Parabolis (12 page)

Mosaic studied her own dim reflection in the window looking out into the evening promenade. She ran her hand, fingernails polished in green, through her disheveled, grown-out pixie cut. She pulled her hair up to see how it’d suit her. Dale noted the wispy threads of baby hair tracing her hairline and thought to himself how she still looked so much like the child he used to walk to school.

“Dale, am I weird?” she asked, still studying her reflection.

“You’re dressed like a red rabbit, Mo.”

Her eyes were made for a smile. They became large, twinkling half-moons. She let her hair fall and pinned her side-swept bangs up with a barrette. “Seriously.”

“I suppose that depends on your definition of normal. Why do you ask?”

“I think Papa is worried. He wants me to find someone and settle down. But I don’t know. I don’t have much of an interest in all of that. Never really have.”

“In settling down or in boys?”

Mosaic shrugged. “Both?”

“Do you mean in the celibate sense or,” Dale hesitated, “are you interested in girls?”

“No, nothing like that,” said Mosaic with a giggle. “I just always felt like I wanted something different, you know? I don’t want to settle on some guy just for the sake of settling down. I’m perfectly content being alone, learning, growing, and making music. For now, at least.”

“Nothing weird about that.”

“I don’t know. You know I’ve never even kissed a boy before?”

“Good for you.”

“There was Eugene Burnham but that was when I was in the third grade. And
he
kissed
me
. Does that count?”

“No. Eugene doesn’t count.”

“You know what it is? I don’t think boys are interested in me.”

“What? That’s not true. Any guy in here would be lucky to be with you. That Terry kid there, he was practically drooling all over you.”

“He’s like that with
all
the girls.”

“Mo, listen to me. You’re smart and talented. You’re lovely. Anyone who says otherwise is an idiot.”

“You’re just saying that because I’m your cousin.”

“No, I’m not,” said Dale, lighting a smoke. “And even if I were, doesn’t make it any less true. Hand me that ashtray, will you?”

Mosaic slid one over from the far end of the table and watched as Dale blew out two steady gray streams from his nostrils.

“You shouldn’t smoke, you know.”

“Why not?”

“I heard it causes the black lung. It can kill you.”

“Everything kills you.”

“Well, I don’t see the rush,” said Mosaic, fanning the smoke away from her face. “And you don’t have to take me with you.”

“Fine.”

Dale took one last heavy drag, put it out, and rinsed his throat with a mouthful of bourbon.

“While we’re on the subject of dying, let me ask
you
something,” he then began. “If Uncle Turkish had a rare disease and his only chance of survival was an organ transplant and the only donor was some perfectly healthy guy, and one night you found him—the donor—lying drunk on the train tracks, would you try and help him or would you just let him die so Uncle Turkish could get the organ? Assuming the organ stays intact, of course.”

Mosaic stared at him with her big brown irises that gave her big round eyes that look of youthful wonder.

“Maybe weird runs in the family,” she replied.

“Seriously, what would you do?”

“I don’t know. What kind of question is that?”

“A hypothetical one. It gives you insight into a person’s character. Just answer it.”

“I’d try to help him.”

“You mean the drunk donor?”

“Yeah.”

“Really? Even if it means Uncle Turkish dies.”

“Of course! Wouldn’t you?”

“No, not necessarily.”

“Really?”

“I don’t even know him. You’re not responsible for what happens, right? It’s not like you put him there in that situation. The guy got drunk and passed out. And you’d still choose to save him over your own father?”

“Did you see someone lying on the tracks or something? Dale, did something happen?”

“No, no. It’s just, someone asked me the same thing and I wasn’t sure how to answer it.”

Mosaic poured herself a cup of tea. “Well, sometimes doing nothing is as bad as doing what’s wrong.”

Dale gave it some thought and was about to comment on how wise beyond her years she sounded when Mosaic jerked back in her seat.

“Hot!” she cried.

Despite hovering over the teacup and blowing on its contents, she had taken an eager sip too soon. Dale burst into laughter.

“It’s not funny. I think I burned my tongue.”

“Are you okay?”

“
Psh.
Now you ask?”

