To Your New Era

"Door knocking went well."

"What did you find?"

"Something of a lead."

Tackson was examining their fingers as though they had nails, picking at the skin between them. "The addresses outside the city came from hotel rooms and abandoned houses. The ones on the inside came from storefronts, mainly. Tiny places, family run."

"And what does that suggest?"

Tackson sighed through the voice box, exhaling frustration. They leaned forward as though somebody was listening in on the conversation. They looked in pain all the while.

"Both the hotel rooms and empty houses had links to Treyatasian refugees, latter was more anecdotal evidence; squatters, homeless and the like. Places in the city fit the bill too. Many of them had refugees working there, floating in and out, high concentration of displaced people."

Marie raised an eyebrow in triumph. "I hope this isn't just a story to make us lend you the Deity division."

Tackson took the jab as well as she could expect. They squirmed in their seat; further evidence that being proven wrong physically hurt them.

"This is bigger than our original estimate, but it's something we will handle internally. Like I said, I'm here out of courtesy."

"I know," Marie said, crossing her arms and assuming a more comfortable position while she watched them squirm. "What's the current thinking behind it?"

"It's still early days, but the obvious comes to mind. Neflem leaders will be at the ICMN on the day; influential, but not enough to kill. They may plan to make them their hostages."

"All right. It's a good start, but you'd need something more substantial to get the Neflem leaders to pull out of the—"

"Courtesy, Lieutenant-General. We did not ask for your input."

Marie froze. The squirm was gone, replaced by a return to his insufferable attitude, like a spring bouncing back into shape.

"This is hardy input," she scoffed. "I'm sure you've already thought of the exact same thing."

"Something more substantial we may need, but we'll be committing resources to increased security."

"Security?" Taken aback, the absurdity of it was instead what drew her back forward, like a spring compressing, building tension. "Sure, I guess? If you can put it together in record time."

"Of course, it's an urgent matter after all."

"Yes, yes, risk an international incident for a war that'll never end, because if you go down that path there is no helping you when it goes wrong."

"And we won't ask for help."

Tackson's shoulders ballooned outward, raising to their full presence, spindly fingers wrapped around one knee as they spoke the good gospel of the New Modernist.

"This is a crucial step in Geverde's debut on the world stage, and thanks to antiquated thinking, a long time coming, too. If Neflem and Treyatas strike a deal in Excala, it is as much our victory as it is theirs."

Tackson stood, their 'courtesy act' fulfilled, and debt repaid. Their entourage gathered their items.

"We can't turn a blind eye to the world forever, Lieutenant-General. The world may be moving a little fast for you nowadays, but do try to keep up."

Lately, Iris's regular haunt resembled a bar table; one long oak plank held up on either side by shelves housing glass and liquor as opposed to leather-bound paper. Stools made of salvaged but restored driftwood, and a bartender that barely measured taller than her hand was long.

The surrounding bookshelves moved as usual, but the small, themed space seemed to be Al's latest hobby that Tony had given in and indulged.

Iris eyed the liquor shelf again, and Al—while polishing a glass—seemed to notice.

"Don't plan on dying by Evalyn's hand, so I'm saying you stole it if you get caught."

"Mum wouldn't believe it," Iris said, still eyeing up the colours one by one. "Unless Tony backed you up."

"The word for two counts for more than one."

"No. She just trusts Tony."

Al sighed obnoxiously loud. If his goal was pity, though, she couldn't think of a worse way to ask for it.

She watched Al work, content in the small space and menial hobby of make-believe. With no expression to read, she noted the way he hopped and fluttered across the bar table. There was a grace to it; every distance measured and memorised, every bottle accounted for, every glass polished to a shine.

A perfectly managed corner of the world. It seemed only fitting for Al. She hoped it might be the mark of a good ruler.

"What's going to happen to the library when you become king?"

"I don't know," he said. "Haven't thought about it, but Tony would stay, pass my baton to someone else. You know the drill, don't you, Iris?"

"No."

"I meant metaphorically."

"I know," she insisted. "But I think I only know what it feels like to pick up the baton."

"Well, you're doing one better than me," he scoffed. "Couldn't imagine the day if I tried."

The rag squeaked against the glass, making up for the absence of words.

"And I know when it comes, it'll be a stumble. I'll be slow, clumsy…might even fall behind. But I won't drop it."

He glanced at Iris. "We won't drop it, will we now?"

His eyes flicked elsewhere before Iris could answer.

