 
## Moral Hazard

Samuel Glavney

Copyright 2015 Samuel Glavney

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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For Miriam
Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Author Bio
One

Andre ofthe Street had heard men described as 'long of tooth' before, but the fangpère had the longest teeth the boy had ever seen. They were evident every time the fellow smiled-- and Yezekael ofthe Families loved to share his smile. Long of tooth! The fangpère, we know, didn't actually have larger teeth than most men, but his shining, brutalized gums had pulled back on themselves over the years to reveal more and more yellowing root. It was an illusion, then: those shark teeth nothing more than a trick of the eye; but that didn't stop Andre from being afraid.

Andre had been warned not to deny the fangpère. There might-- there probably would-- be some strange requests of him: embarrassing, unpleasant, even painful things. No matter: he was to acquiesce to every last desire quickly and without question. No hesitation. He was old enough to know about whoring and to know that boys aren't beyond the long reach of that profession. Standing at attention before the fangpère, he was prepared for a rough time. His heart was pounding and he was reminding himself not to fight and not to make much noise, even as Zek asked him to remove his shirt and pants and undergarments. Trying not to show his terror-- trying, Allah help him, to appear eager-- he complied. No hesitation.

Now Andre stood before the older man, very naked, inside the cinder block dwelling of the hedman. They were alone and the fangpère was smiling. The hedman and the doctor and the fangpère's police were outside, waiting. Andre took in a breath and held it.

Yezekael ofthe Families andofthe Financiers, Prosperity Bringer, Innovator, and Necessary Personage took off his gloves, yes, and sawed his long teeth upon one knuckle, but he didn't move forward. He didn't lick his lips. The fangpère let his eyes trace the boy's body. The large man seemed as interested with Andre's chest and arms and feet and the dimensions of his neck and hands and chin as he did with his hips and buttocks and genitals.

But maybe this long examination was only the first part of whoring?

The fangpère circled behind him and Andre felt his asshole clench and his testes pull upwards. He gritted his teeth as he had when the guest doctor had given him his vaccination. Zek noticed all of it. The fangpère laughed and put his hands on the boy's shoulder and squeezed. Andre felt his sphincter shrink even tighter. He wanted to turn his head and bite down on the big hand resting on his shoulder. He wanted to run. He remained facing straight ahead.

"I'm not going to fuck you," purred the fangpère. "Not with fingers or tongue or fist or special toy. Not even with my cock! That would be rape, my boy. Whatever you may hear, raping a finalist is illegal under Rest-Vostok. And I am one for following the rules: a great defender of the treaty! Yes, and I bow to her in all things. Everything we do will be consensual, Andre ofthe Street. Understand? There will be a contract involved. I insist! And you will have a say in all of it. Everything. Your signature is very important."

Zek re-appeared suddenly in front of Andre. The big man was removing his gorgeous, white frills and charcoal vest and satin dress-bandoliers. Every engraved button on the fangpère's vest might have recompensed Andre's aunt for a decade of labor. Every dress-bandolier could probably bring steady electricity-- and the new infrastructure necessary to run it-- to one of Esham's streets for five years. Andre had watched the fangpère enter the district every day for the past two months to hunt for suitable boys. The man had never worn the same ensemble twice. Now Zek tossed these priceless garments to the hedman's cement floor.

"If I raped you," continued the fangpère in his marvelous accent, "or, God forbid, if I gave you my inheritance without that signature? Well, Andre, like all important men, I have enemies. Men-- and worse: women; these so-called progressives!-- who love any chance to leap upon weakness. To smear an honest businessman's name..."

Yezekael ofthe Families was shirtless now. He had an exceptional physique: his chest was covered in coarse, black hair and his broad shoulders and thick upper arms were decorated in expansive, swirling tattoos. His collarbone looked as though it had been chiseled from rock, and his stomach contained six fat muscles which flexed themselves with every inward breath. Twin obliques cut sharply above either hip and buried themselves in some mysterious zone beneath the front of Zek's tightly-fastened pants.

And so it was the boy's turn to stare. Andre had seen shirtless laborers all his life: welders, porters, framers, machinists, fishermen, cinder masons, road menders, and garbage collectors. As a young child, he had dreamed of someday joining them, walking shirtless through the midday heat of Esham with a wet cloth tied about his head, towards the export mills of the Line. He'd imagined himself with the height and strength of a man grown, and the authority, certainly... but he'd never imagined this. Those laborers he admired were sun-scorched and mostly-hairless men. Their ropey arms and torsos only supported as much muscle as a diet of rice and fish and the yearly holiday goat would allow. They seemed like walking stick bugs compared to the exaggerated musculature of the fangpère.

The older man smiled. Zek was obviously proud of his body; he was enjoying the boy's reaction. He said: "Not so bad, right? I've worked very hard to maintain this. Sixty-four years old, but with yearly regens I can expect to keep this muscle for another twenty! You see, I don't simply comply with the letter of the law, but the spirit as well! Now I won't deny I've had my setbacks-- a blood sickness I'm not fond of-- but we'll go over that unpleasantness in detail when the time comes. The fact remains: you won't be swindled, son. I'll make sure of it!"

***

Esham District hasn't received a fangpère in living memory. Which isn't to say that no one ever comes from the center of the city! Quite the contrary! Every month or two there's a new crop of guest doctors and community organizers and elementary school teachers and infrastructuralists and tourism specialists from Palais. They're all volunteers. They're highly-intentioned and well-educated and they speak with that beautiful Palasian accent and use stock phrases which are exclusive to development professionals. They grow frustrated with Esham and her problems quickly. Mostly, they return to their walled district after a few months and leave their work to the next crop of volunteers. The ones who stay are tough, cynical, and chronically discontent people who, I'd argue, find it romantic whenever the sewers flood out into the streets after a hard rain. They go to planning meetings with the district hedman and they're always fixing shacks or contributing a new room to the school or organizing a course on nutrition. They complain endlessly about funding. Once or twice a year, one of them will get an Eshamer pregnant. The Palasian, almost always, flees back beyond the Line in embarrassment, and the Eshamer will raise a child that looks slightly more cream-colored than the others in her neighborhood.

To be fair, the Palasian usually sends money to help.

But a visit from a fangpère! That's an altogether more rarified event: so uncommon, in fact, that before Yezekael ofthe Families arrived, most Eshamers had settled back into the easy belief that these peculiar visitors were nothing but words; old tales suddenly remembered with the chill air and early dark of October. Something to tell around the cook stove. Caravanners will talk about having seen a fangpère in Hardadin District less than ten years ago, certainly, but hasn't every Eshamer at one time or another been cheated by a caravanner? Those people see dragons and fangpères and airships everywhere they travel! And those magic turnips they sell? The ones, which, when buried at midnight with fresh menstrual blood and the right words, are supposed to shrink your swollen lymph nodes? How are those working for you? Have you noticed any difference? No? Well, there you go! Those people are born storytellers! No wonder we stopped believing in their distant boogeymen long ago!

But there was no disbelieving Yezekael. One morning, even before the goats had been driven through the gravel streets, that impossibly tall and handsome and well-dressed and purple-caped figure arrived with little fanfare but frantically preannounced. His name, somehow, was on everybody's tongue before they knew quite what they were talking about. The hedman, closer to panic than anyone can remember, went digging like a madman through the instructions of his deceased predecessors to come up with a necessary protocol.

And here it was: every young man, aged ten through eighteen, was to be lined up on Rue 181, south of where it intersects with the stone-filched Place ofthe Republic, and there they would stand until inspected by the fangpère's doctor.

In an organizational feat unmatched in Esham in Andre's lifetime, this was accomplished by noon. Andre stood, his sister and his mother and her sister-in-law behind him, on Rue 181. They stood for five hours. Work of the Line had been halted and there was a holiday atmosphere mixed with nervous energy. The boys played dice and football and their parents gossiped. Andre watched the shadows slowly lengthen down the street and listened to the women talk. No matter how hard he squinted, or how far he looked up and down the street, there were boys jumping and calling and running and napping. Waiting.

Finally, as the shadows stretched into whips and the sun lowered, a long black vehicle pulled down the street. It was the cleanest and most beautiful car Andre had ever seen. It was also the quietest; Andre couldn't hear the gravel grind under its wheels. Now mothers and fathers called to their boys and everyone got back into line. Once the car stopped, the door clicked open and a pale woman exited. This was Natsumi ofthe Surgeons, and she made an impression upon Andre right away: she was dressed in a white coat and carried a black bag. From this bag she pulled out something long and metal and unpleasant looking which glimmered in the low sunlight. Natsumi approached one of the boys a few meters to Andre's left and grabbed his chin with her free hand and began to pull his face this way and that. The boy's nostrils flared and he started to cry, and his parents moved forward to quiet him. The guest doctor continued probing.

"Like a fellow thinking of buying a radio," chuckled Andre's aunt, her voice husky from cigarettes. "Got to make sure he's in some kind of condition! Give him a little shake!"

"Hush, Josephine," said Andre's mother.

"Oh, it's only a joke," said his aunt, but she didn't say anything else.

***

"There's something I have to do," said Yezekael, "which you may find a little uncomfortable. I apologize for this, but it's necessary."

Andre nodded once, his eyes moving off the shirtless man and down to one of those faded rugs which were scattered atop the hedman's concrete floor.

"I know you probably don't trust guest doctors, son. I don't blame you! A little secret? In this town, at least, they're all quacks and butchers. It's true! They'll be back to bleeding and leeching and poulticing and humors and exorcisms in another generation, tops. But not Natsumi! She's a surgeon of the highest caliber, retained exclusively by the Families.

"Something else: Natsumi has mapped your genome, my boy! That's why she had you lie down for a few minutes, here, last week. Standard procedure. I have her map every boy I'm serious about.

"She's able to tell us so much. So much! For instance: I know your blood type, Andre, and I know that you currently have a six-percent chance of developing testicular cancer in the next thirty years. What else? I know that you fall within the acceptable range on the long-term mutation spectrum and that you are not predisposed to heart disease or the bone twister's malady or a thousand other little upsets. Lucky boy: you're not even going to go bald!

"You know, Natsumi has told me the state of your kidneys two decades from now? I shake my head when she tells me something like that. I throw up my hands! Pure magic. I simply can't get over it. But there is one thing-- and such a simple thing!-- which she cannot tell me. Or will not tell me. A test which she simply refuses to perform! So we'll make do without her..."

The fangpère held out a blue pill shaped like a diamond. Andre took it from him and studied it. He rolled it in the palm of his hand.

"You put the pill in your mouth," said Zek. "You swallow it like a vitamin. Oh! I'm always forgetting. Not so many supplements on this side of the Line, eh? Well! Just a moment..."

The fangpère moved to another of the hedman's rooms. When he returned, he held a glass cup full of the clearest water Andre had ever seen. The boy could look right through the glass and see the rest of the room swimming upside down on the other side.

"Place on the tongue-- yes, it's bitter-- then drink down the water. Beautiful. Just so."

Andre felt the lump pass down his throat and through his chest and into his stomach. He felt it sit in his stomach and he felt his stomach grow warm. It was as though someone had lit a gentle fire inside of him, just beneath his navel. Meanwhile, Yezekael ofthe Families andofthe Financiers was rummaging about in a bag. Zek removed two objects: the first was a carpenter's measuring tape; the second, some flimsy material. The material came out of the box with a snap and then was pulled down over Zek's big hands with a second snap. Suddenly, the fangpère was wearing a pair of white, powdered gloves. He looked almost like a guest doctor.

"I'm going to admit something to you, Andre," said Zek. "I suspect that our great surgeon already knows what I am about to discover: that, even so, she is forcing me to find out for myself. We certainly pay her enough-- we hold her in such esteem!-- but the relationship between servant and paymaster is never a simple one. Maybe she feels underappreciated? Or maybe just imagining the two of us here, like this, gives her something to laugh about in private? Natsumi is brilliant, but sometimes she can be strange. We must indulge her."

The fire in the pit of Andre's stomach was growing. It raced downwards. He felt pinpricks on his skin. And something was happening... a thing that must not happen... a forming and toughening and lengthening...

Andre fought it. He took a deep breath. He consciously loosened every muscle in his body. He loosened his sphincter: forced relaxation. It would go away. It would... and then Zek's big hand was on him. He could feel the feather-light touch of the man's fingers through the material of the glove.

"Sorry, son, but this is one thing I can't leave today without knowing. Think of it as a medical procedure. Pretend you're a bull if that helps. Close your eyes; I don't mind."

Andre closed his eyes. He had promised not to deny the fangpère. He swallowed and found that his mouth was dry. He felt Zek's fingertips brush at the base of him, drawing him out. He was swelling out into open space.

"We could tailor this, sure, but it's considered vulgar. You know? Tacky. The style of the last seventy years or so has been strictly _au naturale..._ "

Yezekael was no longer just brushing with the tips of his fingers. He was pulling and pushing, moving faster, and Andre sensed himself responding to the force of the touch. He was rising now, even as he grew, and he hung suspended horizontally. Zek squeezed harder. Now the fire from the pill was putting off a steady heat and Andre was as thick and long as he'd ever been and still the fangpère pulled upon him. Andre noticed his hips beginning to dance. Was the fangpère going to continue until he humiliated himself completely? Andre closed his eyes. His heart hammered. He coughed to cover a sob.

Without warning, Zek stopped and removed his hand.

Andre heard the whirl of the tape measure, and he felt the plastic of it pressed against him. He heard Yezekael ofthe Families whistle and, despite the circumstances, he felt, well...

Pride.

"This will do! This will do! Andre, my boy, you didn't tell me you'd hidden one of the Guns of Verdun down there! Well!"

Andre felt a gloved hand pat him on the cheek. He opened his eyes; the fangpère was handing him a towel.

"Enough of this! I'm moving you on to the next stage, son! Now, because I'm not a cruel man-- when I don't have to be-- a little fix for those blue balls..."

The fangpère snapped his fingers three times and he called out something quickly, in his own dialect. The hedman's front door swung open and standing there, between two of the fangpère's guard, was a small figure wrapped in gaudy and colorful cloth. She reminded Andre of those pieces of Palasian candy which guest doctors give children after their shots. Red hair trickled out from the sides of her raised hood.

"I present to you Yasmin ofthe Pillows," said Zek. "Yet another professional retained by the Families. We pay her a boatload, Andre, so don't be shy. Maybe there was something you've been curious about? Something you've been meaning to try? You're a young one, still, so I don't imagine you'll come up with anything she hasn't encountered before..."

Andre stood frozen. The towel was wrapped around his waist but it shoved wretchedly forward in front of him, hiding nothing but flesh. His testicles ached as though the fangpère was still beneath him, gripping viciously. The muscles begged for release from their flexing. The boy stared at the colorfully-wrapped woman. She was shapeless beneath the robes. All he could see was a bit of red hair and pale jaw and painted lips turned up in a smirk.

"Yasmin," said Zek. "Why don't you show the young man what he's getting? We want to make sure you're his type before I leave and it's too late for him to change his mind!"

"Sir," whispered Andre. "There's no need..."

"No need?" boomed the fangpère. "No need! Did you hear that, Yasmin? Here is Andre! One of the finalists for my inheritance. If only he would trade me his manners, as well; maybe my daughters would start speaking to me again. Alas, we can only be what we are! Speaking of which, Yasmin, what did I just tell you? Let's see those tits."

The candy-fabric hood slid back from the woman's face. The robe slid down her shoulders and came to rest across her belly, so that everything beneath her hips remained shrouded. Her skin was very pale and her hair very red and her eyes very green. She was easily the most gorgeous woman Andre had ever encountered and, even revealed as she was, she looked impressively bored. She examined the hedman's carpeted room, and the two men occupying it, with an expression that couldn't even be qualified as dislike. She stood nearly as still as a statue. She breathed, though, and the result of this slight movement upon the rise and fall of her shoulders caused Andre to suffer beneath his towel. He lowered his eyes to the floor.

"Oh no you don't! Andre! Eyes up! True art is rare enough without self-censorship! Now let me show you..."

The fangpère moved to Yasmin and he cupped her left breast in his gloved hand. He began wiggling his fingers, causing the rose-colored nipple to gyrate in a steady circle.

"Yasmin, here, has one of my three favorite types of breast," said Zek. "Not a pair of goddamned balloons like any imbecile can suffocate in, but the sort of gradual ski slope that it takes a connoisseur to really appreciate. It's a fine balance, of course, but I think you'll agree that in Yasmin's case they are simply--"

"Zek," sighed Yasmin. "You'll have to leave me alone with the boy if you ever want him to become a connoisseur." Her voice was rough and she spoke with an accent Andre had never heard before.

The fangpère dropped his hand back to his side. He shrugged and gave Andre an imploring look. "Anything else? I have her pedigree. Age and education and latest checkup results..."

Yasmin laughed, amused at last. "For him? He'd be happy hammering away at an unvaccinated little Jill ofthe Alley, I'll bet. Leave us to it, Zek."

"What about a man, Andre? A boy your own age? Speak now, if that's what you want. It's no difficulty. Nothing to be ashamed of, no matter what the local shaman has been filling your ears with. They're waiting outside. Whatever you want..." Zek spread his arms wide.

