that made her wrinkle her nose in disgust. She watched helplessly as Peter collapsed to the floor and started choking on the water, his gag reflex kicking in. Ecanus just laughed, finally releasing her only to begin clapping with glee at his hateful handiwork.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

H
olt hesitated. He was a lawman at heart, and his instincts were still to follow the law. None of it existed anymore, but that wasn’t the point. The law had been a fiction, a set of rules that held sway only because everyone generally agreed which ones had to be followed, which ones could be bent, and which ones could be broken. But people’s ideas about those rules were in a state of flux. The more sociopathic elements of humanity simply did as they pleased, but then, they always had. For the rest, times had changed, and some things that would have been unconscionable before were tolerated now. There had always been disputes at the margins about what was and wasn’t acceptable conduct, but now there was no arbiter to turn to for a resolution. There were no prisons and no fines, which left only one real form of punishment available to those who felt they’d been wronged.

“He’s a kid, Marv,” said Holt. He had a touch of compassion in him, even if he had to be careful about showing it nowadays. He’d originally become a cop because he’d wanted to help people. It hadn’t always worked out that way, and certainly didn’t anymore. People resent discipline, even if it’s in their best interests. Sometimes he’d been forced to battle with the ones he was trying to protect. Years of doing it had given him sympathy for the broken ones, trapped inside their pathologies and their self-destruction. The boy had done something very, very wrong, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be redeemed. Holt knew from bitter experience that most people never changed. But sometimes they did, especially the young, and there was always hope. He’d seen plenty of it over the years: drunks who went cold turkey, thieves who found religion, and women who finally escaped from relationships that had been vortexes of abuse and pain. He’d had to pull more than one child out of dirty, chaotic places that could barely be called homes. People said it was worth it if you could save just one person, and he tended to think they were right. Marv, on the other hand, adhered to a different school of thought.

“He’s a threat is what he is,” said Marv. “You wanna just let people break in here? He coulda killed you. Coulda killed me. And he’s workin’ for them. You let him go, he’s comin’ back with more, and they might have wings.”

“Maybe,” said Holt. “They might be coming here anyway. You can’t stay. You’ve all got to go somewhere else for a while. Killing this kid won’t change that, and you know it. If he’s here, then others are, too.”

Marv paused, thinking quietly to himself. He was a paranoiac at heart, and thoughts of threats from above were all-consuming these days. But there were threats down below, too, and he just didn’t see a compelling reason for mercy. “I say kill him,” said Marv. “You gotta better plan, you do it. Go figure this crap out. I’m getting our shit together, and we’re outta here tomorrow. Don’t come back if I’m not here. The whole place is gettin’ booby trapped, and we’re not gonna be back here until the heat is off.”

Holt walked back through the family quarters, heading towards the guest rooms. Little children in pajamas with mussed hair poked their heads out from behind half-shut doors, warily watching him and fighting their curious urges. They wanted to see what was going on, but they knew Marv would have their behinds if they tried, so a glimpse of Holt would have to do. The quarters could have been mistaken for any well-decorated suburban living room. Marv had appropriated the furnishings from some of the wealthier areas that were within a day’s hike, and must have let the women make most of the decisions. It certainly looked more tasteful than anything he could be expected to come up with on his own, and the decorative candles and abundance of functionless pillows on the furniture were a dead giveaway that he wasn’t wholly in charge of this part of the Colony. They’d even installed a homey fireplace, although Marv had never allowed anyone to use it. The fear of being given away by smoke took precedence over attempts to recover a semblance of normalcy. Holt suspected that the families wouldn’t be happy about leaving the nest they’d created, but they’d made bigger sacrifices before.

The door swung open to the guest quarters, and the Vichy was still on the floor, tears drying. The collar of his rumpled white shirt was stained with drops of blood, and the rest was muddied with dirt from the ground. It was ill-fitting on his teenage body, anyway; he’d probably salvaged it from some businessman’s closet. His pants were much the same, well-worn sweats with their string pulled tight around his waist. But something white was something white, and he had to show his allegiance if he wanted to be one of them. Faye stood over him, calmly watching and pointing one of the Vichies’ own assault rifles at his head.

“What’s the word?” asked Faye, keeping her eyes on the Vichy as she spoke.

“Don’t know yet,” said Holt. “Marv wants you dead, kid. You’re in his house. You come into a man’s house without permission these days, you can’t expect him to let you come out of it alive.”