"Sorry I'm late," Crestana said, taking a seat beside Iris. "Had a hard time getting out of the house."

"Aunt telling you to study again?"

"Yeah. And I told her this is study."

Stolen novel; please report.

She slumped across the table, mask dislodging itself against the wood as she tugged a hair tie out of her hair.

"I wish she wouldn't worry. Makes it harder for me."

"Take a break," Iris suggested. "All the…secret things. Maybe you're changing too fast for her."

"It's her that should keep up, then. I hardly can't stop now."

"Why not?"

She dug her mask into her arm, muddying her words so that Iris couldn't hear. Frustrating as it was, the topic was a quick fire way to turn Crestana into a brick wall, so she lay off it for the afternoon.

"Excuse me, sir."

"Your order?"

"One telephone, please. Bypass line."

"Coming right up."

Al flapped his wings and dived off the edge of the table, moments later returning with a black telephone dangling from his talons. Iris caught it before Al gave out and placed it on the counter, and with a thin, braided cord, she attached the phone to a nearby pattern reader.

She glanced at the grandfather clock behind the counter, its hands shaped like a sagging moustache.

"What time did he say?"

"Four thirty-six. Two minutes."

"How long do you think it'll go for?"

"Do you have somewhere to be?"

"No," Crestana mumbled again into the table. "…sort of."

"We can keep it short."

"We don't have to. It's just…whatever."

"What?"

"Nothing."

Iris shrugged as she finished dialling. Connecting a call to Alis was an entire procedure in and of itself, only adding steps to what was already an ever-changing schedule of times and places that almost never repeated.

Being on the simpler half of the procedure, Iris and Crestana had grown accustomed to it, and the occasional long silences that came and went. Visits were less frequent now, but for Alis that was a sign of good business.

Finally, she got to the last dial-tone and waited for four seconds—their agreed-upon length—until the tone broke.

"Hello?"

"Yirilbyrd."

Alis chuckled through the pattern reader. "Now that I think about it, wasn't Yirilbyrd a scientist? Who set that codeword again?"

"Have a complaint, do you?" Crestana said as Iris placed the receiver between them. "I was studying for an aetherology exam last time we talked. Head was bloody full of him."

"And did you pass?"

"You're asking the wrong person."

Crestana's gaze flicked towards Iris. Even Alis held his breath for her answer.

"Almost. It was the only one I failed, though."

"Cherish your education, Iris. It's the only place where we get taught lessons that don't hurt."

"Shut up Alis you sound like Mum."

"And unfortunately for you, Iris, Alis is the type to take that as a compliment. Am I wrong?"

"I have nothing but the utmost respect for Mrs Hardridge—"

"You're annoying now that you've learnt to make jokes."

"You ought to sometime," Al butted in, back to polishing his glasses. "Dash of sarcasm might actually make your words hurt less."

Crestana seemed to perk up after the bullying. Light jabs between each other would normally, as Crestana put it, fly over Iris's head, but around other people they'd seem to land. One big joke she was never in on, even when she wasn't the focal point.

How to Be a Comedian 101 wasn't on the syllabus, so there was nothing to study, even if she wanted to.

"Are you doing okay?" Iris asked, pivoting the subject.

"Same same. Near identical day in, day out. The shop's quiet recently, any idea why?"

"Situation on our end," Crestana said. "International convention might be diverting resources back home."

"Well…that isn't the shop's ballpark, is it? Better people for the job."

"You would think. I'm a tad hazy about it myself."

Crestana glanced at Iris. Now or never.

"Anonymous tip-off from a fed asset, taps Aether-lines for a hobby. Started recording coded messages: one way, from Excala to a northern rural town. They masked the termination with thirteen repeaters split half and half on either end."

Iris could hear his head whirring on the other end of the wire, processing the meat of the story into mince; something more digestible.

"Could be anything, really. Organised crime is my first guess, especially considering the flow of information. Do you have samples of the code?"

At that, Crestana began rummaging through her bag and pulled from it an elastic-bound notebook, thick leather binding its pages. Al examined the craftsmanship with mild interest.

"Phonetic alphabet. Together with numbers. I'll read out a short sequence."

"Should I be writing this down?"

"Up to you. I doubt it would mean much to anybody on your end of the pond."

"You never know," Alis said, voice lost in the rustling of clothes. "Always a chance for nasty surprises…okay. Hit me."

Crestana read out a passage—one monotonous codeword, one repetitive number at a time. The sequence was short, but only relatively, still taking the better part of two minutes to recite.