Andre looked down at the white cloth tower. In a low voice-- not quite believing himself-- he said: "No, sir. Yasmin, please."

He looked back up. The fangpère was grinning like a boy who's just scored his team's first goal. His shark teeth were long and they went from yellow to very white. He barked: "I knew it! I saw it! Right away I said to myself, 'I bet this one likes redheads!'"

Yasmin rolled her eyes. She was wearing a little smile. Indulging.

"That's it from me!" proclaimed Zek, moving to the hedman's door. "I'm off to see whether the next boy 'measures up!' Ha-ha! But don't worry, Andre; you've got her all afternoon. Plenty of the Pillows to go around!"

Turning, he flashed another of his awful smiles: "Show her why you're moving to the next stage, my boy! Show her the Gun of Verdun!"

Two

It was after his first examination by Natsumi ofthe Surgeons, but before his encounter with Yasmin ofthe Pillows, that Andre met Marie. Let's introduce her.

Marie ofthe Artisans was a Palasian volunteer; she'd been living in Esham for eight months. In this time, she'd already picked up a number of district mannerisms and driven a local man to suicide. The mannerisms were easy and felt natural; the suicide, too, felt oddly inevitable once there was nothing to be done about it. Here was both the final result of unrequited heartache and indisputable proof that Marie was having an effect upon her adopted community. After eight months, it was the only proof she could find.

Marie had taken virtual tours of the seven neighborhoods closest to Palais and she'd settled upon Esham. Why? It wasn't the poorest of the city's slums, or the ugliest. The people weren't as darkly picturesque as those in Koubah District and the place wasn't as prone to flooding and mosquitos as Al Qasbah. Marie's friends had gone to these neighborhoods; in the evenings, over the wire, she would look at pictures of them. They were always pouring concrete with intense, lean men or sticking tongue depressors into the mouths of sad-eyed women. They were always surrounded by children. Marie's friends were nurses and engineers and infrastructuralists and technical advisers. They took difficult, utility-driven assignments in greater-need districts and they published their results to the wire. In the pictures, they always looked both determined and kind. Here they were improving lives. Here they were getting results.

Marie ofthe Artisans had more modest goals.

If you asked Marie whether she had any special gifts, she would demur or flatly refuse to answer you. She possessed beauty, yes, but this was the gift of biology and not a little prenatal tinkering. Most Palasians are beautiful: Marie didn't really consider this beauty her own-- more a thing that had happened to her-- and anyway, it wasn't something she could give to anyone; not a gift for the world. But if you pressed Marie ofthe Artisans, waving away with your hand any more talk of physical beauty and focusing in on abilities and passions, she would falter. And if you possessed enough charisma and genuine interest, and you applied these like a pry-bar (maybe over some merlot), you would begin to see some of the disappointment-- and the hope-- she covered with her dismissals. And then you would be onto something.

Even then, the most Marie would say of herself was: "I work very hard, and sometimes I make things that I'm proud of."

Marie organized mural projects for school children. As a Palasian, she wasn't constantly escorted through the city streets by a man-- father, brother or husband-- but she was sure to cover her hair and to dress modestly, even in the terrific afternoon heat. She brought buckets of paint and brushes and spray cans and primer to several sooty, blank walls throughout the district. She paid an old and confirmed bachelor named Gustave ofthe Olives to watch her supplies while she gathered children from the local schools in her pickup truck. Gustave, she knew, did the community's work by watching her, too.

The children Marie gathered were usually girls and small boys, ages six through twelve. Except for a core group of especially lonely or unhealthy or artistic kids, the faces were different every day.

The difficulty was focus. With a multi-story 'canvas' near completion, suddenly a craze would sweep over the new day's crop of painters. An old prayer, painted on the wall in that snaky script called Arabic? But Havva, from third form, had been down to the ocean this morning with her father, and they had seen an octopus! An octopus? Eight swooping arms and slimy body climbing across the rocks, underneath the waves. An octopus! An octopus! A prayer you couldn't read was boring! Stupid! What the side of this building needed was a big, gross octopus!

Now, because teaching compromise is important, the prayer's trim lines would be replaced with white-grey tendrils. The script's delicate curves would become a bed for suction cups and its points would become the joining place for long, intertwining limbs. It would still be recognizable as a prayer from the Koran (by any scholar who could read that forgotten script). It would simply be a cephalopod, as well.

The octopus-contingent would be ecstatic, of course, but Marie would never see them again. She would take a picture of the completed project with whoever happened to be working that day, and she would send it across the wire. There were always one or two enthusiastic comments from friends. Otherwise, the pictures of her children's' completed murals were met with resounding silence. There was puzzlement behind that silence, she thought, and maybe even disapproval.

Worse than the silence of her own circle, however, was the total ambivalence of the Eshamers. One evening, returning home from the bread line, veiled and sweltering, she'd seen one of her children's' murals being painted over. Running up, she'd begun shouting: "Wait! Wait! This is a public work! This was made by children! Residents! What do you think you're doing?!"

The censor, surprised to find himself being yelled at by a woman, had turned to look at her. Seeing, at once, that he was speaking with a Palasian (headscarf and dress never hid that), he'd taken on a surly look and lit a cigarette between a pair of long, stained fingers knotted by bone twist. He'd had a running sore in his neck and the spotty, multicolored skin of a 'tanted man.

"Public Work?" He'd seemed to ponder that. "I don't think so! Houseman tells me: 'Take she down.' She's naught but graffiti! House Man tells me: 'She invite in the crime, invite in the drugs.' This is a clean tenement!"

"That's not right! I submitted a written proposal to the House Manager! I took him to this site. He secured supplies for us! Ladders! Paint brushes!"

The 'tanted censor had shrugged. "Allah, glory unto Him, He hates the drawn man. You know that, Palais lady? Maybe the Houseman thinks you were going to draw the nice big tree? A Cedar of Lebanon?"

Clearing her throat, Marie had said: "That was the plan, yes, but one of the little girls has a brother who works as a porter. And she worships him. She wanted a picture of him so much... and suddenly all the children wanted the same thing..."

"So the brats did change the plan?"

"The brats did change the plan. They always do."

"Well, next time, keep to the plan. I got to cover she up. Allah, all glory unto Him, does hate the drawn man."

Her Octopus Prayer and Triumphant Dog and Gamboling Minotaur and Dancing Swans in Dresses had all suffered the same fate. Meanwhile, here on the wire were more pictures of Joan ofthe Nurses vaccinating a crying girl-- with an outpouring of thanks from the hedman of Al Qasbah in the comments. Marie had been ready to throw in the towel and return to the easy, structured boredom of Palais when Yezekael ofthe Families came to Esham. Now, under the strange atmospheres which had descended upon Verdun with Zek's arrival, the simplest thing in the world happened: Marie ofthe Artisans met the fangpère's favored boy and together they began to paint.

***

Andre and Marie met at the football match where the scarred oldman tried to kill the fangpère. The match was between Esham and Hardadin. Zek had invited twenty of his favorites to sit with him in the hedman's box to watch the game. Yezekael, the perfect guest, was riotously pro-Esham: screaming and swearing and gesturing; standing and sitting and taking little nips from a silver flask that moved, unceasingly, between hand and lips and gold-lined pocket. The Eshamers, seeing such an important visitor falling so passionately for their district's heroes, fell in turn for Yezekael. They stood when he stood and roared along with him, so that the fangpère might have been a high practitioner of the dark arts, whipping up the howling wind with his gestures and inspiring passive spectatordom to frenetic activity.

The assassination attempt occurred mid-game, maybe a minute into the second half. Neither team had scored. Andre, already a favorite amongst favorites, was sitting next to Yezekael and watching the large man drink. Andre was watching Zek's eyes as they moved across the field. He was studying the handsome crow's feet that worked back across Zek's face like dry riverbeds. The fangpère, done shouting for a moment, caught the boy studying him. And so the fangpère's silver flask dropped into Andre's lap. It rested in his hands, the most precious thing that anyone in his family had ever held.

"Amsterwine," barked Zek. "Retrieved from the sea floor near Flanders. Expensive. Fun. Have a little bit! Just a little. I don't want you spitting up everywhere."

Andre stared at the flask.

"For chrissake!" said Zek. "Drink! You know how to drink?" He mimicked turning the flask up towards his own glistening lips. "Drink a drink and tell me what you think!"

He roared laughter and Andre, thus commanded, drank. The liquid burned-- just as the blue pill the fangpère would hand him a few weeks in the future would burn-- but this burn went to his head instead of his crotch. Andre felt dizzy. He shook his head and Yezekael barked laughter. Andre handed back the flask, afraid to keep such a valuable object resting in his own shaking hands, and he looked around the stadium. He studied the spectators. Their faces had become more vivid and animated and hateful. Allah be merciful! It seemed as though he could see the audience pouring the rage and venom of their souls down onto the field in front of them. Their emotions took on colors: amber and blood and rose and fire. Andre saw a man sitting across the field with his young son. He saw the sky-blue affection and ocean-grey love that floated from the man's chest to surround and cushion the little boy. Time slowed, slowed, slowed...

In this way, Andre saw Zek's would-be assassin.

The oldman wore the long jacket which caravanners wear to transport and sell multiple knickknacks. He wore camouflage pants and thick boots, stained from hard travel. His hair was a silver halo floating fantastically about his head. He skin was black-- uncommon in Esham, where citizens' coloring is closer to brightly-stained wooden furniture, but not unheard of-- and he had milky eyes filled with thrice-calculated hate. Those eyes held rigid upon Yezekael ofthe Families.

"Do you seen him yet?" asked Zek. "The old nigger that's here to kill me?"

The noise of the crowd and the whistles of the referees had become nothing more than the distant roar of the ocean. Zek's words cut directly through them.

"I see him."

"Quick on the ball. Bravo. Now, take a good look at the right side of his neck: a twin set of scars. Healed lacerations. He's not one of mine but it hardly matters; any member of the Families is good enough for this slob. He's one of the ungrateful ones, my boy; convinced himself that he's been wronged, somehow. That he needs revenge! As though he didn't sign up. He's got a pistol on him somewhere: an old Glock. Unregistered, no social harmony lock. He may have even loaded it with silver bullets, the poor, ignorant whoreson."

"Silver bullets?"

"Who knows? We can't track everything. He came in off the tanker from Algiers three days ago. Speaks the lingua passably. He really thinks he has a shot!"

"What are you going to do?"

The fangpère closed his eyes and gave his hideous yellow-to-white smile. "I let him in here, didn't I? I could have taken him at any time, but... what's your name again, boy?"

"Andre ofthe Street, sir."

"Well, remember this, Andre: I could've had this dog murdered in his cot back in Biafra, when he started pulling up the wrong articles from the wire... but sometimes it's better to set an example in front of a crowd. Yes, and a man of my varied experiences gets bored, too. One needs a little blood sport now and then. Here he comes! Eyes back on the ball, Andre! Let's not give away the real game!"

The oldman was walking straight towards them now, approaching from their left. His right arm was crossed over his chest, and the hand was buried in one of the front pockets of his caravanner jacket. Andre, out of the corner of his eye, saw the jagged scars that rested on the oldman's neck like fat, brown worms. He saw the man lick his lips with an over-pink tongue. He saw how skinny the black man was, and how sickly, and how his face was deeply pockmarked. Andre saw all of this, and after a long time-- where he pretended to watch a stalemated football match-- the scarred Moor stood before them. He stood directly in front of Yezekael and his twenty boys.

Andre watched it all play out as though from underneath the ocean: the oldman said something in a dialect so foreign that Andre understood none of it; Zek answered in the same pidgin. The oldman brought out his gun and raised it directly to the fangpère's chest. Zek's boys were reacting now, ducking and cursing and flattening themselves and silently leaving their seats, their urgency spreading as a wave spreads. Someone shouted. Only Andre, feeling sluggish and unreal, remained standing with the two men.

And so of all the boys, only Andre noticed that the oldman had tears in the corners of his eyes. He saw, too, that one of those eyes was clouded by a cataract. The oldman was smiling: magnificent, split lips pulled back from yellowing teeth and vacating gums.

He pulled the trigger.

A dull click, no concussion. He pulled again. Nothing. He said something in his own dialect: disbelief and horror and rage. More pulling, more impotent clicking. A howl. The oldman met the fangpère's eyes. Zek took the gun away from him almost gently, the way a parent takes a toy from a naughty child. Zek removed the clip and had a look at the ammunition, and then the fangpère nodded and made the sigh of a chess master who has foreseen every move. Everyone was watching. The match continued-- the players on the pitch too focused on their game to notice the drama playing out above them-- but the spectators had all turned towards the hedman's box. I'll bet, too, that enough Eshamers saw what happened next to keep the fangpères from slinking back into legend for another generation, at least. It happened like this:

Zek began humming to himself. The humming turned into a whistling in his chest, and this whistling became another noise entirely: something too low or high to be heard, but which rattled bones and teeth. The scarred oldman, limp with failure, faced the fangpère and matched the big man's stare. Perhaps he was as curious as everyone else about this thing that was about to happen to him. It seemed to Andre (although, I'll admit, it could have been the Amsterwine) that Zek's chest was now having an effect upon the air around the two men, causing it to ripple as though from terrific heat.

The old Moor started to shake.

He died pretty badly, with his fingertips dancing and smoke rising from the whites of his cooking eyes, and as the _coup de grace_ , Zek's final trick, the fangpère raised the Glock to the oldman's head, nestled it under his chin, and with a single, monumental blast sent pink brain matter flying up, up, up, in a mushroom-shaped mist which hung and dissipated and left perfect silence behind. The body, crumpling, did not make noise.

There was a bit of panic after that, but Yezekael ofthe Families andofthe Financiers ordered the match to continue, and so the hedman ordered the match to continue, and so, grimly, it continued. Esham District won with a single point in the seventy-third minute, and when the fangpère stood up to cheer, the whole stadium stood with him, and not a spectator could be found-- from either district-- who didn't.

Once the match was over, Zek finally spoke to the armored police surrounding him and the twenty boys. The hedman, cringing, also spoke with the fangpère, and a small army of Yezekael's advisors and retainers and metadata-analysts appeared. Natsumi ofthe Surgeons placed a stethoscope to the fangpère's chest and placed two fingers on his wrist and, using another special instrument, looked into his eyes and his right ear and down his throat.

She said: "You've had your fun, Zek, but it's placed a strain on your heart. As I told you it would. This ghetto can wait another day; the last thing you need is more of this brand of excitement. Back to Palais with us. For today, at least, you need bed rest."

Yezekael was mournful. "Natsumi, please! I promised the boys I'd take them to the sea today. Crabbing! I was going to buy ice cream..."

"You should have thought of that before ordering Captain Nguyen's team to stand down. You're lucky not to be spending another night in the Angel of Mercy. The boys can wait, too. Trust me: they're in no mood for the beach after your little show. And look! The new shoes you bought them are ruined."

The fangpère studied the twenty boys sitting about him, silent and staring. The ghoulish corpse of the oldman had finally been removed with the end of the game, but his blood had had plenty of time to spread. Many of the boys' shoes were stained dark.

"I have to go, boys," said Zek in a voice turned hoarse. "New shoes for all of you the next time we meet. Remind me. I'll be back tomorrow or the next day. My people will be in contact. We'll go to the beach when we're all feeling better, ok? We'll have a nice day, boys. A really wonderful day..."

He left, surrounded by a phalanx of black-armored police. The sea of Eshamers parted silently for this bodyguard. Only a few of the braver children hoped to sneak a glance at the blood-soaked fangpère, while the rowdiest of men hung their heads low and clasped their hands behind their backs in that old sign of respect.

I'm happy to report, however, that once Yezekael's entourage was out of sight, the women and men of Esham rushed the favored boys, and held them, and checked them for injuries, and wiped their faces clean of blood speckles. A few of the boys began crying, and these were embraced by thick, overbearing, olive-skinned women transformed into maternal bears. The boys were rocked and shushed, and their heads were patted by hard-looking laborers who called them 'brave lads,' while leathery porters gave them candy. Both the Esham and Hardadin football teams came forward, and those terrific athletes-- the small gods of the district pantheon to whom Allah allows residence somewhere in the infinite realms beneath Him-- winked at the boys, and shook their hands, and gave out signed jerseys.

Marie ofthe Artisans also came forward. Unsure what to do-- her own black boots sticking in the oldman's blood-- she took the shoulders of the boy closest to her and pulled him in close.

He very nearly reacted the way a surprised dog does when you run your hand atop that dangerous place at the base of his neck. There was a jolt of twisting movement-- wide eyed, teeth bared and every muscle spring-tight-- and then he realized the nature of that feminine touch and he went as slack as an old cat in a sunbeam. He resisted nothing, and Marie turned him around and took a look at his face.

Yes, and she saw right away why the fangpère wanted him: At sixteen (seventeen? eighteen?) he was already as tall as she, and he possessed those rich Levantine features that must cause even a smirking and ironical son of the Families to catch his breath. The boy had enormous, seeking eyes outlined in fine black and he had a strong patrician nose and black hair with a slight curl. Marie found herself, a woman of thirty years, examining him the way she'd examined Palisian men in nightclubs and cafes and bookstores and district parks. She felt a moment of self-horror and dismissed it, reminding herself that this was, after all, why Zek favored the boy. He was beautiful; there was no escaping that uncomfortable truth. Better to look it straight in the eye and move on.