“Be careful.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Mosaic tapped her tongue with the tip of her finger before adding, “So what did my answer tell you about my character?”

“That you really are weird.”

Mosaic rolled her eyes and popped an olive into her mouth. Dale went for a sip and got only ice.

“I’m going to get another. You want anything?”

“No, thanks.”

By the time Dale was well into his second drink, the rest of the party had begun to trickle in. Mosaic’s friends were of the sort that made her appear about as exceptional as a plum hanging from a plum tree planted in the middle of an apple orchard.

There was Rudy, short for Ruadah—the voluptuous mocha-skinned singer from the concert. As soon as Dale met her in person, sans stage make-up and elaborate costume, he could see why Mosaic was friends with her. She was loud, crass and fun, full of unbridled energy. Beside her was a lanky-framed bespectacled young man with a receding hairline hidden below a bowler cap. He had a thin mustache under a pointy nose. Under his arm was a book penned by some obscure author only literary elitists were familiar with. His name was Sebastian, an eccentric intellect. Whether anyone cared to listen or not, he’d carry on about the injustices of the world and the Republic’s need for political reform.

“The Republic? It’s just a farce,” he said. “Just like every other government. The true god of Parabolis is gold. And where is the gold? Look around. The nobles know. The bankers know. The bureaucrats. They own the unions and the lobbyists. They fund the senate. They hold the strings from within the shadows. They’ve taken the throne and nobody’s doing a thing about it.”

“Oh dear,” said Rudy, rolling her eyes. “Here we go again. Don’t mind him, Dale. Sebastian grew up in the slums so he’s always vilifying anyone who can afford a ruffled tunic.”

“Mock it all you want. But when you’re on the short end of the stick, soon enough, you’ll be wondering how we ended up under the thumb of a plutocracy.”

“Not me. I plan to marry a noble and end up on top. I always end up on top.” She winked.

“Herein lies the problem,” Sebastian continued. “The majority of us are sedated like good sheep, content to jest and squabble and graze on the latest and greatest at the Halo. No offense, Mo, but it’s true. It’s all just smoke and mirrors, a propaganda machine to keep us preoccupied, dumb and numb, while they rob the world from beneath our feet. If this government spent more time on education than they did protecting business interests, then maybe our country wouldn’t be spiraling into the shit storm that it is. Never mind a Balean invasion, which, mind you, is nothing more than a contrivance of the profiteers invested in our military industry.”

The others around the table had already tuned out just as Dale’s interest piqued.

“What do you mean by that?” Dale asked.

Sebastian was taken aback. It had been so long since someone had listened to one of his diatribes.

“Well,” he hesitated, gathering his thoughts, “take the Ancile for example. Everyone thinks it was about national security, right? Consider who profited from it. Mining corporations who provided the resources to build it. And construction firms who secured the contracts. And the politicians who were bribed, in essence, to ensure its necessity. Did we really need it? Well, we never did before.”

“That’s because Duke Thalian was never on the throne before,” Dale offered.

“Everyone paints him like some warmonger. But he’s only reacting to the threat the Ancile poses. You can’t wave a sword at someone and then decry a defensive response. Call me a traitor if you want but our government is the real traitor. Our senators, the warmongers. Think about it. The mining corporations that sponsor them win on both ends of this conflict. Regardless of the outcome, they come out with the gold.”

“How’s that?”

“It takes resources for Bale to raise an army too. That means more iron and copper sales. You see? It’s all one giant, sinister plot right under our noses. Far more sinister than the threat of some foreign invasion. This is treason at the highest levels. A domestic conclave of the powerful elite whose corruption knows no end. Our government has betrayed its people.”

“Aren’t you just a wellspring of good cheer,” said Rudy. “So little faith that justice will prevail in the end.”

“Not in this world. Not unless there’s some higher power willing to intervene.”

“There is. It’s called God.”

Sebastian scoffed. “Don’t get me started on the Benesanti.”

“Well, what are you going to do about it, Sebastian?” asked Mosaic.

“Yeah,” Rudy added. “Do something instead of just going on about how utterly shit it is.”

“I am doing something.”

“And what’s that?”

“I’m raising awareness.”