"That's all?" Alis asked. "Running out of napkins."

"That's all," Crestana confirmed. "Where are you right now?"

"Little restaurant downtown. I've been meaning to visit for a while now. Meat's dry, but you get a lot for the price. Old mum and pop shop. Charming place, décor's nothing to gawk at, hence the charm…"

Iris spun a finger in the air, although Crestana knew the routine already. Old habits died hard, and in lieu of exciting stories—because officially there were none—he regaled his dining experiences instead.

He'd get lost in his own world, spouting sentences that made no sense individually until the final rating tied it all together. Although over three years his tongue had only grown more astute, and even Crestana had to give him praise. According to her, the lack of a ghostwriter was the only thing standing between him and a career as a food critic.

"What's the rating?" Iris asked, trying to fit the individual descriptors of the restaurant and its menu in her head like a jigsaw puzzle.

"Seven…eight if they treated their cuts kinder, although I don't want to tell the chef that. He looks like the type to ban people like me."

"The gall," Crestana chuckled.

"No, I…I can understand it. Anyhow, this poem. I'll read up on it, ask a friend of mine who's into this sort of thing. He owes me a favour or two, but if I don't find a hit from him, I'm sorry but I'd have to call it quits there."

"It shouldn't circulate anyway," Iris said. "Thank you."

"For you two, anytime," he said, his clothes again rustling against the speaker. "Now that business is sorted, how's life in polite society?"

The bus rattled like an empty can. Hospital shuttle buses only came once an hour by that time of night. Visiting hours were dwindling; anybody looking to spend a meaningful amount of time with their loved ones was leaving it too late. Lucky for Crestana, that wasn't her intention.

She stepped off as a handful of passengers boarded, bid the driver goodnight and walked through the front entrance. Things were just as quiet inside; the flow of people leisurely, nurses talking amongst each other at the front desk, watching over a sparse front lobby.

Crestana asked for the long-term care ward, specifically for Mallorine. At that, the nurse's face drooped. She tried to save face by smiling, but quickly gave in. Crestana handed over her identification, and the nurse promptly called someone of higher seniority. Crestana found a seat in the lobby.

Only a minute or two passed before a doctor called for her from behind the desk, likely having nothing better to do at that time of night. He beckoned her to follow and led her through a series of corridors and stairs. At first, there was still life, nurses travelling from one room to another. After a while, these ran out, replaced by whispers, quiet moans and whimpers of people trapped in their own bodies. The quiet aching that travelled through the Aether bothered her the most.

Eventually, even this expired. The dimmest halls of the building conjoined and contorted to create what somebody of a suspicious inclination might've mistaken for purgatory. It was death's silence, only she wasn't in a morgue.

The doctor stopped by a door and waved her in, saying he would have to wait outside. Three years on, and apparently there was still a need for base security. Or perhaps they were making an exception for his daughter. That she could understand.

She opened the door and stepped inside what was a pillaged sarcophagus of a room. Nothing but a bed, a slow, steady feed of liquid Aether into his skin, and a nametag nailed into the footboard. He was in storage—a living being relegated to the annals of the building. Having a single room to himself was a luxury beyond comprehension.

Crestana watched the still face, trying to feel a hint of his consciousness. The drip-fed elixir overpowered him, practically his life itself now.

There was nothing left. He may well have been dead. The warped, misremembered recollection of him in her memory was leagues closer to what he once was than whatever lay before her now.

Because once upon a time her aunt had refused to let her visit out of fear she might kill him, and her aunt had been right. Back then, the mere thought of what he'd done made her crawl with guilt; the echoes of his voice in her head every night would drive her up the wall.

Fear. Fear had turned to anger, and its potency had only amplified in that transition. Still, the anger's vestiges drew her to the cord keeping him alive. The easiest, quietest death for somebody who owed so much more. Somebody who was still alive only by the grace of his family, who could at any point simply stop paying.

And so, only vestiges of that anger remained. She had all the power now. But power over a useless husk didn't breed fear. Fear didn't foster anger. Anger didn't foster determination. And guilt, the thing that ignited it all…well, she couldn't even remember his voice.

The city moved on to new bogey-men. The question now was how to take it down rather than who had done it.

And that was the problem. She needed fear. She needed anger. She needed guilt. Without it…without a desire to repent through action, the onus fell on her. Not the lifeless husk, but the one who could still carry out atonement but was too afraid to.

That was the true ghost hanging about her these days. That's how she knew her father was long dead.