And then what? Commit herself to his protection? Impossible. She was nothing to Zek. Invite him to paint murals? Well. That was why she was here, wasn't it? It was a little thing she could do. Next to nothing, but all the same... something. She would invite him, at least. He wouldn't accept, but it would ease her heart to have offered. Yes, and mentoring would keep her correct and safe: he would be like a little brother or a son.

Thusly, she continued to hold him.

***

But to Marie's great surprise-- and part of this surprise originated from the delight she felt-- Andre was there the next day, waiting at the site when she arrived in her pickup. He'd brought a dark-haired and silent little girl, too young for a hijab. Gustave was down the street chain-smoking and drinking tea and playing dominos. Gustave might arrive in five minutes or several hours. Her normal pack of children had not arrived yet, either.

The three of them were alone in the cool of late morning in this abandoned lot where not even the 'tanted men pitched their tents. Andre and the girl watched Marie unpack her truck. Here, first, were the canvas and plastic tarps, already stinking of oils and splotted and torn from heavy use. Marie arranged them at the base of the brick wall more from habit than anything; the ground here was nothing but dust and weeds, not worth protecting from saturation. Next came six buckets of paint: red; blue; green; yellow; white; black. Now, out came the paintbrushes and rollers. The brushes ranged from as fine as a pinkie finger to wider than the width of a man's hand. Andre ran his fingertips across the tops of the brushes. He was surprised by how soft they were and how they bent under his touch and sprang back to wiggle in the breeze. They reminded him of the tails of horses.

Marie brought out spray cans. She tossed one to Andre. Her throw was short, but he caught it effortlessly (of course he did; this would be another of the reasons Yezekael wanted him). Andre looked from the spray can up to her. Those colt's eyes were curious.

"Do you know how to write your name?" she asked. Even in Esham it was an insulting question, but there was no getting around it: many of them didn't.

"Sure," said Andre. "I can read and write. Algebra, too. I made it through Line Worker School."

"Alright!" said Marie. "Write your name on this wall, then."

Andre looked from the spray can to the brick wall, and then to Marie. He smiled at her as though unsure whether or not she had just told a wonderful joke.

"I'm serious!" said Marie. "Watch."

She took a spray can at random from the drop cloth. She shook the can five or six times, letting the little ball-bearing make its satisfying jingle, and she aimed the nozzle at the wall. She pressed the top.

Red paint came swooshing out in a thin stream, hitting the wall in a perfect point. The wall had been cleaned and treated by Marie a few days earlier. It was ready to drink in paint and hold color fiercely, and she was pleased to see that there was no struggling with it. Marie worked with haste, throwing her arm up and down, writing the curves of her name with elaborate finesse. It took her less than a minute and when she was done, the wall said:

Marie ofthe Artisans daughterof Henri ofthe Bureaus

Now it's your turn

full name, Please!

Andre stared at the name, the message, the altered wall, the excess red paint dribbling down from the wording in dribs and drabs. He wore the look which children adopt when they are shocked by something which also pleases them: when they encounter, for instance, a pleasant deviation from the norm of adult behavior. He looked again at the spray can as though realizing its potential. Wordlessly, he raised it to the ready wall and wrote:

Allahu Akbar!

Hello, Marie

my name is

Andre ofthe Street sonof Jerome ofthe Line

this is my Sister

Collette ofthe Street daughterof Jerome ofthe Line

He thought a moment before adding:

I am babysitting

When he was done, Marie gave a hoot of joy. Andre remained silent, but his lips were pulled back in a tight grin against healthy teeth. Those almost-Asiatic eyes shone. Beautiful. She saw again why Yezekael ofthe Families wanted him. And for the first time, she wondered how great the chances were that this boy would be chosen for the fangpère's inheritance. In the end it was a question of personal aesthetics: tastes and preferences. Certainly there had been other boys with Yezekael yesterday, but if the old money mover shared her ideals of beauty...

Marie felt the first stirrings of fear for the boy.

They worked the morning away almost without interruption. Gustave came to check up on his charge, smoked a cigarette in silence, and ambled back in the direction of his dominoes. A few young children bicycled into the deserted lot, saw the written names upon the wall, demanded to write their own, were allowed, and also departed. These slow days, where the attention of every Eshamer seemed directed at his or her own wandering affairs, had once depressed Marie. She'd felt that her large public projects deserved more local attention-- or at least curiosity! Now, however, she welcomed the silence which let her listen to the brushes move cautiously across the wall.

They were trying to paint an interior view of the Line. It was difficult: Marie had never been inside of one of Esham's export mills; she had to have the scene described to her. Now, as the picture formed on the wall in front of her, Marie felt her heart go out to the workers of the Line. She and Andre were invoking a stark place: all institutional greens and beiges and blacks, hard lines and sharp corners, squatting boxes and spindly claws. Reds? she asked Andre as they moved, left to right. Blues? The boy shook his head. I don't think so, Miss ofthe Artisans. Windows? she asked. There would be blue sky floating in through the windows! Maybe they sat up high? No windows, Miss ofthe Artisans. Not in any of the mills I've worked. Maybe in others.

There were arrows and chevrons and warning labels. Yellow and black. Yellow and black. Yellow and black, and finally a little bit of red. CAUTION. ACHTUNG. CUIDADO. RISK OF LACERATION. INFLAMMATORY. RISK OF CHEMICAL BURN. CRUSHING HAZARD. KEEP HANDS AND FEET FREE OF MACHINE WHILE IN USE. THIS MEANS YOU! They could embellish here-- satirize those rigid warnings-- and they did. They drew the little stickmen of the warning labels being mutilated in the most unlikely ways: decapitation; impalement; torsos ripped atwain. Marie, working in the worsening heat of early afternoon, felt like one of the inquisitors of those late-medieval purges she had learned about in school, devising bizarre and elaborate executions. And if the mural seemed to be growing, shifting, darkening into a nightmare scene obviously more childhood memory than reflective of any possible human reality, well, that was fine, too. She'd already given the people of this district the gorgeous, strange, and half-formed images of their own children and then watched those blasphemies smother under off-white paint. Here was a new type of gift.

Shaking her head to clear it of bitter thoughts, she said: "Andre, let's take a break. Find some shade. I brought iced-tea..."

"Miss ofthe Artisans? Could I finish this bit of flooring here? This paneling? Then I'll be ready to take a break."

"Go for it. And call me Marie. You make me feel old."

Andre shrugged. "You're not old, Miss ofthe Artisans... Marie. In fact, if you're still in Esham next month, come visit me. You won't feel old at all, I bet."

There wasn't much she could say to that.

Three

One morning, because even the ganglords of Esham fear men who can kill with a look, Zek had gathered his three favorites in the district's worthiest den of sin and they'd found themselves with the run of the place. Gathered around a lovely felt poker-table, the fangpère had been telling the boys about the cities of the world. He'd been showing them pictures of incredible gilded buildings, and heartbreaking art, and unbelievable animals, and ancient cobblestoned streets, and volcanic landscapes, and young women in all stages of undress, and raucous clubs filled with rainbow light. The boys stared in silent wonder at all of it, scrolling through pictures and watching movies which floated in the air above them. The fangpère seemed to enjoy watching their faces.

"Yes," he said, swirling purloined whiskey in a provided glass. "There's quite a life out there, boys. Quite a life."

A spherical blue world shimmered above the poker-table. The world spun, slowly, and each of the boys took turns pressing this or that black dot representing a city. Upon pressing a dot, the different scenes from that city would begin presenting themselves: local dishes and dress and art and sports. Women and men of every shade and aspect.

"And some of the greatest cities-- my favorites-- you boys will never get the chance to see! Swallowed by the hungry ocean two hundred years ago, at least. A dozen Atlantis's..."

On every one of the seven continents there was at least one city highlighted in red. Now, the brooding muscular boy named Corin asked: "You've been to all of these places, sir?"

"Which places, son?"

"The cities in red, sir. That's why they're red? To remind you of the places you've been?"

The fangpère let out a sharp laugh. "My boy, I like you! But surely you realize I've been to more cities than that! No. The red cities are places where I keep a home and a woman. Doesn't do to forget!" He winked.

The boys stared at him in awe.

The smallest of them, the fey delicacy named Benet, asked: "And what about our city, sir? Isn't she beautiful?"

"Verdun?" said the fangpère. "This city..."

His face took on a curious look. Then: "I agree completely. It's a wonderful place. Filled with a friendly, entrepreneurial spirit! Yes. I'm considering opening a branch factory here, actually, once I've passed on my inheritance to one of you. A-G engine parts. Absolutely! Strongly considering it."

Benet brightened. "I'm glad you think so, sir! I climb on the roof of our tenement some nights and look in at it. The central district, I mean. Palais. And some nights our neighbors from the seventh floor bring a telescope up, and we can look into the elevators moving up and down the Spire Deluxe... and the men in the elevators wear funny hats, and the women are always in dresses..." He trailed off.

"Well, naturally," said Yezekael, and then: "But that's right! None of you boys have ever been to the center of the city, have you? Some local policy...?"

All three shook their heads.

"Would you like to go right now?"

Twenty minutes later, they were being escorted through a checkpoint under the monolithic, concrete surface of the Line. The boys were surrounded on all sides by masked and armored police. Andre knew that even representatives of the district hedman often waited over an hour while credentials were checked. With a wave of his hand, however, Zek moved them forward. The boys' pictures were taken and they were issued little laminated badges that read: "Visitor."

When Andre's visa was slow to print-- requiring multiple attempts-- the fangpère roared: "Do you damned idiot lackeys have any idea who we are?!"

The functionary working the machine said: "Of course, sir! Of course... We appreciate your patience, sir. Unfortunately, we must insist that all outer-district residents wear identifiers and maintain visas on their persons at all times..."

"Screw your visas!" cried Zek, big hand hammering into meaty palm. He was enjoying himself. "You can send a runner to us with your all-important scrap of paper! And then we may-- or may not-- choose to wear it! Come on, boys! I've seen better-run McDonald's!"

And, leaving Andre's tourist visa behind, they moved forward. Around them, city police moved in lockstep. The functionary, no longer protesting, was left behind. They walked for five minutes though an underground tunnel with security stations every hundred meters. The click of boots echoed off the walls and the boys listened, their breathing shallow. Yezekael hummed a randy tune.

They emerged from the subterranean passage into light, beauty, and greenery. The music of flutes floated dreamily through the air. A well-dressed oldman feeding pigeons saw them walk up the steps leading out of the passage and blinked. Then he went back to feeding pigeons, too courteous to stare. Beyond the oldman and beyond the trees behind him, those great buildings that stretched so high into the Eshamer sky finally found purchase in solid earth. It seemed impossible. A white and smooth and maintained path led them in towards the center of Palais and more certain impossibilities. All they had to do was follow.

***

"I don't understand," said Andre, the next day. "Why would you leave a place like that? Why would you ever come here?"

"For the sea," murmured Marie. "For one thing."

The two of them had just broken for lunch. They were sitting on the edge of a pier in the Esham Dockyards, watching the gigantic tankers crawl across the water. Their legs hung a few meters above the brown ocean rolling in beneath them. Andre was still wearing his Palasian visa on a little chain around his neck. He was still talking about Palais as though he had not heard her. He was saying: "And Zek promised to take us to the very top of the Spire Deluxe! The very, very top! Where airships from all around the world land!"

"I've never been to the top," said Marie.

"His ship is up there," said Andre. "His very own. Private! And he said that the last of us-- the one to get the inheritance-- will go for a ride with him in it. Before the ceremony."

"Lucky boy," said Marie.

"And, Marie... he took us to the Baths! First they de-liced us in a room with a flashing light and a lot of noise-- I could hear the lice popping in my hair-- and then we took hot showers, and then they gave us new swimsuits and they scrubbed us with sponges and hard brushes. And we swam for hours in five different pools! And we jumped off the diving boards and went down the slides! Just the four of us! Everyone else had to leave when the fangpère chose a new pool. Or else, he chose a few more boys to play with us and they had to do whatever we told them!"

"I hope you were kind to them."

"Oh we were," said Andre. "Oh! And Zek took us to a restaurant. ' _Le Poisson!_ '"

"The best in the city."

"It was great! I've never had food like that! And he had a tailor give us all new clothes-- just for the restaurant! And Palais... it's like I always dreamed of when I looked up at night... No! Better! With trees on the rooftops and no trash in the streets! And no stray dogs! Our hedman is right: you really know how to run your part of the city. We need to learn from you."

"Our infrastructuralists would be happy to listen to you talk."

"So why leave?" He asked again. "Why come here?"

Marie stared out at the ocean. "It's the fashion," she said, "to volunteer your expertise in the outer districts sometime after university. It's called, 'giving back to Verdun.' The very best young men and women perform their service: doctors and engineers and educators. We go out into the barrios and slums and 'tanted districts, and we work with the poor and the picturesque. And, of course, we document ourselves and post our good works to the wire. That's important. If an act of kindness is performed in Esham without a camera, did it ever happen?"

Andre could tell from her tone that the question was rhetorical. He waited, watching a seagull dive into the ocean before them.

"It almost seems like we care so much," she said. "But then we have the Line, don't we? That wall that controls-- so scientifically-- the inflow and outflow of goods and people. That wall that keeps all of you out of Palasian schools and Palasian hospitals and Palasian restaurants and-- most importantly-- out of the Palasian workforce."

Andre ofthe Street shook his head. He said: "But you came from that beautiful place to live with us. To try and help us. To change things."

She snorted. "I can't even help myself! No. I came to be neighborly. To beautify a few walls. To remind Eshamers that we're just regular people on the other side of the Line. That's all I've got."

They were walking back towards the mural when Andre asked: "And Yezekael?"

"You of all people should know why he came."

Silence for a few steps, and then the words seemed to spill out of him: "Did you know that around here it's bad luck to talk about them? Like if you mention them on a sunny morning, it'll bring rain, and that'll be your fault. And sailors won't say the word 'fangpère' at sea."

Marie made a thinking sound in her throat. "We have something like that in Palais: talking about them is considered impolite. It's 'not done.' So if it comes out you've got an opinion on the Families, you're not getting invited to any parties. Your social circle shrinks. You might not get the position you're hoping for. It can really hurt you! And so people don't talk about them. I suppose it comes down to kind of the same thing."

"It's just that... he's sort of like a myth. Right? Once, when I was little, I wandered away from my father in the market. He was angry, and I remember he said to me: 'Be more careful, Andre! Stick with me! The fangmères come for bad little boys who wander away from their fathers. I can't protect you if I can't see you!' Everybody always talked like that. Like they were boogeymen. But the minute one showed up, everyone was lining us up in the streets. Offering us up..."

Marie was pretending to examine her spray cans. She picked up the red and shook it. She said: "I wish I knew something real about the Families that I could share with you. One real piece of information. Everyone knows they're above our city governments-- they buy and sell legislateurs-- but there's no real information about them on the world wide wire. They run the thing. They come and go between the cities as they please. And do they ever die? Can they...?"

She shrugged. "When we were kids-- before we knew better-- we used to wonder if they didn't live in some enormous A-G city in the clouds. When you see their airships, you almost think it's possible. I talked to a caravanner, once, who'd convinced herself that they live in kilometers-long bunkers beneath the earth. But I'm just like you: I'd never seen one of them before Yezekael landed atop the Spire Deluxe."

Andre picked up a brush but didn't begin to paint. He said: "And what would you do in my place?"

This was the question Marie had been waiting for-- the question they had been working around all morning-- and she didn't hesitate: "Hope that he chooses one of the other boys," she said. "And if he chooses you? Refuse him. Make a public refusal and don't sign your name to anything he gives you."

"He would make me into the next hedman of Esham if I wanted it."

"That little office isn't worth it."

"I would have my own car-- maybe more than one-- and servants, and access to the wire, and free entry into Palais, and fine clothes and Palasian doctors..."

"None of it is worth what you would give up."

Andre dipped his brush in blue paint and swept a single line across the dock wall. "He told me he could make my mother and my sister and aunt into residents of Palais, if I asked for it. He would pay for all of us to live in comfort for the rest of our lives. Mother and Aunt Josephine wouldn't have to work the Line anymore. My sister would never have to. We'd never have to worry about anything..."

Marie's shoulders dipped. "It's not my place to tell you to turn down wealth and security, especially when you're trying to help your family. But still I say: turn him down."

"And if he won't take 'no' for an answer?"

"He has to. Rest-Vostok gives you that right even, if it gives nothing else."

Andre thought about the steam rising from the oldman's dripping eyes. He thought about the twin scars on his neck. He said: "I think the treaty gives a kind of protection. A direct and simple protection. But it seems like Zek is good at getting around simple protections. What's he always talking about? Loopholes."

"In that case, fleece him blind. You're in a rare position, Andre: you have something that a member of the Families wants. If he chooses you, then I think he'll be willing to pay a great price for you. An enormous price. And they say the Families will hold him to his promises."

