Spoils Of War Collection

Chapter 2-2

I turned back to Lincoln, but she was no longer in sight. I stood shocked for a second, but then she appeared from a shadow between two identical, low-rise brick office blocks and called to me. “Come on. Beer won’t wait!”

Stepping into the shadow, I found myself in a wide room filled with long tables where lifeforms of all types were sitting, standing, hovering, or hanging while eating, drinking and talking. There wasn’t a lot of noise however; just cheer-filled murmurs and whispers that created a welcoming atmosphere of unthreatening sociability. Lincoln was moving across the room and, judging from the various greetings, was well known. I followed her to a table beside a wall with a nice view of the room. The only other chair was positioned so that I’d be sitting facing Lincoln with my back to the crowd. Whatever this was going to be, it was much more than a social event with a colleague; this was Lincoln’s event to manage as she saw fit.

When I sat down, a natural female human came and wiped the table with a cloth before asking for our order. The table was already clean, but when she was leaning over to wipe it, I got a clear view of very nice beasts supported by a charcoal-gray work shirt and a nerve-stick in a holster at her curvy hip. It was a low-power version, capable of disabling temporarily, but not killing. The message was still very clear: be nice and enjoy the view or be carried out and dumped on the pavement.

Lincoln offered a cordial greeting. “Hey Nanteer, two Top Drawers, a mixed scald for the Screw-Top and a scale one, extra sauce for myself please, how is the new space working out?”

“Great. It’s much more convenient, and that was a good tip, so thanks. Drinks first, food to follow.” When Nanteer walked away, the view from behind was as pleasing as the front and I allowed myself to linger a little before turning back to a grinning Lincoln.

“All natural, not a single charm on her. She owes it to no one, but her ancestors not like you and me Screw-Top.”

“If we’re going to be eating and drinking together, call me Shakbout.”

“That’s a bit of a mouthful and very formal. Screw-Top is more relaxed, more honest.”

Lincoln was needling me. Why? We shared a common heritage; we’d been built to order. We also spent our lives ignoring that fact; otherwise, it would overwhelm us and destroy us. Having it called up the way Lincoln was doing, was a dangerous game. If a Natural did this, they’d risk severe punishment in the name of maintaining civic harmony. No court would rule for murder if death were the result. They’d simply rule it suicide.

Context mattered too. At work in the locker room, it was recognized that tolerance was required to give everyone space to work with one another. Sitting in the dining hall was different. This was a public space and words had a very different weight. I was so battered by the day, and numbed by the charm, I wasn’t going to take offence quickly. “Let’s be honest. Why am I here? What do you want from me?”

Before Lincoln could respond, Nanteer appeared and placed two large glasses of dark froth-topped beer before us. She departed without a word.

Whatever direction the conversation might have taken was lost in the glorious, enticing sight of the delicately fragrant brew. Without waiting, I took a mouthful and realized that I was in the presence of a masterpiece. The hoppy taste filled my mouth and then my brain with pleasure.

Lincoln put down her glass. “Sorry for that, Shakbout, sometimes I speak without thinking.”

“No problem. This beer is astonishing. Why is this place not packed to the rafters?”

Lincoln’s expression held an are-you-joking? cast. “The Losers Lounge is in the Old City.” Which really wasn’t an explanation. Mengchi was a patchwork and the older sections had much more time to accumulate fallout from charms working as they should or not. Lincoln smiled patiently “The Old City was designed as a retreat for the Imperial Court if Thiegler was invaded. It’s designed to be unnavigable to anyone without a trinket. Rather than try and unwind the process, the city was simply expanded around it, and the Old City became a place where you could become deliberately lost. Even the lost need to eat, so the Losers Lounge came into existence and it developed from there.”

“How does anyone find their way around the Old City if the spell is still in force? I don’t think Imperial trinkets would have survived that long.”

“True, they didn’t,” Lincoln agreed. “However, you’re forgetting something: The Imperial Court required a lot of support staff to help with relocation, as well ensure the Court could continue. Someone had to make trinkets for them, so after the Vanishing, they decided that getting lost was the safest course of action. So, they moved here, including the trinket makers. Still, getting a trinket is no easy task. The inhabitants of the Old City like to keep its secrets.”