Rudy laughed. Mosaic shook her head. Sebastian smiled at his own absurdity. But Dale was not amused. As a veteran, he was constantly curbing his disdain for civilians who tossed around their theoretical opinions on politics and war. And even more so for those who trivialized it with indifference.

He left the booth to order another drink. By his fourth, the entire party had arrived—members of the cast, friends of the members, artists and musicians, until even the bar’s quieter back was full of revelry. Then came the beautiful blonde Anika, who turned heads as she sashayed in on the arm of a tall, handsome young man that made Terry the host frown.

“Well, Mosey, aren’t you going to introduce us?”

“Dale, this is Anika. Anika, my cousin Dale.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” said the blonde, holding out her hand palm down for him to kiss.

“And you,” Dale replied, gently shaking it instead.

“Careful, Dale,” said Rudy. “The lass may bed you if you stare too long.”

To which Anika replied, “Oh, the whale and her tales. By the way, great show, Mosey. Rudy, you were flat.”

She lit up a smoke on the end of her long stem filter and introduced her companion, who had a firm handshake and whose name Dale had made no effort to remember.

As the night wore on, Dale quietly fixed himself full of bourbon while a battle to monopolize attention ensued between Anika and Rudy. Rudy with her humor and Anika with a desperate peddling of her beauty. When she found herself losing, she feigned boredom. Then she sought attention away from the table. Her eyes wandered as she tossed her hair and fired off rapid, random smirks all over the room. A woman in need.

As the room began to spin, Dale excused himself. He sought the relief of the cool night’s air. A group of young women dressed in short skirts and low bust lines shuffled their way in past him.

“Anika’s competition just got stiffer,” Dale mumbled to himself.

The evening was crisp. The night was quiet. Nothing spoke of an imminent invasion. No domestic conclave of the powerful elite. And no justice.

He moved into the alley beside the pub, hugged the wall and vomited. Mosaic came out after him and asked if he was okay.

“Fine, I’m fine,” he replied, lighting up a smoke to mask his breath. “You know something? You have some interesting friends, Mo.”

“Let’s get you home,” she said.

“No, no, you go back inside. I’ll walk it off.”

She looked at him skeptical.

“Really,” Dale insisted. “I’m fine, now. I got most of it out.”

“You sure?”

“Hey, just don’t stay out too late, okay?”

“Okay.”

He then thanked her for inviting him to the concert and for the great company. Before parting, they agreed that they should try to see each other more often.

Back at home, Dale lay in bed swirling in a haze. He stared at the white ceiling supported by dark alder beams wondering,
if there was an earthquake, would the ceiling hold?
He thought about how those were the same alder beams his father saw every night falling asleep. He closed his eyes and thought about his joyless father. He tried to define joy. Settled on likening it to the scent of something caught only on its way out, he rolled over and drifted off to the music from Mosaic’s concert still fresh in his memory.

Nearly two hours passed.

Dale was stirred awake by an incessant rapping on his door—the sound of brass against oak. It wasn’t a rushed knock, intended to alarm him; just steady and patient like a metronome. Unable to ignore it, he crawled out of bed and cursed over a throbbing head. When he opened the door, he saw a man holding a brass-handled cane. He was wearing a top hat and a black rose on his lapel.

“Good evening, Mister Sunday,” said Remy Guillaume. “It is time.”

It was just past midnight. The sky was without a moon. The air was heavy and cold. And the city around them was especially dark.

“The lights are out,” Dale observed.

The street lamps were unlit. Every building, black. The only sources of light were, for a time, the limousine lamps that guided the horses. But even those were extinguished as they neared the breaker.

“Yes. We put the Spegen temporarily out of commission,” Remy replied. “Just until the transport arrives, of course.”

With control over the unions, it was no secret the Carousel Rogues had set themselves up to profit from the Spegen. Right at the onset of its operation, the Rogues siphoned a percentage from the payments. For the Rogues, shutting down the Steam Powered Electric Generator was a voluntary closing of a very lucrative spigot. They also risked a very public display of strength and the range of their reach in Carnaval City, a display the Rogues characteristically tried to avoid. The blackout revealed to Dale the importance of this transport to the Rogues and the Fat Fox.