***

Yasmin moaned beneath him just as the drugs kicked in. She was Zek's woman and these were Zek's drugs and he asked for both nightly, now. All he had to do was ask and they were delivered directly to this private rooms in one of the elegant gambling dens Zek had annexed.

Yasmin ofthe Pillows was becoming a blur of pastel pinks and reds and whites. Her wrists were locked beneath the palms of his hands and she was pressed down against the bed, her back arching only slightly, and he had full view of her. He was driving himself into her, the tempo gradually increasing, and he was watching her stomach shake with the force of it so that ripples were sent up to her breasts and arms and shoulders. She moved beneath him like flour-thickened water, and his eyes drank and drank. Her neck and jaw were clenched tight, and her teeth bit deeply into her painted lips. Her round face stared up at him stupidly-- she loved Zek's drugs, too-- and her lips opened and closed like those of a fish gasping upon a wharf. Her sweat-clotted hair lay draped in all directions.

For a moment it was all too much and Andre had to look away-- out the window, to the moonlit darkness of the street below. He could still feel her wet and encircling him, and he could feel her trembling stomach against his own, and the soft backs of her legs wrapped tight behind him, squeezing him further into her.

"Stop," she said, knowing. "Stop a moment."

He pulled away, and she guided him onto his back. He lay there while she moved like a large cat through the candlelight. Her muscles slid against each other perfectly and every movement reinforced for him-- more than sunny summer mornings, or the call to prayer echoing through the street, or watching a storm roll in from the ocean-- the idea that Allah had created him, Andre, in order that he might know beauty. Watching Yasmin circle the bed was grace. Watching her slink up to him across that expanse of scattered, silk sheets-- drugged, sensual grin spreading across her face-- made him feel, deep in his bones, that he could never ask for such an experience again: that death must be the eventual price for something so superlative.

Then her hourglass form slid down atop him and she moved in slow circles-- hushing him with a finger to his lips when he made to embrace her-- and he lay back, watching her stomach and hips move hypnotically. Slowly. Slowly. The moon was still low in the sky.

He felt the youth and strength that was his even as he remembered Zek's words from the day before: "Yasmin? Consider it done! She's part of the package. Part of my inheritance. Her and plenty of others! Women you can't conceive of, my boy! Women you wouldn't believe! The finest breeding with the lightest-- most tasteful-- fetal augmentation. Nothing left to chance! Here, let me show you some pics..."

But he didn't care about the others. He wanted Yasmin: with her red hair and hooded eyes and the smile she held in reserve until they were alone.

She was moving faster now, and Andre noticed his hands trembling from the drugs. Their hips felt as though joined by lines of electricity. He took hold of her waist and brought her down to meet his kiss. Another shock of electricity. And then his hips were rocking forward and back and forward and her mouth was open in a little circle, and they were breathing the same air and their eyes were locked together so that they might, briefly, even be sharing the same soul.

He pressed into her again and felt the release all the way out to his fingertips.

***

Marie carried a tablet and stylus with her. Every few minutes she dutifully checked boxes. It was important to look as though she belonged here. Almost as important as remembering not to scream.

It'd been too easy to design authentic-looking documentation. She'd downloaded the program from the wire, affixed her own picture, changed a few dates, and tacked on a shining sticker that almost looked like one of Verdun's anti-forgery methods. The ID, printed and laminated in her room, had taken her under an hour.

The rest was presentation: professional dress and a borderline-unprofessional attitude thrown around at men who hadn't gotten where they'd gotten by questioning hierarchy.

Now she was in the textiles mill: one of those low, concrete buildings growing out from the Line like tumors. The interior was a dark, airless, sweltering limbo. The clatter of industrial sewing-machines made the yelled instructions of her guide nearly impossible to hear. And Andre... the circumstances he'd described to her hadn't been exaggerated at all. Andre had been right: there were no windows anywhere in this place. Nothing to distract, even for a moment, from the work at hand.

They descended from the catwalk into even greater heat and noise. The women were lined up at their desks, heads down, headscarves pulled slightly back, their hands constantly moving, never ceasing, as they sewed their squares of fabric and passed, sewed and passed, sewed and passed... again and again and again and again.

And again.

And again.

There were hundreds of women in this dim, cavernous hangar. Sitting at their desks. Repeating their tasks. Somewhere in here was Andre's mother, Estelle ofthe Line. Someday, too, this is where Collette would come to work her hideous shifts. Faces, here, had all assumed a placid blankness, but eyes squinted from long hours of detail-work under low light. Marie walked down a middle aisle until her ears wouldn't let her move any farther back. She selected a woman at random from the rows on her right. She shouted at the woman: "May I talk to you for a moment?"

The woman continued her series of motions, oblivious. She took the material from the worker to her left-- folded, sewed, folded, sewed-- and dropped the finished content into a little basket at her right. Every few minutes a young girl would walk down the aisle, removing these baskets and replacing them with empty ones. After watching this pattern of movements for perhaps five minutes, Marie ofthe Artisans tried a new tactic: she laid her hand gently on the woman's shoulder. The woman's eyes widened-- her body jerked-- but she didn't stop her series of motions and she didn't take her gaze off her work. If anything, she moved faster, with renewed urgency.

"Is there a problem, sir?" she yelled. "A problem with the production-rate? A problem with the quality? We can fix it, sir!"

"No problems!" yelled Marie. "I just wanted to speak with you!"

A shudder went through the woman, but her hands kept up their ceaseless movement. Somewhere above them a machine screamed, louder than the rest.

"I would like to speak, ma'am," she said. "I would like that very much. But I am concerned with meeting our quota. We fell behind in hour nine, ma'am-- not management's fault!-- but we fell behind and it has been difficult to catch up! Plant management is working hard to motivate us! I apologize, ma'am!"

The machinery rattled. A thin girl approached, wheeling her empty basket forward. The woman took the material from the worker to her left-- folded, sewed, folded, sewed-- and dropped the finished content into a little basket at her right. And again. The heat was making Marie dizzy. She needed water.

"What's your name?"

Another little shudder: "Danette ofthe Line, ma'am! God is great! So pleased to meet you!"

"Danette! Upper Management appreciates all of your hard work! Please don't strain yourself in order to achieve this quota! We'll make it another day! Do you hear me?!"

The woman blinked. Her hands continued to move flawlessly. Marie fought the desire to vomit. Turning to the plant manager, she said: "I've seen everything I need to see! Take me back to the front gate!"

The balding Eshamer returned Marie to the front of the mill without question. He seemed relieved that the inspection was being cut short. She stood, nearly gasping, at the front gate, and felt the wind kicking the sand and stench of the district into her face and thought it was wonderful. Above her, the district Line rose smooth and concrete for thirty vertical meters above and behind the mill. She thought of those women a few meters away, lined up in the windowless dark, endlessly working those deafening machines.

Later, after she'd showered and gone back to the privacy of her Eshamer apartment-- with her wine and some music floating down the wire-- she thought of them again.

Shifting on the couch, Marie studied the false documents lying in front of her. At a glance they served, but there were improvements to be made. The sticker, for one thing, would have to be replaced, and the ink had blurred in several places. Her photo, too, was not the front-and-profile professional-grade required. On her tablet she was already making improvements. Soon her forgery would fool a much more thorough examination.

It would need to: there was going to be a surprise inspection of one of the Line's meat-processing mills next week. And, after that, a metal-fabrication mill. And another mill. And another. A tour of every labor-intensive export mill along the Line.

Marie turned up the music, trying to drown out the sound of heavy-machinery, and the heat and the dark and the narrow, flinty stares.

Four

The boys and the fangpère were riding a great, glass elevator up to the top of the Spire Deluxe. The roof of the world. There were only two boys now: Benet and Andre. While they move skyward, Zek swallowed pills from one of his pockets and spoke. His breath smelled of whisky. He was answering a question no one had asked him, telling a story neither boy was totally following:

"...But that's why we can't have nice things," he said. "Like godhood, for example. Somebody always shits the bed. Even amongst the elite! I mean, Andre: you should have seen this bitch. I guess these days we'd call her Carla ofthe Media. The face that launched a thousand bioweapons! The face that 'tanted half the world. She looked like a weasel! Dyed-blonde hair. Little snub-nose. And also: I always thought her eyes were too close together. But what do you expect? She was a pole-dancer-turned-weather-girl from St. Petersburg. That was in Florida. Back before it was a fetid archipelago full of 'tanted women who ride 'tanted gators and play at being Amazons! But as for Carla? You could smell the white-trash curling off Carla the second she entered the room. The silicone in that woman! Tits and ass to the windows, legs for days, mouth that couldn't stop smiling from all the treatments. Some goddamned tramp-stamp climbing straight out of her butt crack. And that's all Yevgeny ofthe Families andofthe Petroleum could've asked for, bless his heart! He didn't mind that weasel face. A very accepting man in his own way, our Zhenya! Not a snob like Yours Truly."

They were a third of the way up, and Andre's head felt funny. There was pressure in his ears. Facing north, he could see the red and brown roofs of Esham and neighboring Hardadin and Al Qasbah. He could see the square roofs of the export mills right across the Line. He could see tankers, in the distance, moving across the sea. Next to him, Benet whispered a little prayer to Allah. And still they shot upwards, like a bullet aimed for that Creator's heart.

"So things are just fine," said Zek. "Maybe we think poor Yevgeny's just a bit too infatuated with this particular piece of ass-- she's robbing him blind, after all-- but that's his problem. And frankly, good on her! She was a climber, boy. A real gold-digger. She had her eyes set on the prize. She was never, ever, ever going to make it, but she didn't know that! I remember seeing her at parties: like watching an old dog just swamped with new tricks. In those days, you kind of rooted for her.

"But then along comes William ofthe Families andofthe Agro. Now, consider this: Bill doesn't even go for blondes. Hell, at the time I'd never even seen him with a white woman! Back then, he was burning his way through the yellow fever! Alright? We'd be in London, Los Angeles, Rio-- surrounded by beauties-- and he'd have some girl from Ho Chi Minh City shipped in! Like there aren't already Asian girls everywhere! But I think it did something for Bill to have them fresh-off-the-boat, you know?"

The windows surrounding the elevator were flawless and clean. It was like looking through air that reflected sunlight. The workings of the elevator were almost silent, but for a constant whooshing. The air smelled like Palasian candy. Andre's ears were beginning to hurt.

"I mean, I'd understand if it had been Yevgeny's mom or his sister or something. That would have been a real slap in the dick! An insult to honor. But to get his blood so hot over his pet weasel? Some dollar-store stripper plucked from the bayou? Even now I can't quite wrap my head around it. There's a certain type of guy that just hates sharing his toys, I guess. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about, Andre. Maybe that's why Bill shtupped her? Just to mess with Yevgeny's head?

"Of course, this being the Families, everybody had to choose a side. It became the fashion. Choose a side: Zhenya or Bill. And at some point things... escalated. It's hard to explain to you two. You'd have to come to one of our Shanghai parties. Then you'd see. We have some quick tempers amongst us. Hot heads. Folks who don't like to lose. Yevgeny's crowd started making demands. Threats. Then all of a sudden William's people were grabbing up senators, and raising armies, and prepping the bunker-busters.

"What a waste! Seven years of dirty, little wars and ruined vacation spots later and nothing's solved. Christ. It wouldn't have taken half as long if the big players weren't so scared of dying without giving away their inheritance: biting the dust, forever and always. That kept the real weapons out of play for a long time. But not long enough!

"I was in charge of the eleventh army. The Guns of Volgograd! I built those boys and girls up from scratch, supplied them, and then commanded them for twenty-seven and a half months! I could tell you stories! For twenty-seven and a half damn months we held that place from anything and everything they threw at us-- while the city's being blown into piles of concrete and steel and broken glass; nothing worth defending-- and then... and then..."

Zek made an all-encompassing movement with both arms that mushroomed out from his chest.

"Ker-blam-o! All that work wiped away in an instant. My whole army, gone. That's the day the Families fell from grace. The enemy found me choking on radiation in some blasted-out ruin and rushed me to one of their fangfils. They still had that much class. And I spent the rest of the war as a guest of the people I'd been trying to kill. Awkward! At least it wasn't very long until the armistice at Rest-Vostok... and rules, rules, rules! Well, we executed Carla. Both sides could agree to that! Even poor, wronged Yevgeny was pretty sick of her bullshit by--"

The fangpère was interrupted by Benet. The beautiful boy was leaning forward, clutching at his temples. He was moaning, trying not to make any louder noise. The pain! Andre felt ready to lean forward, himself, and vomit. He barely noticed the spectacular view beneath for the ache in his head. Zek laughed and bent, hugely, over Benet. He clamped thumb and forefinger over the boy's nose. "Blow," he said. "Blow like you're blowing your nose and don't stop blowing! We're going to get your ears to pop, young mountaineer!"

Benet made an agonized noise.

"You're goddamned right it hurts!" bellowed Yezekael. "Only one way to stop it now! Blow until your eyes pop! Blow until your brains burst! Blow! For Christ's love, blow! You little girl! You little lion! Blow!"

Andre clamped thumb and forefinger across his own nose. He blew, feeling as though a shield of air had formed within his head. The pressure receded. He looked up at Benet and Zek, to see how they were faring, and he saw the tears in Benet's eyes. Tears of relief. Benet was looking up at the fangpère the way a very small boy looks at his father: with unguarded admiration; unguarded love. Zek laughed and slapped him on the back. "There's a boy! And if it happens from now on, you know what to do! You'll never be a victim of pressure changes again! Ha-ha! Now! What's this? We're just about at the top. Have you ever seen anything like this? Andre? Benet? Well? Have you?"

The elevator was slowing. Andre looked out through the glass walls to the wisps of clouds floating beneath them. The air left his lungs in a single push.

***

"Those two, over there. They're talking too fast. I can't understand them. What are they saying?"

Andre listened for a moment over the sounds of the canteen: fiery discussion; backgammon; the clinking of tea cups. He said, "They're talking about the graffiti that's springing up all over the district. Not art. Not murals. Nothing like what we do. Just scrawled messages in alleys. Slogans. Things that make people angry."

Above them, framed inside the booth's window, the wall of the Line towered against the glancing rain. Beneath it, across the street from the cafe, squatted a windowless export mill. Women in hardhats were lining up for the shift change. Andre sipped tea while Marie ordered cup after cup of reeking coffee. Her jaw was set, and she kept glancing at the export mill. Andre thought she looked sick.

"You've never worked along the Line, have you Andre? In one of the mills?"

He shook his head. "I told you: my father worked the Line until he died. He made plastics. My mother and aunt work it, making clothing. My sister will follow them into textiles once she's old enough. But there aren't enough Line jobs for everybody, all of the time-- and without my father I have no voice in the plastics mill-- so I work odd jobs and wait for Line positions to open. I'm just another man ofthe Street."

"Good. I'm glad."

He shook his head even harder. "No one respects a man ofthe Street. No one asks his opinion on anything important. He speaks last in conversation, is served last at the table, and all of his food tastes like ashes and charity. I've applied at export mills all along the Line. But it's so hard to secure a spot for more than a few weeks..."

Marie drank another gulp of stinking coffee. She said: "Those places are nightmares. Every bit as bad as what we painted. No. Worse, actually, because they're filled with human beings. People grinding down to nothing. Did you know I saw a boy your age, Andre? In a meat-processing mill. He was..."

"Killing chickens," sighed Andre. "You told me. Killing chickens from morning to noon to night. Snapping as many necks as he could a minute. Every minute. Snapping their necks until his hands were numb and his arms were covered in blood past the elbow. He'd been snapping necks for hours before you got there and he'd go on snapping them hours after you left. Yes, and maybe his family even eats chicken occasionally."

Marie was scratching an itchy place on her cheek and another itchy place on her neck. Across the street, a crew of exhausted-looking women were passing under a sign that read: 'Tojiwa Medical Supplies.' Now the rain came down harder and the neon beauty of Palais came alive above the Line. Marie drank more coffee and scratched another itchy place. The whites of her eyes had gone yellow, but they still reflected the red and blue pouring out of the Palasian skyscrapers. Her eyes were watery and unfocused and suffused with tiny red veins.

She said: "I don't know how to answer you anymore, Andre."

"No?"

"I do think it's terrible. What he wants you to give up. Terrible. Completely and utterly fucked. But what he offers... if it'll keep your sister off the Line... allow your family move to Palais... I don't know. Don't know. Whatever you choose, I'll stand with you, Andre. I couldn't stand in your shoes. Shoes... Choose in your place. I couldn't. I don't know. I don't know..."

"Marie, are you alright?"

The woman smiled dismally, and Andre was struck again by how sick she looked. Those yellow eyes: there was a mania in them, down to the way that they reflected the neon light. She took something out of her pocket and placed it on the table: a plastic baggie filled with pills. After weeks spent with Zek, Andre was familiar with baggies like this one. Marie's pills were chalk-white and perfectly ovoid.

"'Strategic Dopamine Release for Full-Function,'" said Marie. "SDRFFs. 'Normalizine,' is the name they're marketed under. I've been bad lately, Andre. Skipping doses. Drinking too much coffee. And wine. 'Not taking personal responsibility for my own continuing treatment.' You know, they could probably have me committed at home? Put me in a little room, with Napoleon across the hall. They could, and they would, and I'd probably be glad once they did! I'd thank them. Hah! Another reason to love this ghetto. No one watching you here but the clerics!"