The Vichy looked up at him, his face sinking into anguish. He probed for some sign of his fate, but couldn’t find any. Holt had been a pretty good amateur poker player before the Fall, and had generally cleaned up when it was just the boys playing for beer money. Holt had no intention of killing him, but the Vichy didn’t need to know that. He’d participated in a few “scared straight” programs in his day, and knew that a taste of life’s consequences was often just the thing to convince a boy to assume the responsibilities of a man. They always started out playing tough, trying to beat their chest the loudest and prove they were somebody. They never understood the subtleties of manhood. Holt had the icy confidence that came from years of challenges, knowing from experience that the more a man blustered, the shakier his position was. Acts of bravado were a feint, a search for weakness that was abandoned the instant it ran into strength. The boy was well past that stage after his run-in with them. He was broken down, and it was time to rebuild him.

“Get up, kid,” said Holt. “We’re going outside.”

The caterwauling started up again at once. The Vichy bawled about his family, his good intentions, and how he’d never be seen again in these parts if only he were set free. Holt just grabbed his arm, pulling him up and pushing him forward. Faye followed them from behind, gun at the ready. They passed through the darkened passages and out towards the moonlight, the Vichy begging the entire way.

“Hold up,” said Holt. “Shoot him if he makes any noise.” He shoved the Vichy against a wall just inside, and motioned to Faye to play guard. The Vichy began softly whimpering, but she seemed to tacitly understand that it didn’t count. Holt walked to a nearby window, let his eyes adjust, and then scanned the surroundings for a few minutes. Nothing was moving and nothing seemed to be out of place. He couldn’t be certain what was out in the forest, but the tree line was some distance away, and anyone in it would have to be a pretty good shot to pose a threat in the dark. A rusted tractor from the Colony’s farming days that had been scuttled in the middle of some nearby brush was the most obvious hiding place, but Holt knew it was infested with wasps, and no one would be hiding there for long. He was fairly sure that the Vichies had been alone; their fumbling home invasion didn’t suggest much planning. But it was safest to be prepared, and his years since the Fall had made him all about precautions. When he was satisfied that there wasn’t some hidden sentry, he dragged the Vichy outside and kept him moving, pistol at his back.

Holt walked him towards some open grass, away from the Colony and well away from the forest’s border. The last thing he needed was a chase through the woods before they’d gotten things squared, and it was too dark outside for them to be easily visible from up in the skies. The Vichy kept silent this time, cowed by the earlier warning. Their feet disappeared into the brush, and when they were far enough away Holt roughly shoved him to the ground. The Vichy was all terror, shivering in fright. He looked around for some kind of escape, but found none—only grass, his captors, and an orchestra of crickets.

“Faye here thinks you’re a traitor,” said Holt. “Isn’t that right, Faye?”

“I’m not. I swear I’m not,” said the boy.

“You’re a Vichy, aren’t you? You’re sure dressed like one,” said Faye. She was barking at him, milking the role. If Holt wanted to be the good cop, she had no problem being the bad one.

“We’re servants. We’re just servants,” said the boy nervously. The Vichies shied away from the name themselves. It tarred them with treasons past from before the Fall, and they preferred to think of themselves as pragmatic survivors just doing what had to be done.

“Servants don’t carry guns,” said Holt. “Soldiers carry guns. What were you doing poking around after your fellow humans?”

“You’re fighting for the other side,” said Faye. “That’s what a traitor does, isn’t it? Takes up arms against his people? And for what? So you can be somebody’s pet?”

“No, no, no. No. It’s scary out here,” said the boy. “It’s just scary. I didn’t want them to kill me. They said they wouldn’t kill us, none of ‘em. You can’t fight ‘em, they’re too strong. If you do what they say you don’t have to hide.” His nervous eyes flitted from Faye to Holt, and back again, looking for some sign of their intentions.

“You don’t have to hide,” said Holt. “Someone else does.”

“If you don’t fight them, who will?” said Faye. “If you help them, we have to fight you, too. Ever think about that?”

“We’re not helping them,” said the boy. “We weren’t, we weren’t. We just wanted food.” He was getting edgy, digging into the ground with his hands and trembling all over. He looked over his shoulder a few times, probably thinking about making a break for it. But there was nowhere to run to. Holt had positioned him well, and it was just low grass all around with at least a mile to any trees.

“That’s not what Marv thinks,” said Holt. “Marv wants me to kill you. Marv thinks if I let you go, you’ll just go back to the Perch. He thinks you’ll bring—”

The boy panicked. He charged at Faye, a wild dash from the ground that closed the distance in an instant. Then he was flailing, punching at her and grappling with her for the assault rifle. Holt aimed, but he didn’t have a shot. There’d be too great a risk of hitting Faye, especially in the dark. The Vichy had her in close, tossing her to the ground and standing over her. They were both desperately pulling at the gun, a single mass of shadows and jabs locked together in struggle. Holt rushed over, grabbing at the nearest white he could see to pull the boy off. Then it came. The loud crack of the rifle, and the warm spray of blood across his face.