“How did you get one?”

Lincoln grinned, waved a hand, and took another quick sip. “I won it in a bet. When I saw you at the Red Eye, you looked as though you’d seen a ghost during the shift. Had you?”

The events of the day, the beer, the relaxation of tension that had been building between us all lent themselves to me being colossally stupid. “I did.” The words leapt from my lips. Damn, I’d just blown up my life … again.

Seeing a ghost was rare, with a significant population of re-animated corpses working everywhere, it seemed that ghosts should be more common. Placid, free labour for a myriad of mundane tasks needed to be done to keep Thiegler operational. A consciousness without a body was much rarer; they needed a physical anchor, usually a charm, though there were stories of using mirrors, books and entire living spaces to make it work.

Seeing a ghost happened when said ghost was trying to leave its current anchor and take over a body, killing the person in the process so it could have full control. This was considered to be a Priority Security Threat and if you survived the process, you’d have had to turn yourself in for a full examination—one you might not survive. If you did, you’d spend the rest of your first life under surveillance, a guaranteed slot as an Involuntary Public Servant subject to experimentation in the Red Halls.

All of which was bad, but not terrible. I was confident Lincoln wouldn’t tell anyone. I was much more concerned that she’d not know when to stop asking me for details, or that I’d be able to head her off without it becoming a problem. Revealing enough to satisfy her curiosity could put her in danger; then I’d have to drag her further in so she’d understand the scope of that danger, which would cause her to be displeased with me for doing so.

I was going to have to try for a fumble, enough to indicate the truth without actually revealing it, and hope that she had enough experience to recognize that leaving well enough alone was the best strategy. I didn’t fancy my chances, but was pretty much stuck, and so I told Lincoln a story about a terrible afternoon I’d had many years previously.

“I was walking and not paying enough attention to where I was going, turned a corner and stepped into an arrest by a posse of Retrievers. There was an elderly lifeform on the ground with an arm raised to ward off blows. That arm had the most charms I’d ever seen on a single person … a huge variety of sizes, shapes and colours. I couldn’t imagine such a jumble would be effective. Surely, they’d knock each other out with crosscurrents, never mind the strain they’d place on whoever was wearing them. By the time I’d unscrambled my thinking and was about to retreat around the corner, one of the Retrievers spoke. It had a strange whispery voice, a little rusty as if they didn’t vocalize often, but still clear.

“It said, ‘Citizen, you’re the designated witness to the delivery of the sentence of the sub-committee for Regulation and Enhancement of Living Citizens on escaped prisoner, Dialland Jovial.’ And with that, the Retriever spun its bald oval head, which sat on a stalky neck. It had a grille for a mouth and three very large multi-coloured compound eyes. Staring at the man on the ground, it continued. ‘Dialland Jovial, you were found guilty of transgressions against the community of free citizens in Thiegler. You fled lawful custody and in doing so have renounced grounds for appeal or clemency. In the presence of this designated witness, a sentence shall be applied.’

I explained how the Retrievers hummed simultaneously and Jovial shimmered until he slowly faded away. All the time, his small chapped mouth was moving, but I could hear nothing. Finally, nothing was left of him. The Retriever turned to me and told me how I, a “faithful Citizen”, had performed my duty and would receive the appropriate bounty for my work. The Retriever placed a hand to my chest, and I received a download.

As I told Lincoln about that day, the events in the sewer started to stir within me. I was drowning and knew it without being able to stop it.

“Ahhh,” said Lincoln knowingly. “That’s why you’re not in the scheme, down in the ship-pots. Anyway, tell me about the ghost. It was Jovial, right? What happened today?”

Eyeing Lincoln, I realized the old saying was correct: the truth will s**t on your head and smear it all over your face. This was particularly true if someone had slipped a speakeasy into your beer. So, I told her.

the truth will s**t on your head and smear it all over your face