Andre rolled one of the pills between his fingers through the plastic bag. "And this is for..."

"Oh, it calms me down. It helps me fit. Very important to be calm and to fit. Everyone in Palais fits together like puzzle-pieces! And the full picture is beautiful-- beautiful and functional. But not I! Just when our geneticists think they have things nice and smoothed out... that's when Mom gives birth to an outlier. Someone with 'substantive mental-health issues.' Someone who doesn't fit. But we have Normalizine to fix the problem. Just so long as the freak remembers to take it..."

"But you're choosing not to."

"You know, I think it kills empathy? Or dulls it. Or maybe, when you're so calm and everything fits so well, there's just no need for it..."

Marie finished the coffee. She burped stinking air into the space between them and said: "Did I tell you about when I first settled in Esham? About the man who killed himself because I didn't love him? Lawrence ofthe Line. I didn't feel anything for him, but I didn't want him to suffer! So I rebuffed him and ignored him. That tormented man! I waited for him to accept things. Find someone more suitable. Instead, he goes and kills himself! Leaves me a bunch of bad poetry and kills himself!

"I never expected that. Why would anybody do that? Ever? A Palasian would never do that! What an awful dependence on another person! Just... whatever pops into their head-- a whim-- and down you go with them! It made me curious. And I decided to take a little trip down the rabbit hole..."

Marie scratched at her face. She had a patch of bad skin developing below her left eye. She said: "But the unmedicated life? It's awful! The rounded edges of things have gotten... so sharp. Everything cuts! The way, for instance, that women on the street talk to me! The 'tanted beggars with their sores and the holes in their skin. The children playing in trash. And--" her words grew rapid while her voice began to rise, "--suddenly there's ugliness everywhere! Ugliness and unfairness and greed and rotting, damp walls and shit-filled streets! And those hopeless faces lining up to be devoured by the Line! And--"

"Marie!" barked Andre. "Lower your voice. You're frightening people."

Marie ofthe Artisans flinched and licked her lips. She looked up and gave him a beaten-dog's nervous smile. "I'm sorry. I'm not myself. All of this is just the way things are. I know. Most people don't need medication to accept that, but I..." She shrugged, looking dazed and miserable. "I can't leave it alone. I pick at the Line like a scab. I find the ugliest things I can, and I document. Pictures and recordings and notes, notes, notes. But who's going to care? My family? My friends? The Business Association of Palais? We're all so inoculated against suffering! Only a few meters from here and they're dancing, Andre. Did you know that? On the other side of all that concrete. In the clubs and the dancehalls. They'll dance till morning..."

The artisan looked up at the shifting glow of light above the Line so that the upper half of her face was illuminated by Palais. She spat on the concrete floor of the canteen. A few tables adjacent, a man shook his head and said something quietly to another man.

"Take it," said Andre, pulling one of the pills from the baggie. "Something bad is going to happen to you if you keep acting this way."

Marie smiled grotesquely and said: "I'll take it. I'll take it. Of course I will. I want to take it! Only, I need to see one last ugly thing. And I want you to hold me to this, alright? These are my terms: when Zek asks you to take his inheritance-- and when you accept-- I want to be there. I want to see it. You must make him invite me to the ceremony. That must be part of your terms: to let me accompany you. Agree-- shake on it-- and I'll take my medicine."

Andre shrugged. "Fine. That's fine. I'll ask him. I'll make him. If I win the inheritance, you'll see it. I'd like a friend with me, anyway."

Marie ofthe Artisans reached forward, plucked the drug from Andre's fingertips, and popped it into her mouth. They were shaking hands even as she swallowed it down.

***

At the peak of the Spire Deluxe, the strength of the wind is phenomenal. If you ever get the chance to go up there, you'll see what I mean. It's cold, yes, but shimmied into one of the excellent jackets they supply you with, you won't have any problem except for the wind. It tears about on all sides, hunting for gaps in the protection of your clothing. It runs along your neck and wrists, howling and whooshing about, seeking new patches of virgin flesh to goose pimple. It pulls at your hair like a rough lover, and messes about with your scarf like a drunk ready to be kicked from the scene. It's a ceaseless wind-- a wind, in fact, which never ceases-- and all that can be said of its 'frequency' is that it comes in waves of greater and lesser strength. Even a big man like Zek must shout once he's ascended to the top of the Spire Deluxe... and so he stood, spread-legged, threw back his head, and bellowed in delight: "ALIVE! Don't you boys feel it? We're ALIVE!"

Alive? Yes, Andre did feel alive, but he was too shocked to comment on that! He was gazing up at the airship now hanging before them in the endless sky. An incredible machine: silver and red and matte-black and every centimeter streamlined. It looked, to Andre, like an enormous sea creature which had learned to take the buoyant principles of saltwater and apply them to air. The machine was absolutely silent. On certain points of its body, red and blue and yellow lights winked on and off. On and off. To Andre, the ship was even more painfully fantastic--by an order of magnitude-- than the lean sports cars which charged through the Palasian streets below. He gasped, and the wind whipped the sound of his wonder away.

"Italian design, my boys!" cried Zek. "By an old outfit called Lamborghini! But the ship's name-- what I call her, anyway-- is Spectre. She's a real bitch to pick up on the radar!"

The wind was too loud for Andre and Benet to share any words, but they locked hands and struggled forward, towards the blinking, levitating machine. Even standing directly before it, Andre was surprised by how quiet the ship was. It hovered above a black pad, upon which a large 'H' had been written in yellow. It rocked gently through the air: a few millimeters up and then a few back down. It might have been bobbing on the surface of a calm, invisible lake.

"Touch her, by God!" exhorted the fangpère. "By Allah and Saint Christopher! Go ahead! That alloy gets hot enough to melt steel-- you better believe it-- but only under heavy use. Right now she'll be smooth and cool. Kind of feels like a lizard. Here."

Zek ran a gloved hand across the nose of Spectre. He wiggled his fingers. "See? She don't bite."

Andre took off his glove and placed a bare hand on Spectre. She felt cool and dry and bumpy, yes, much like the skin of a lizard. He ran his hand up to where one of the red lights blinked, and watched the red color slip between his fingers. On and off. Slow and steady as the heartbeat of a resting giant. He whispered one of Zek's most cherished phrases-- his father would have beaten him for it-- to express the inexpressible:

"Fuck me."

Zek was delighted. "She can't do that, I'm afraid! Oh! But just about anything else! Watch this, boys! Spectre! Dance!"

The great nautiloid silently pulled herself vertically upward and began to spin. Her lights became dancing lines thrown out into the sky. The machine might be a gift from Allah to one of His favored servants. Andre thought of Benet's neighbors, with their telescope pointed at the Spire Deluxe. Were they watching now? And what must they think? Could they see this incredible display with the naked eye in Esham? Far out at sea?

On the off-chance that they couldn't, Zek commanded: "Spectre! Ascend! Styx mixtape!"

Andre heard a cracking moan from the ship and felt a hard pressure on his chest, and by then the machine had already darted thirty meters heavenwards. It hung above them-- a blinking, spinning, matte-black obelisk-- and then otherworldly music was pouring down with such force that it drowned out the wind. Line-sharp lights of blue, red, and yellow shot across the city. This focused light must be touching down in Palais and Esham and Hardadin and Al Qasbah and Koubah and L'Oriental and every other neighborhood in Verdun. They'd be able to hear the music too, Andre imagined. Even in the furthest districts they'd hear a hint of it.

And in every district in the city, they'd be praying.

Zek pulled Andre and Benet to the floor of the roof of the Spire Deluxe and he screamed over the wind and the wailing instruments. He screamed, directly in their ears: "Here's a show for your city, boys! A performance the good people of Verdun will never forget!"

They lay on their backs atop the Spire Deluxe while the wind whistled over them, and they watched this spectacle and listened to this production for perhaps an hour. When it was done, Spectre retracted her light and her spinning slowed and she settled back down on the H-pad. She lay there, vertical and silent, bobbing up and down a few millimeters at a time.

Now the wind didn't seem very loud at all.

***

"Some people think that the fangpères and fangmères are Allah's angels, sent to guide the world while He attends to the cosmos."

"You've heard Yezekael speak. You've spent time with him in his little dens. Do you think he's an angel from heaven?"

"My aunt works with a woman who thinks that they come from another world. She says that their world was dying and so they came here. And they used their skill to disguise themselves. We think they look just like us-- except for their beauty and their teeth-- but in fact they look very different. Nobody knows how they really look. And they rule us, and feed on us, and herd us like sheep. And she says that one day Allah will open our eyes to what they really look like, and on that day we'll all rise up against them."

"Wow! Your aunt's friend has got quite the story!"

"She's not really her friend. They just work together, sometimes. She's crazy."

"Well. She's also wrong. We know that much in Palais. The Families aren't a bunch of aliens, and they're not rogue AI's, and they're not angels and they're not demons."

"Then what are they?"

"Why, the simplest thing of all! The only thing they can be! Human beings. People. Folk. Every last fangpère is born of woman. Some of the fangmères are mothers. From planet Earth. Flesh and blood and bone and bile, just like you and me."

***

They were standing on the very edge of the Spire Deluxe, looking out at what must be the entire city spread below, when Andre felt the sudden push from behind. He didn't even have time to make a noise before stepping out over empty air. He tried to catch himself and there was nothing. He fell, twisted, saw Benet's face-- the haunted, ill, determined look of it-- and knew.

That's how you win an inheritance.

There was nothing left but the fall. He was screaming. He couldn't hear, but the reflection in the windows of the Spire Deluxe showed him a rigid, horrified face frozen in the aspect of a scream. The glass and steel of the building passed by, while beneath him, the lesser towers of Palais rushed upwards. Tiny sports cars charged through the streets below, and Andre felt hot urine race up the inside of his pant leg.

He'd had dreams like this-- terrible, inevitable dreams-- but this was real. Real. This was real...

And then, before the horror of it overwhelmed him, there was an explosion of glass to his left and he hit something which was also falling. He felt his ankle strike something, and roll, and then the palms of both hands were jamming into the something. Hard. The fall had whipped the gloves off, and with bare hands he felt the lizardly texture beneath him. A solid, lizardly texture...

The fall slowed.

The fall stopped. Andre ofthe Street heard a comforting humming beneath him. He took a breath and opened his eyes.

He was on hands and knees, shaking uncontrollably, atop the machine called Spectre. Next to them, the glass windows of the Spire Deluxe had been shattered open, and Palasian office workers stared out at Andre with well-bred looks of amazement. The wind caught reams of paper from inside the Spire, and it whisked these reams out the jagged opening like long white vines, to twirl lazily to the street below.

Andre wanted to say, 'Thank you, Spectre,' but only managed to tremble and groan. His ankle sent a shaft of pain up his leg and he began to cry. The urine saturating his underwear was cooling.

A woman in a very smart dress and thick glasses finally shouted: "Jesus Christ! That poor boy! Someone help him! Who's going to help him...?"

And then the machine rose. Andre, through his tears, looked up at the distance he'd fallen. Not so very far. He was still above the clouds. Spectre closed the gap slowly, pivoting beneath Andre to compensate for heavy gusts of wind. Andre stayed low, on hands and knees. When they peaked over the rooftop, Yezekael was standing there with Benet.

Benet, too, was on his hands and knees.

"Andre!" shouted Zek. "Andre, my boy! My favorite! Andre ofthe Street!"

Andre wanted to shout something encouraging, but all he could do was lay down, flat, on Spectre's bumpy hull. He trembled. The machine glided back over the rooftop of the Spire Deluxe.

"Andre!" shouted Zek. "I'm sorry, son! I'm sorry! You know I've never even said that to my own daughters? Not once! But I say it to you now: I'm sorry! That makes three times! Are you alright, my boy? Are you alright?"

Andre wanted nothing more than to lie atop Spectre and breathe and listen to the machine breathe. He thought he might be happy never to move again, but the wind blew hard and the fangpère was calling. He forced himself onto his hands and knees, and crawled towards the edge of the ship.

"Your hand, my boy! Your hand! Give me your hand, poor lad! Let me help you..."

No hesitation. He thrust out his hand. The fangpère's big hands were under his shoulders-- he was being handled like a pup-- and the large man scooped him down from the airship. Andre's feet touched the roof of the Spire Deluxe.

He let out a shriek and collapsed.

"No!" cried Zek. He fell on his knees beside the boy. "What is it!? Whatever is it!?"

"My ankle," Andre wheezed. "The fall..."

"Your ankle?" Zek tasted the word as he might a foreign soup. Then: "Your ankle! My investment! My inheritance! Benet! You pig! You fucker! You little pigfucker! You little fucking..." the fangpère seemed at a loss, finally, for words. Then: "Here! This goddamned instant!"

He whistled the way a man will for a dog and Benet, on all fours, began to crawl forward. Towards them. Every movement was jerky and unwilling, but he crawled. The boy had tears in his eyes and his face was giving off little spasms of fear. His mouth was working, and a shrill voice cried:

"Just an accident! An accident! I didn't mean any! Sir! I didn't mean anything! My mother's sick! Dying, and I thought! I thought! My mother! My hands! They weren't mine! I don't know--"

"Shut up!" said Zek, and that's all they heard from Benet. Perhaps his throat had swollen shut. His eyes, however, still pleaded. Those eyes wasted no time on the fangpère. Benet was staring at Andre.

"All I wanted was a nice afternoon with my two boys," intoned Yezekael over the wind. "To share with them. To open their eyes to new wonders! But some people... some people just can't handle nice things!"

He turned and gave Benet a kick to the ribs.

"You want to know what your little stunt just cost you, delicate one? Eh, Benet?! Listen to me, Benet! Ah. That's better. Here's the truth: you're very pretty, Benny. You've got a china doll chic that's very in right now. I know someone who might go for it-- Veronica ofthe Families andofthe Arms-- and I've been trying to get in those pants for close to two hundred years! So I was tempted by you. I like Andre's general look better-- he's taller, and he'll grow up to be bigger, and he's got one of the Guns of the City hanging underneath his belt-- but I was tempted by you, Benet.

"That's all over now! You tampered with my business, son. You thought you knew-- better than me!-- the choice which I should make. Stupid! And you thought you could influence events in your favor? Take away my choice? My choice!? It hurts me to think what must have been going through your little murderer's brain, Benet ofthe Fishery. I won't waste my time. Guess what? Andre wins! My inheritance? It's his! Should he decline, there's always that other one. Corin, was it? He was alright. Acceptable. Or maybe I'll start my search again. But you, Benet, shall never have it! Never. No, for you I see a great... fall..."

Zek looked out over the edge of the Spire Deluxe and smiled his yellow-to-white smile.

Benet made a groaning noise: the shuttered scream of a boy trying to wake himself from a nightmare. His eyes were locked with Andre's own.

"You pushed me," said Andre.

"He did!" confirmed Zek. "He was certain he'd killed you. Spare him no thought. There's ice cream below-- after we look at that ankle, of course."

Another buttery try for a scream.

"I don't want him to die."

"Oh," said Zek. "I don't want it either. No! But it's all about what Benet wants. This whole day, apparently, has been about nothing else! And just now, Benet is so overcome with remorse! Look at him! Only one thing can be on his mind..."

Benet, puppet-like, stood.

"Yes, only one thing can he think of," said Yezekael. "The street below."

This is the memory Andre will always carry of Benet: the younger boy running toward the edge of the building. He's tripping over his own feet like a newborn lamb and sobbing. Now he leaps from the precipice and all earthbound awkwardness leaves him. He hangs in the air besides the Spire Deluxe, head-below-shoes and legs akimbo, like a frog launched from a troublemaker's slingshot. And then he's simply gone.

***

"Yeah? Well, if they're just regular people, then how do they--"

"Live so long? Control the minds of others? Kill with a stare? Those are nothing but tricks! Not tricks you or I could perform, of course, but the Families have access to tools we don't. There are people who believe that every fangpère and fangmère has a sort of engine... ofthe blood..."

"An engine ofthe blood?"

"Engines, actually. Millions and millions of tiny engines, swimming in their blood! That's how I've heard it described. And not just in their blood, but in their bones and their marrow and their fat and... behind their eyes. Oh, those little engines aren't like the huge engines ofthe Line! They're small enough to hitch rides with your red blood cells! Oh, how to explain..."

"And these engines let them control people? Machines? That's how Zek stopped the man who came to kill him?"

"That's the belief. Amongst those who dare to ask. It wasn't magic."

"Tiny engines in the blood. Alright. But if the Families are just normal people, then how did they get the engines? What sets them apart?"

"My guess? Nothing. They were in the right place at the right time: a time of rapid technological advancement, when a group could multiply its own influence and good fortune and beauty and strength and lifespan a hundredfold, year after year... if it had the means. And so a small, wealthy clique-- the Families-- took steps to set themselves above all others."

"Perhaps they were, after all, chosen by Allah..."

"Most of them, I bet, would say they were chosen by a different Invisible Hand. But I don't even believe that. I think, in the end, that they were simply the best-placed piglets. The piglets born closest to the fattest teat. And then, once they'd suckled at it and grown strong off of it, they shoved their brothers and sisters aside so that they could drink from the other teats as well. And so made their siblings into runts-- miserable, sick and hungry runts-- to be kept ignorant and afraid. Divided and ruled. All so that the fattest, greediest piglets will always have first run at the teats. Forever and ever. Amen."

***

"Save him," whispered Andre.

"Pardon?"

"Send Spectre after Benet and I... I accept! The inheritance. I'll take it."

The fangpère nodded. "That sounds fine. We'll discuss terms when I deliver the goods. Spectre! Fetch!"

With another chest-hammering blast, the ship was off and roaring down the side of the building after the second falling boy. Up came the sound of windows shattering.

The fangpère turned to him.

"You're doing the decent thing, Andre," said Zek. "The decent, humane thing."

***

"Piglets? You sound as though you hate them."

"I never thought about it much back home. But these last few months... and seeing so much of the Line... I... Yes. I do. If this is the way that the world works, then I hate the people who run the world. Don't you? When you think about it?"

"But you-- all of you Palasians-- I don't see why you'd ever want anything to change. Your district is beautiful! You're rich! You're never hungry! Your work is dignified! You have medicine that makes you more like the person you want to be! You're clean and well-dressed and safe and, and..."

"Complicit, is the word you're looking for. There are people like us in every city: the professionals and the technocrats. The Families don't come after our children and don't meddle too much in our lives, and so we try to forget that they exist. And they do their best to help us forget. But their touch is still corrosive: the wire is theirs, and our législateur is their puppet and... and our whole story is theirs! The narrative of the human race. Theirs is the only way to see the world! We Palasians are like the slaves who work in the house instead of the field. It's much better, yes, but it's still not right!"

"But it's been this way for a long time now. Hundreds of years."

"Hundreds of years, and look! Nothing has changed. All of those rapid technological advances that allowed the Families to become as they are? Have ground to a halt under their leadership! Or they've been redirected so that only the Families see any benefit. But I think mostly they've stopped. It makes sense: the same old leadership, the same old views, and a total fear of any advance that might threaten the status quo. We've stopped moving forward, Andre. We're stagnant. Just think of where we might be if that advance had continued: there might not be poverty or hunger or dirty water, anymore. Every district in the city-- in every city-- might be like Palais! Or better! We might all be like them. Immortal and beautiful and fearless... only without having to become fangpères..."

"You're dreaming."

"Sure. The dream of the human race: growth, and self-actualization, and the breaking of chains! Confidence and purpose for everyone. If it seems wrong to us, that's because we've grown up with the Families' story of how the world works. The rules are their rules, yes, but it's even more intrusive than that: our very sense of what's possible-- what is desirable and what is right-- is diminished by them. Warped. We never even think to hope for something better. Or if we do-- if anyone does-- it sounds either naive or crazy. Like a silly dream!"

"Then they've won. Haven't they?"

"They've won, they're winning, they'll win yet for a while. Maybe a long while. But it doesn't always have to be this way. Not forever. We still have some power... simply because they need us."

"Do they?"

"I don't think either of us would be sitting here if they didn't! No. I'm sure the Families don't want it to appear that way, but they must need us. Even with all of their self-programming systems and self-repairing automata, they must still need a large labor base to do the miscellaneous work that maintains their lifestyles: Eshamers and Hardadiners and Koubahnites to do the work that makes life possible; Palasians to do the work that makes it beautiful and pleasant and uncomplicated. If that work stopped, I'm sure the Families could hold out. But it would disrupt their stranglehold. Make them uncomfortable. And maybe... maybe..."

"They'd kill a lot of people. I can maybe see Eshamers dying for the hope of a better life. I can't see Palasians doing it."

A pause.

"No. I can't either."

Five

"...Also, I've set up regular appointments for you to see my personal periodontist. Something about the inheritance is tough on certain soft tissues. The gums take a beating and you'll need regular skin grafts. I'm sure you've noticed my teeth. But you'll have Enrique ofthe Surgeons looking out for you, my boy! The very best."

It was the day after Benet had been rescued (physically unharmed, but raving and drooling and giggling and unreachable) from his leap. Andre and Yezekael were seated upon uncomfortable, white couches on the fortieth floor of the Spire Deluxe, low enough that other Palasian towers could be seen outside the windows. Between them, lying on an ovoid table, was a sheaf of papers.

"And, of course, Rest-Vostok grants you other bargaining rights. There are certain things I obviously can't do for you, Andre: betray secrets of the Family; appoint you législateur of Verdun; give you a ship like Spectre. But almost everything else is on the table. Want somebody dead? I know you're kind-hearted, Andre-- you proved that to me-- but if someone's giving you trouble, we can make it happen! Today. Is there a woman you've never dared to dream of having? You'll be swimming in it after the inheritance, but if there's a particular one you want, we'll get her for you. How about some Palasian pussy? Even white-collar girls have to pay their dues sometimes, after all! No? Well, you have time to change your mind. Now let's see what we have here...

"Fleet of sports cars. Check. Personal access to the world wide wire. Check. Penthouse in the Spire Deluxe. Check. Separate penthouse for family. Check. Free movement between city districts. Check. Family access to Palasian healthcare... Check... Sister enrolled in Palasian academy... New surname... That monthly stipend... Here, let's double that, why not...? Property in Esham, near the sea... A seat on the board of directors of the Verdun Industrial Line... A stake in the new A-G engine mill..."

And Zek kept talking, listing treasures that Andre ofthe Street had never known enough to want. Out they came, like jewels from a forgotten chest in a dusty corner of the fangpère's attic, overwhelming the boy. They were Andre's after today. His in only a few hours.

"...And, lastly, you insisted that that Palasian woman-- the Artisan-- be here today for the ceremony. That's fine. Unorthodox, but fine. The législateur of Verdun will be watching, along with the hedman of Esham and a representative of the Families and, of course, Natsumi ofthe Surgeons. What's one more? I sent the police out this morning to fetch her. She'll be in there, waiting with the others, by now.

"So that's it? Nothing more? No final whim? It's ok to have whims, Andre. Ok to make changes--'tweaks,' we call them-- last minute. Sign of an active mind! But no? You're content? Well! I think you've wrung a lot of good stuff out of me, my boy. I think you're doing quite well for yourself! Oh yes! So... the initialing... yes... and there... it takes quite a while, I know. Quite a few initials you must put down... Please! Read it! The fine text! I would, my boy. Wouldn't expect anything less of you! A man must know what he's affixing his name to, no truer truth than that!

"So that's all for the initialing. A silly process, I know. Archaic. But there you have it. Now, for the signature. Not yet! Not yet! We'll enter the ceremonial room for that. Yes. You see, we need witnesses for the signature. At least one. But we'll have all of them sign as witnesses. Why not? Even your painter will act as witness. Here..."

They stood up from the white couches and moved, document in hand, to a small door with a keypad set into the side. A liveried man pressed a series of buttons into the keypad and there was a subtle click. The liveried man opened the door and Zek and Andre stepped inside.

The room was white, but the lights were set low. The whole place was dim and windowless. To Andre's surprise, large candles flickered near the walls, sending bits of candlelight dancing irregularly across the room. Wine-red curtains had been affixed to the ceiling and walls, giving the once-clinical room an almost gothic feel.

Standing in the middle of the room were three women and two men. Closest to the exit stood the hedman of Esham. He was fidgeting, and his gaze darted about the windowless room, from candles to drapes and onto his fellow witnesses. Near him stood another man: the législateur of Verdun. He was tall and well-dressed in a suit and tie of the Palasian style, and his silver hair was nicely trimmed, and a gold watch glinted out from underneath his left shirt sleeve. He looked less nervous than the hedman, but also better at hiding what he felt. He wetted his lips with his tongue and nodded at the two entrants. The three women stood apart. Andre recognized Natsumi ofthe Surgeons, who stood closest to the center, next to the machine. He recognized Marie ofthe Artisans. The last woman was a stranger.

"Xiaozhi ofthe Families andofthe Rare Earth!" said Yezekael, ignoring the others and moving towards her. "My dear! Welcome to my inheritance ceremony! Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to act as witness!"

Very gently, he wrapped his large hands around the fangmère's little waist, and they exchanged what might have been kisses on either cheek. Andre was brought forward to meet her. Xiaozhi ofthe Families looked to be a girl of about sixteen or seventeen years. She had teak skin and a wide nose and an impossibly expressive face. Her eyes, however, were blue and her brown, curling hair was colored with streaks of red and gold. She was freckled and wore a simple sundress and she had the strong legs and tiny figure of a dancer. She examined him openly.

"Fangfils," she said. "Do you hereby swear to me that you are making this choice today wholly of your free will? That you are not under any outside compulsion or threat of violence?"

"I do! That is... it's all my choice..."

The edges of her mouth twisted upwards.

"He'll be big a big one," she drawled in her strange French. "You can tell by his hands. You always liked the big ones, Zek."

The fangpère said something to her in another dialect and she laughed. "We'll have to take him out for a spin, I suppose. Afterwards. Well, darling, it's your show..."

And the others were greeted and thanked, starting with the législateur and moving to the Surgeon and then the Artisan and, finally, the hedman. Everything was done casually but in the proper order. Everyone watched while Andre ofthe Street affixed his signature to the document. There was some light clapping by the hedman and the législateur, but the three women were quiet. Yezekael ofthe Families smiled his shark's smile and signed his name directly next to Andre's. Then everyone affixed their names to the document under 'Witness(es)'.

Now Andre and Zek moved toward the machine which would deliver the inheritance. The machine was a box perhaps the size of a man's boot: it was manned by Natsumi, and sat upon a steel pole which elevated it to chest height and allowed it to be wheeled about. On this machine were a few switches and a monitor. Skinny tubes were connected to the machine in two places. Above the first tube was stenciled, 'TESTATOR' and above the second tube, 'LEGATEE.' On the other end of the tubes-- where they must connect with some unknown element-- were a set of curved and jagged fangs of stainless steel.

"You'd better hook me up first, Natsumi," said Zek, lying back in one of the seats adjacent to the machine. "Show the boy there's nothing to it!"

Natsumi ofthe Surgeons, gloved and masked, grabbed that series of tubes labelled TESTATOR, unwound them quickly, and held up the twin metal knives at the end of them. She examined these jagged, slightly curved edges in the low light, wiped them down with some solution so that they gleamed and then, without pause, she inserted them as deeply as they would go into the fangpère's neck. Yezekael made an involuntary sound. Then he made a second sound as Natsumi, blank-faced, twisted those curved points of metal down to bite through still more muscle and skin.

"There," she murmured. "Contact." And she covered the bleeding wounds in gauzy tape. Zek was now hooked, via neck-tube, to the machine.

"Looks worse," he wheezed, "then it actually is."

"Your turn," said Natsumi. Andre felt his stomach spin. They had told him not to eat for eight hours before the procedure and now he understood why.

"Not so bad," continued Zek, through gritted teeth. "Brave, my boy. Must be..."

Natsumi ofthe Surgeons worked quickly, deftly. She brought forward the twin teeth for the LEGATEE hose and Andre saw that, for whatever reason, these knives were not as bad as those for TESTATOR. They resembled, more than anything else, short and sharp and thick knitting needles. They were slightly curved, yes, but they lacked the ferocious, barbed edges which looked as though they were designed for nothing so much as to rend flesh.

"Ready?" said Natsumi. "Don't hold your breath. Breathe out."

The points were driven into Andre's neck. There was an explosive pain which died almost at once into a raw ache. He could feel the foreign metal inside him, like a pair of new bones, wedged up behind his jaw. Then Natsumi was wrapping her sticky gauze around his neck and moving towards the little machine.

"Bravo," whispered Yezekael.

"Wiggle your toes, gentlemen," demanded Natsumi. "Toes and fingers... that's right..."

Then her hand moved to a line of little switches on the machine and she flipped one of them: a little switch that looked just like all the others.

***

The world shifted two meters to the left and everything was covered in blood: crackling, popping explosions of blood. Andre leaned forward to cough and saw that he coughed blood. He felt it covering his teeth and it was coming out his nose and was getting all over his hands and... and Zek's shirt.

He coughed again, and a long line of red saliva dribbled down his chin.

"Success!" said Natsumi. "Account transfer in under six seconds."

She moved to the boy hooked to the LEGATEE hose, and Andre watched her. The boy had black, curling hair and brown eyes whose capillaries had broken open. Those broken vessels were sending pools and blotches of red across the whites of the eyes. The boy had the beginnings of a mustache, and he had the strong chest and hands which Xiaozhi ofthe Families had complimented a few moments before. The boy wore the fine clothes Andre had been dressed in for the ceremony and the boy wore the dazed expression which Andre should be wearing. The boy coughed, and blood trickled out from his lips in twin streams.

"Post-op is always a bit messy," said Natsumi.

It was like looking into a mirror, except that Andre's reflection seemed to have taken on a life of its own. The thing shook its head. It grinned its shark's grin. Andre's reflection's gums were red and raw. They had already begun to pull away from the teeth.

Andre groaned an older-man's groan. He looked down at his hands again. The backs of those hands were stained and spotted with blood from his nose and mouth. They were hairy and slightly lined, and the bones in them were evident. They were a big man's large hands-- a pair of hands he'd often admired in the past weeks-- and it was only now that he noticed how leathery and liver-spotted they were. At the moment, at least, they were shaking.

Exhausted, Andre lay back in his seat. He felt a hand on his shoulder and then heard a soft voice. Marie's voice:

"Andre? Is that you in there? Are you alright?"

He nodded, not quite ready to hear his own voice.

"Your family," she said. "Everything is going to be alright for them. Your sister. You've saved them from nasty, brutish lives. Short lives working the Line. You-- it's a noble thing you did..."

He nodded again, pink tears filling his eyes.

"So just rest right now, alright, Andre? Rest." She smelled very faintly of her paints and it slowed his heart to a steady beat.

Natsumi was pulling the smooth knitting needles out of the neck of Andre's reflection. Twin puncture wounds immediately began to bleed, and Natsumi took some thick solution and rubbed it atop the wounds. Then she rewrapped the reflection's neck in fresh bandages and it lay back in its seat. Blood trickled from its ears and nose and eyes. Natsumi was waved aside and Xiaozhi stepped forward, holding a silk handkerchief laced with gold thread. The fangmère dabbed the blood from Andre's reflection's face.

She said, "You look wonderful, darling. Strong as a horse. And you're only going to get stronger. I can think of some ladies who are just going to die when they see you..."

If only you could have seen them! They were, both of them, dark and young and lovely. And they were all the more alluring because they possessed none of the uncertainty of youth: none of her troubles or gracelessness; but wore, instead, the confidence and cynicism and poised elegance of their great, long lives. Yes, they had taken only the strength of youth, and the vigor and smooth loveliness, all of the best parts, which they had the wisdom, now, (or at least the practice) to enjoy and make a devastating use of. They had taken youth-- taken her by connivance and by force-- many times over the centuries, and they would take her again and again, as many times as they could, until accident or revolution or apocalypse or slow rot of knowledge or the Second Coming and the sound of trumpets finally brought their thieves' lives to a close. They'd bound themselves under Rest-Vostok, yes, but this was more a code of chivalry-- a way to treat peasants-- than a real restraint upon their actions. Indeed, even this was designed to prolong their days: checking their most rapacious impulses, denying them the full glut of decadence that otherwise might have tempted their unfillable hearts and brought their reign to an early close. These two, at least, fresh and buoyant and in perfect control-- the one cleaning the pale face of the other-- looked set to live forever.

The hedman of Esham and the législateur of Verdun, watching them, held their hands solemnly in front of their crotches and stood awaiting instruction.

Recalling something, the reflection stirred. In Andre's voice, but with the clipped inflection of Yezekael, it said: "Oh! The anarchist! Can't forget... Xiaozhi, if you would call in Captain Nguyen and his people..."

"Now? Darling, surely there is a less... delicate... time? You should be resting, after all."

"No," said the reflection. "No use putting off unpleasantness. I want it done. I want to be out of here within the hour. The stink I've had to put up with, lovely Xiaozhi! The conditions these apes choose to live under! Real culture is the medicine I need most right now."

The fangmère shrugged. She made a signal. At once the door slammed open, letting in a terrible light, and masked and armored police poured into the room. They fanned out, weapons drawn, and took up positions about the room.

"That door!" cried the reflection in a brittle voice. "Close that goddamned door!"

Andre's eyes were already closed and he'd covered his eyes with his hands. Light poured in between the cracks of his fingers and past the bleeding membrane of his shuttered eyelids. He couldn't block the headache that had already reached his temples and knifed back up along his skull. In his memory, Natsumi's calm voice: "You may experience some sensitivity to light for the first several weeks, or even months. That's completely normal..."

Andre pulled himself into a ball and made a tortured man's pathetic noises.

Someone closed the door. Things got better-- more bearable-- but the headache stuck around. Marie, as though she knew exactly what was wrong, was rubbing her fingers in small circles atop Andre's temples, easing the pain. She was still standing behind him; he couldn't see her. But she whispered in his ear: "Now I want you to be strong, Andre. Remember that I went into this with my eyes open. Remember that I will be fine..."

He shivered at the way she spoke, and he shivered again when her touch was suddenly removed. Then he could see her. She was being brought around before them-- before the reflection-- hands behind her back, flanked by two masked officers. The reflection grinned its shark's grin and sat forward. It coughed a little, and its nose bled quite a bit, but its red-blotched eyes looked up mockingly at Marie's own.

"Like meeting an old friend?" it croaked.

"No one that I know," she said.

It chuckled. "Brave girl. Well, I believe it! It takes bravery to go about what you've been up to..."

She laughed without humor. "And what have I been up to? Drawing pictures? That's hardly a crime."

"You'd be surprised! Captain Nguyen?"

The captain came forward with a manila envelope. Hands that had been Andre's half an hour before ran over it.

"You know that there's no part of the earth we don't watch?" said the reflection. "No district that escapes our notice? Of course you do. You're not some goatherd from the slums. You're college educated! With something to lose! So that must mean... you must be..."

He studied the file, then: "Yes! You're out of your goddamned mind! Aren't you?"

Marie flinched.

"An outlier," snarled the reflection, "of the correct way of thinking. A genteel maniac! And here I thought, after a few hundred years, we'd finally bred the last of the cussedness out of your caste. Why, there was so little to start with! But here we are. Someone hasn't been taking her Normalizine, has she?"

Blood trickled out of the corner of its eye so that it wept a single, red line.

"Wait," said Andre in his new voice. "What are you talking about? What is this? What has Marie done?"

"Sedition!" said the thing inside Andre's body. "Sabotage! Troublemaking!

"I think that you've misunderstood your mission in this district, Miss ofthe Artisans," continued the bleeding reflection. It stood with difficulty, and was presented with a sturdy, ivory-handled cane by the législateur of Verdun.

"As much as I hate to deny you your Palasian vanity, you're not here to make real changes, hon. In fact, we let you do-gooders out of the center of the city for one purpose: to maintain a labor surplus! To keep the slum population large and healthy... and cheap! We can't have all the makers of bras and toys and furniture dying of Typhus or some 'tant sickness every four months, can we? And it's hard to get consistent-quality textiles out of women that are always dying in childbirth. No. Bones must be thrown! Scraps! Bread and circuses. Nurses and infrastructuralists. Vaccines and working toilets.

"But this? The seeds of a political consciousness? Structural change?

"No, no, no, my dear! What you're doing-- however confused, however laughable!-- could actually lead to something. I've seen it happen. I've seen cities devour themselves whole when the rabble starts listening to someone like you! It's all firing squads and public denunciations and purges, until only the rats are getting enough to eat. That's what your much-ballyhooed 'voice of the people' gets you! Pah!"

It took a breath. "Now, usually I like to let the local authorities handle these situations. I love local governance! So easy to manage! And they're the ones whose heads end up on pikes if things go south! But you've made this personal..."

"But what has she done?!" demanded Andre. "Tell us! What can she possibly have done?"

"Why, just look!" said the reflection. "Look at this treason! Just look!"

And it shoved a photograph in Marie's face. Her arms were locked behind her back and so it was impossible for her to touch the altered paper, but Andre could see that she wanted to. Then her eyes were filling with tears and... she was laughing!

The reflection stood a little straighter. It pulled the photo back, as though unsure of its effect. And still Marie shook. She straightened, and her eyes shone with tears and she said: "The best part, fangpère? That one's not even mine! So much for 'eyes everywhere'! But I love it! A copycat! Finally! Oh, God, there's real talent out there!"

"Someone to replace you when you're gone," snarled Xiaozhi ofthe Families, moving forward. "Zek? Why don't you show that picture to your protégé, darling? He'll appreciate the forewarning."

The photograph was of the large, crumbling wall on the west side of the Plaza ofthe Republic. The view was a common one to anyone walking down Rue 181. On the Plaza wall had been painted an image of the fangpère. It had to be Yezekael: the height and the girth and the black hair and purple cape and frilled neckline were all Zek's. So were the teeth. The painted fangpère had his lips parted in grin or grimace, and his teeth were exaggeratedly long and monster-pointed. Kneeling beneath Zek, on bent knee, was the hedman of Esham. The hedman was kissing a ruby ring set on the fangpère's right hand, and behind the hedman came a kneeling procession of police and politicians and functionaries and ganglords and Line managers. Each of them came clutching some tribute to lay at the fangpère's feet. On his left side, meanwhile, were the porters carrying the heavy loads of the city; welders fitting struts; Line workers hunched over machines; beggars lying in the dusty earth; sanitation crews scooping excrement from a public toilet; a machinist spearing a pig with a robotic arm; cinder masons, stacking bricks... and a dozen more scenes of human hardship or activity or degradation or industry. All of the workers, whatever they were doing, had one thing in common: they were staring at the fangpère.

They were staring at what was happening to him.

Above Yezekael, in the clouds painted near the top of the mural, there was illustrated a great orange star: Sol. Our sun. It hung heavy, and fat, and somehow menacing, in the center of the sky. From the sun there dropped a single, powerfully-focused beam of light, like one of those Spectre had shot about during its musical performance, and this beam was illuminating the left side of the fangpère's face. Everywhere the sunlight touched, Zek's face was rotting and burning away, revealing a heavy-browed ape skull. Underneath the picture, in large, simple lettering was written:

Allah's truth burns away all lies

"Heavy-handed," said the reflection, "but this kind of stuff always is. The sun, I suppose, represents Allah? Just look at what He's doing to my poor face! Although, it's not really my face anymore, is it Andre? It's your face now. Your inheritance. An overvalued asset, unloaded. My timing, as always, is excellent..."

The reflection wiped its face-- Andre's face-- once more with the ruined handkerchief. "And you, Marie ofthe Artisans, are hereby sentenced to re-education."

Marie jerked. "Wait. For someone else's picture?!"

"Yes," said the reflection. "For someone else's picture. That would be enough. But there's also the footage you're streaming to the wire. The footage you've been taking from the camera hidden in your left eye."

Marie didn't stir this time. She said, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I don't doubt it. Besides being brave, you seem useless enough. But whoever wired you up knew exactly what they were doing. You began sending encrypted packets to the wire exactly twenty-two minutes ago, Marie. And you've had your eyes locked on us-- Andre and I-- during the entire procedure. You want everyone on the wire to see what happened here, today. As if that would change anything! Andre signed a contract; he's a willing participant. He gains from this exchange. Everyone can see that. Even so, our security people located your transmission. Nothing made it through, so there's no argument to be made."

Now Xiaozhi wrapped her long, hairless arms around the reflection's hunched shoulders. She draped herself around the reflection in such a way that she didn't seem to burden it, and she smiled. Andre could see the white, foreign tissue grafted about her dark-red gums. She said: "For the mural, we would have simply executed you. Easy. For something like this, however... we're going to send you to a special, little place we have set away! Perhaps you've heard of the Re-Ed Archipelago? We have talented men there. Specialists. They're going to transform you, Marie! And you're going to lead us to your accomplices. Everyone in your terror cell. You're going to help us catch them all..."

Marie, still kneeling with her hands behind her back, lowered her head. She shivered.

"Alright," said the reflection. "That's done. Get her out of my sight, please!"

"No," said a new voice. A tired oldman's voice. "No. Zek. That wasn't part of the deal."

Andre watched the reflection whirl about and frown. Only this morning, that vitality had been his...

"Not part of the deal?" it snapped. "No, you're right! It's not! You should have made it part of the deal! 'Asylum for my scheming, traitor friend,' you should have said. I asked, didn't I? If there was anything else you wanted? This morning I was so desperate for an unwrinkled face, and unshaking hands, and a dick that would go rigid without drugs-- hell, I'd have pardoned her! But the deal's done, partner. We're turning Miss ofthe Artisans into a real patriot of Verdun."

"No," said Andre, and he sat forward, his big man's thick stomach muscles tensing. The tubing still connecting him to the machine grew taut. "No."

"Careful, Andre," said the reflection. "Those things in your neck leave a mark."

And Marie, being pulled away, called: "Andre, it's not your fault! Forget all this! Remember what you did for your family! Live your life--"

One of the police put something up to the back of her head, ending what she had to say with a severe 'click.' Andre shot out of his seat like a bull, straight forward, so that the barbed fangs were torn from his neck by his own force. Out they came, wrenched from underneath his jaw, while chunks of meat and fat and bleeding muscle flew into the air. At once, Andre felt the warm fountain of arterial blood pouring down his right shoulder, and he continued forward on weak legs. He knocked a surprised Xiaozhi to the floor and then his big hands were around the reflection's bandaged neck. Andre squeezed with strength that was already leaving his hands, and he repeated one of Zek's all-time favorite phrases:

"You bastard..."

But the reflection looked up at him serenely through red-blotched eyes-- his own eyes-- and it managed through choked windpipe: "No, son. That's not the way this story ends. You're the loser. I'm the winner. That's just... the way...

Andre squeezed harder. He saw a blood vessel burst, sending another spider web of red spreading across the reflection's left eye. Then Andre felt what only Benet had lived to describe: what Marie had called, 'the engine.' It entered, first, through his fingertips-- a faint tingling-- then took his hands away from him like a bully in a schoolyard. His fingers went rigid and straight. The reflection began breathing again. Xiaozhi ofthe Families was standing once more, staring at him. His arms dropped to his sides. Now the masked police had him by either shoulder and a third clubbed him across the back of the knees. He bled.

"Thank you, darling," said the reflection, and: "Easy on him, gentlemen! Easy! I'm serious! This is my business partner, here. Now and for the rest of his life. He's dear to me. There we are, let the surgeon in. Natsumi, would you? He's bleeding like a pig."

Andre was being lowered to the floor. His strength and his vision were both failing. His reflection stood over him. It looked perversely concerned. From somewhere a voice said, "Andre, my boy, you're a fangfils now, so listen: remember the football match? The man who came to kill me? I could have stopped him, weeks earlier, in the city of my choice. I knew all about him and what he wanted. Instead, I waited to make a show of him, in front of you boys. I wanted you to see it. Because, Andre, if you ever get it into your head that I wasn't completely fair with you-- completely good to you-- remember him. What I did to him. Remember how I cooked his eyes! Remember that. There shouldn't be any trouble between us: you gave me one of the Guns of Verdun, but I gave you a fine one back-- big and clean and well-used-- plus all the erectile supplements you'll ever need. Have fun, son. Go wild! Just don't ever come looking for me."

Then there were footsteps, and the sounds of Xiaozhi's tinkling laughter drifting out the door. Andre might have seen, briefly, the concerned faces of the hedman of Esham and the législateur of Verdun. The only thing he was sure of, however, before passing out, was feeling the steady hands of Natsumi ofthe Surgeons on his throat. Maybe, too, he heard her voice drifting through the darkness:

"Oh, to lay hand on a member of the Families and live! You're something else... I'll never treat one like you again! But Zek's right. Accept the deal he's given you. Accept the life he's given you. The rest of us have. In the end, there's no other choice but death. Accept..."

Six

Andre ofthe Inheritance sat up in bed and ran his fingers across the still-pink scars on his neck. He groaned. His apartment was dark and lush and silent. He'd escaped his nightmare, but he wouldn't be going back to sleep for a long time. Next to him, Yasmin rolled, yawned, and settled, snoring, into a newly supine pose. She murmured a man's name-- not Andre's-- and she slept.

Andre decided he wanted some whiskey.

Yezekael's cast-off body craved all sorts of things, but at the top of the list sat caffeine and nicotine and alcohol. The unholy trifecta. Lose any one of the three, and his body would begin complaining-- headaches, tremors, irritability-- within hours. Andre could expect to find himself in full-on withdrawal by the end of a twenty-four-hour period. Fighting it, as Natsumi warned, had only brought him pain. In any case, coffee, whiskey, and cigarettes in abundance were part of the inheritance. Zek may have hidden his vices from the boys he was trying to foist his body upon-- Andre had never seen the fangpère smoke a single cigarette-- but at least he had the decency to make those vices available to his legatee. Andre poured a few centimeters of brown liquid into an ice-filled cup (ice being another strange luxury) and swirled the stuff about. He drank it quickly so that it hurt him a little, brought tears to his eyes, and then he felt his blood burn and settle. Better.

After that he wanted a cigarette. Cigarettes helped him think and they made him less maudlin. He found a pack with a few left, and he brought them out to the balcony. Beneath him, the endless lights of Palais blinked and whirled and hung in the air. If you listened, you could hear the shouts of revelers in the streets below. Andre smoked and listened to a car horn honking in the distance, and looked out towards the squalor of his old neighborhood. Beyond that, far away, lit tankers moved slowly across the swollen Atlantique.

He groaned again-- that tired oldman's groan-- and he began the nightly ritual of surrendering to despair.

It began like this: Andre's wrinkled hand would slip beneath ornamental, silk pajamas to find where his gut spilled over the hemline of his pants. Zek had kept this same stomach in check with some superhuman regimen of exercises and diet and medication, but Andre, fresh from the mindset and metabolism and easy strength of adolescence, had let these oldman's muscled arms atrophy and he'd let the loose six-pack be swallowed by rubbery flesh. The speed of the decline-- the need to watch and to constantly fight against his own body-- had caught him totally by surprise. He was still a muscular man: an impressive specimen, for Zek had once chosen this same body for excellent genetic traits; but he was tending, lately, towards fat and he felt decay pulling at him. Loosening him.

He felt, most days, like the summer sun at six or seven o'clock in the evening: still strong, yes, and still bright, and still able to dry the ocean water off a shivering beachgoer, but sinking inevitably towards sunset.

Andre lit another cigarette. His mother and his aunt were back in Esham, in a home he had secured for them there. They were Estelle and Josephine ofthe Inheritance now (for Yezekael's influence would mark the entire family for a generation) and they could have stayed in Palais if they wished, but here in the central district they had been like slivers of wood in a man's finger: their very foreignness had pushed them out. In Palais, after all, a woman felt strange for wearing a headscarf, and even stranger for taking out her prayer rug several times a day to face Mecca. And there were other, less obvious, things that had set them apart. Neither Estelle nor Josephine were as beautiful as the Palasians. A lifetime of hard work and poor diet had seen to that. They spoke differently, and their teeth were worse, and their clothes were considered kitschy, and the lives they had lived were so utterly different that they had nothing to talk about with any Palasian woman kind enough to invite them to coffee. Sexual attraction, that common-human-denominator which might have bound the Eshamers to their new community, was also a lost cause: Estelle thought Palasian men were a bunch of careless, naive effetes-- she couldn't find it in herself to respect them-- and Josephine, behind her bluster, was terrified by the assertive courting behavior expected of Palasian women. And so, after a few hopeful months, the two retired to their old neighborhood.

"At least," joked Josephine, "we'll be treated like outsiders amongst good Muslims! People we understand. I'll buy a herd of goats and make myself a woman with a dowry again. And I'll take good care of your mother. But you must promise to come see us! And bring your sister..."

They had left Collette in Palais under Andre's care. Even if they couldn't understand it themselves, they wanted the Palasian life for her. She was given her own apartment in the Spire Deluxe next to Andre's, and she was enrolled in Palasian kindergarten. And here, at least, something had gone wonderfully right: Collette benefitted totally from Zek's deal. Going to school without a headscarf didn't bother her, and skipping prayer was not a problem, and she adapted quickly to her school clothes. Better still, the young ones who were her classmates didn't know enough, yet, to turn up their noses when she introduced herself as, 'Collette ofthe Hairy Dance, how do you do?' She had many friends, both boys and girls, and the mothers of many of the boys in her class were already eyeing her and talking with approval about her 'exotic look' and making plans for their sons.

Andre heard about all of this and it eased his heart, but he didn't see his sister very often. Collette didn't understand what had happened to him, and she didn't recognize him-- and, in fact, seemed to fear him-- whenever he came to visit. She especially didn't like his smile, and she began hiding in her closet when she learned he was coming. And so Andre hired a squad of Palasian nannies to take care of his sister, and he stopped visiting the apartment next to his own. He learned about Collette through the women, and he sent her gifts through the women. Occasionally, by accident, he would see his sister skipping through the hallway, nanny in tow, and he would nod to the woman and then return to his apartment, where Zek's whiskey was always waiting.

Sometimes Yasmin would be waiting there as well-- another part of the deal that was both more and less than he had expected. Andre shared Yasmin with other men in other cities (for all he knew, he shared her with Zek), but as part of the inheritance he had sole access to her several times a month. She came and went mostly as she pleased, for she had a schedule to keep, but while she was in Palais with Andre she did her job well and, more than that, compassionately. The evening Andre had been sent home from the hospital, his neck still bandaged and his head wobbly, Yasmin ofthe Pillows had driven him to the Spire Deluxe and helped him up to his new apartment, where Zek's people had decorated and left a feast. That night, as he lay groaning and sweating in bed, she stroked his greying hair and said to him:

"You know? I like you better like this. You're bigger. A man. You can really hold me now. Yes. You're much better like this. Developed. How's your neck? Do you think you could...?"

He could. It was different. There was less urgency behind it. He lasted much longer and when he was done, there was no question of going again. He slept deeply through the night and when he woke, Yasmin was gone. The place where she'd lain was cold and he missed her.

But as Zek had promised, there were plenty of other women. Mostly, they were young professionals and they were curious about him. They wanted to see his neck scars and hear his stories about Esham and the fangpère. They wanted to make love to the handsome fangfils and, he supposed, to tell their friends about it. Andre let himself be diverted by them for a long time. Several months. Like the whiskey, these trysts served to distract the mind, to keep the edges of things fuzzy, and to help him try to forget the horror of lost decades. He danced with the women and slept with them and, if they asked, he would sometimes go with them to breakfast or brunch as a kind of trophy. After that they were usually done with him, or kept him as a backup somewhere deep in their phones, and he was free to wander the city alone.

This, more or less, was the extent of his social contact with the Palasians. Except for these young women, who were drawn in by his air of foreignness and danger and complicated loss, Andre simply made people nervous. It might have been different if Marie had been there to guide him. That outlier woman, with one foot in respectable society and the other in Esham, might have acted as his bridge to the customs and living rooms and cocktail parties of his adopted district. She might have helped him to find normalcy and friendship and peace.

Instead, Marie was being re-educated. The outlier was being removed from her and she was being pulled firmly to the middle. On some frozen archipelago this was happening: day after day after day...

***

Lately, to escape his thoughts, Andre had been returning to Esham. He went incognito, dressed down and shawled like a 'tanted man, for he was sick of attention and scared of it, and not often in the mood to visit his aunt and mother (neither of whom seemed entirely to trust that he remained himself behind Zek's secondhand face). Andre walked the streets and alleys with a small pistol in his pocket, for his height and girth drew attention sometimes. He watched daily life play out through protective sunglasses. There were more armored police on the streets these days, and more of the jingoistic graffiti Marie had inspired. One of the painted images stood out for its frequency: the robotic arm spearing the pig. Depending upon who drew it, it was either grotesquely detailed or merely stylistic, but either way it was everywhere. Andre saw it waved on flags at football matches and he saw it painted on the factory walls along the Line. Walking through alleys in the early morning, he would come across children and oldmen and working-aged women surreptitiously drawing the speared pig.

That very morning, prowling the back alleys near Rue 31, he'd come across an Eshamer girl of maybe seventeen putting the finishing touches on a bit of graffiti which read:

Hedman Bleads Us Dri!

Scrawled above these words was the speared pig. Andre had been about to approach the girl, but she-- noticing him-- was already away. Her spray can lay in the dirt.

So, shaking his head and continuing on his walk, he'd come to a small lot where a group of boys were playing a pickup game with a poorly-inflated football. He'd laced his fingers into the chain-link fence surrounding the lot and watched. The boys were all about his age-- what should have been his age-- and they played the game fiercely, running and kicking for minutes on end, while a group of younger boys watched. Andre felt, for the thousandth time, that inexpressible loss that was his daily companion now. He wanted to ask to play, to run and sweat and swear, but he knew they wouldn't let him. And even if they did, what could they expect from him? He would be a joke trying to keep up with those boys.

This must be exactly how Zek felt, every few decades, just before he decided to find a new fangfils...

He'd forced himself to watch the rest of the game, taking regular drinks from the whiskey he always carried with him. Then, afterwards, he'd found an Eshamer prostitute and paid her what she might expect for three-month's-worth of similar sinning, and he'd taken one of the supplements which he also always carried with him. When they were done it was well after noon, and so he'd made his way back towards the checkpoints of the Line. While he was walking, a patrol of mounted police had stopped him and demanded the sort of identification a normal Eshamer never could have produced, so that when Andre presented his papers-- and made his pink scars obvious-- the masked men straightened upon their horses and made deep bows.

"Sir," their leader said. "I'm glad we found you when we did. We're about to launch a major action in this neighborhood. If you would please allow us to escort you back into the central district..."

He'd allowed it. Taking the elevator back up to his apartment in the heights of the Spire Deluxe, Andre thought about Zek wearing his young form around those cities he'd seen on the spinning world: Moscow; Tokyo; Mexico City. He felt again that weak rage and savage despair. And when he'd entered his apartment, Yasmin was there, unpacking her things, freshly arrived off the transport parked on the roof of the Spire. She was dressed comfortably, and her red hair shone, and just seeing her had brightened his mood. She'd walked up to him and kissed his cheek. Then her hands had gone to his belt buckle. Andre-- tired from the prostitute-- had shook his head and made for the kitchen.

"I wish you'd let me know when you're coming," he'd said. "I'm no good right now."

From the entranceway, she'd yelled: "That's ok! Actually, I was just talking to Kari ofthe Pillows. The one I told you about? She said that she and her lawyer have been going to the opera in Strasbourg! Doesn't that sound fun? We could do something like that. The Verdun Opera? We could get dressed up and... show ourselves off! It would be different..."

"The opera? I don't... no... I'm just not in the..."

"Mood?" From the entranceway had come a sudden silence and then the not-so-subtle sounds of pouting: clothing being put away roughly; the stomping of shoes. Finally, Yasmin said: "I always forget that you really are a little boy under there. Here I want to do something nice-- something to get you away from your whiskey and your wire-games-- and all you want is to sulk..."

After that, of course, he'd reacted like exactly what he was: an adolescent afraid to disappoint the first great infatuation of his life. He'd stroked her hair and apologized and taken back the little that he'd said. He told her how happy he was that she'd come-- how he'd missed her-- and he looked her deeply in the eyes, meaning all of it. If he'd worn the body of a younger man, it probably would have come to love-making after that. Instead, it was the opera.

They'd gone to an evening show. Dressing the part was fine. Fun, even. Yasmin had already bought a dress for the occasion: a flowery, red piece of cloth adorned with sequins and brocades that held her wrapped like a piece of toffee. He, meanwhile, had worn one of the excellent suits provided in his wardrobe. Andre did not dress as flamboyantly as Zek-- he forwent the fur-lined cape in favor of a pea coat of the Palasian cut-- but the well-fitted suit still made him look good. He'd carefully shaved and applied some nice smell to himself. He'd worn an excellent watch and shoes. With the great, gruesome scars on his neck, he'd looked like some handsome, reformed bandit living rich off the exploits of earlier days. Exiting the huge double doors of the Spire Deluxe with an excited, pink-cheeked Lady ofthe Pillows on his arm, he'd managed to feel really lucky for himself.

Then he'd fallen asleep during the opera.

It wasn't his fault! The hall was dark and warm, with a high, mesmerizing ceiling. The performers all sang in some foreign tongue. Andre began to suspect that 'going to the opera' was more about being seen than enjoying any sort of real entertainment. Time lagged. His long walk through Esham that morning-- the painting girl; the soccer game; the whiskey; the prostitute-- all caught up with him. His oldman's body pulled him down, like an anchor, into sleep.

He'd dreamed he was falling. Benet had pushed him and he was falling. This time there was no fangpère and no Spectre, no machine of Allah, to save him. This time there was only a competitor's betrayal, and a long fall, and death. He screamed. The air rushed by and silently he screamed. The women and men inside the Spire Deluxe, well-dressed Palasians drinking coffee and walking with file-folders underarm and chatting, watched him as he fell. Their faces held no pity, or even much curiosity. He screamed and screamed, and the buildings-- the pointed spires at the tops of the buildings-- rushed up to meet him, and so louder he screamed...

Then he'd woken. The great, dark hall was so silent that he might be in another dream, except for the pain in his left leg. The silence lasted for only a moment-- during which he heard someone mutter, "Obscene!"-- and then the performers began to sing again. They were, he realized, taking back the show from some disturbance. The pain in his leg lessened. Yasmin's red nails had pulled out of the expensive material of his pants. He'd realized, then, that in the grip of his nightmare he'd urinated down the inside of those same pants. The warmth was already leaving them, and they were beginning to smell.

"Yasmin--" he'd whispered.

"No," she'd hissed. "You're not embarrassing me like this. We're staying until the end."

He'd obeyed, the shame of it too great to begin fighting over. And then: an endless parade of foreign singers and incomprehensible plot-twists, while he sat in his own wetness and stink. When they'd finally gotten home, she'd informed him she was leaving in the morning. Then she'd gone to bed.

Now, standing on his balcony, the cars honking below and the scene of his fall far above and the Line and dark Esham lying spread before him, Andre ofthe Inheritance took another drink.

"Old," he slurred. "Just like that. Youth traded away to a fast-talker. A caravanner. I have your answer now, Marie. Marie, Marie, oh, Marie..."

And he walked back into the dimness of his apartment. Back to where Yasmin lay, gently snoring.

***

But in the early hours of the morning, he was shocked once more out of dreamless sleep. This time, something was wrong: his muscles felt tensed beyond all possibility, like spun steel pulled tight, and his blood was being forced through his veins so that he could feel the movement. Without realizing it, he'd rolled forward from a lying position onto the balls of his feet. Now he opened his eyes: darkness, through which he could already see the sharp corners of objects which a man might, in his need, use to kill.

Yes, he was quite awake.

He listened. Here, he picked up the soft ticking of a clock. There, he noticed Yasmin's breathing, deep and untroubled. The buzzing of his refrigerator, so faint he normally wouldn't notice it. That was all. What could have woken him? What had him shivering like a wild animal? His curled, unexercised stomach ached from the strain. Squatting, naked, in this wrestler's stance in the dark, he shook his head. Hadn't his mother told him that her own father, in his old age, had had trouble sleeping? Probably this was just another...

There.

It was unmistakable: a deep rumbling coming from outside the apartment. A sudden, percussive sound. Was that screaming? But it was all so faint! Much too distant to have woken him. Slipping back into his silk pajamas, Andre moved out onto the balcony. Hundreds of meters below, the Palasian street seemed unnaturally quiet. Andre looked out over his railing towards the Line and Esham District. His eyes widened.

Nighttime Esham was alive with light and activity. The streetlights were all dead, but fires had been lit at intersections across the district. Dumpster fires. The far side of the Line looked like a flickering control board. Moving in and out of the dancing light were human beings by the hundreds. Perhaps the thousands. They massed in fire-lit groups and dispersed. Massed and dispersed. Faintly, Andre heard chanting. Faintly, he heard singing. Screaming. An explosive tremor. Down near the Line, a huge fireball drifted upwards. Under it, masked and armored cops on kicking destriers charged a group of rock-throwing Eshamers. There was the pop-pop-pop noise of distant rifle-fire. A steel-plated machine with a single, mounted gun lumbered into view. Another great fireball lazily spiraled up into the night sky, out near the ocean.

Esham was going mad.

On the balconies to the left and the right of him, a few Palasian insomniacs had noticed the strange light-display and they sat, silent and watching. On the balcony directly to the right of him, Collette appeared, rubbed her eyes, and watched. Quickly, he linked to the wire and scanned the incoming newsfeed. There were stories about other events in other cities around the world: more flooding in Ankara; murderous sports-hero on trial in Missoula; a woman of the Families opening a shelter for dogs in Chongdou. Ah! Here it was!

' _A minor criminal disturbance in Verdun's working-class district of Echam this evening. Police responded with measured..._ [see more]'

Useless. He closed out and wondered why his muscles still hadn't relaxed. The apartment came with a spyglass-- another item Zek's interior-decorator had termed 'essential'-- and Andre brought the tool out to the balcony. With it, he was able to watch a beetle-armored cop beat a small man across the head with a truncheon.

And suddenly he heard-- as clear as wind-chimes in his brain or a phantasm whispering in his ear-- a woman's emotionless voice. She said:

CLASSIC SPONTANEOUS URBAN INSURRECTION: STAGE 1

CURRENT PROBABILITY OF SUCCESS: 00.01044%

REALM OF ERROR, BASED ON SIGNIFICANT BODY OF UNKNOWNS: 7.22%

Andre almost screamed, but his sister was sitting on her balcony not so far away. So he took a breath and whispered: "What was that? What the hell did I just hear?"

He thought, perhaps, that the voice would answer him over the night air. Instead, another fireball spiraled up-- this one from the edges of Al Qasbah District-- and Andre was forced to work on the puzzle on his own. Was he going insane? Possible, yes, but he wore the fangpère's body now and... what was it Marie had said?

He muttered the words: "Every fangpère has a kind of engine ofthe blood."

A war engine. No. A million war engines. Tiny. Impossible to remove. Still skittering atop this fangpère's shed skin. Still sitting dormant in muscle and blood. But not totally dormant! No, his aching muscles-- his keen nose and ears-- told him that. The engine was awake enough to send Andre from sleep into a fighter's crouch in one whip-chord movement: still alive and alert enough to gather tonight's violent information and give a brief, chirping report. In which case...

"Engine?" he whispered. "Engine, can you do it again? Can you wake up? Answer me?"

No response from the engines of war, but Collette stirred. She began watching him. Andre's skin prickled under the feather-light impact of her gaze, and he closed his mouth. Probably better not to talk. The engines still stirred inside him, though. He almost felt them, darting through his veins...

Perhaps if he waited quietly-- respectfully-- the woman would speak to him again? It was worth a try.

He closed his eyes. He would have gone to his knees there on the balcony and faced east and bowed his head, assuming an aspect of prayer and supplication he'd neglected for months, except that Collette was watching. He contented himself with closing his eyes and emptying his mind of all but the name of Allah. It's an old, simple exercise-- filling your head with the name of your deity, using that repeated name to crowd out all worldly thoughts and concerns-- and after a few minutes, it worked in its manner: he felt himself grow still. Now, very quietly, he heard the woman's emotionless voice again. He could see her words floating on the backs of his closed eyelids:

BACKDOOR ACCESS ATTEMPT > PLEASE INPUT PASSWORD.

Success! But here was a new problem: Zek's password. What on earth could that be? The name of a special person? Another member of the Families?

"Xiaozhi," he tried.

PASSWORD INCORRECT. PLEASE TRY AGAIN.

"Fuck me," he said, accidently using one of Zek's favorite phrases. He might have done worse, but:

PASSWORD INCORRECT. PLEASE TRY AGAIN. CAUTION: THIRD INCORRECT ATTEMPT WILL RESULT IN 72-HOUR LOCKOUT.

Now he thought about the time he'd spent with Yezekael, and about some of the stories that the fangpère had told. He thought, particularly, of that day they rode up the elevator of the Spire Deluxe and Zek popped pills and talked of being captured... and those long months with his army, defending that doomed city...

He shrugged and said: "Guns of Volgograd."

PASSWORD CORRECT.

THANK YOU, YEZEKAEL OFTHE FAMILIES ANDOFTHE FINANCIERS.

INITIALIZING INTER-BODY COERCIVE MECHANISMS.

INITIALIZING FAMILIARIZATION PROTOCOLS.

INITIALIZING FIELD-TACTICS PLANNER.

INITIALIZING MEDICAL SCREEN.

MODERATING ADRENAL SURGE.

PLEASE NOTE! YOU HAVE 6 HRS 32 MINS REMAINING BEFORE EXHAUSTIVE COLLAPSE!

Andre gave a hoot of laughter and opened his eyes. Collette's balcony was empty. All of the surrounding balconies were empty, too; it must be almost dawn. Looking down at the fire-lit battlefield of his old neighborhood, he was suddenly drowning in information: there were tiny words written everywhere across his field of vision; percentage signs and little graphs abounded. The engines were augmenting his normal vision: treaded war-machines and heavy cavalry were outlined in red, so that he could see even those hidden in shadow or partially concealed.

And seeing everything, he understood.

The layout of the police made dangerous sense. The most zealous and best-armed rioters were moving forward. Meanwhile the police cavalry had somehow snuck behind them, ten blocks north. The horsemen were arranging themselves into a line, preparing to cut these rioters off from support. He saw more: how the police in front were provoking the Eshamers to draw them in; how the treaded machines were spaced to give each of them a clear shot of the rioters; how certain Eshamers were hanging back, watching the action. <Likely Police Plant> his eyes told him. He focused those eyes in like a hawk-- the spyglass no longer necessary-- and spied movement in the dark from a kilometer away. He might have been an angel, watching the earth from upon high.

With these new eyes he had the advantage on any man, from mugger to admiral. And that was only the start! Andre flexed his arms and felt the engines' wonderful strength pouring through him, inviting him to make use of them... and his mind began exploring possibilities. The despair of the previous months was, through the tiny machines' alchemy, already being spun into resolve. Yes. A terrific, nourishing rage kindled to life in his chest and it grew, hot and quick. He imagined Marie sitting alone in a white, unfurnished cell, her face blank. Blanker, in fact, by the day...

But he could do something about that now.

"Engine," he snarled. "Can you summon a ship? Spectre? Here, to the Spire Deluxe?"

There was a pause. Then:

YEZEKAEL OFTHE FAMILIES. YOU ARE LINKED TO THE FAMILIES' PERSONAL WIRE NETWORK. IT IS POSSIBLE TO SUMMON THE LAMBORGHINI SPECTRE TO THE SPIRE DELUXE OF VERDUN VIA EMERGENCY REQUEST. ESTIMATED ARRIVAL TIME APPROX. 2 HRS 12 MIN. PROCEED?

The scenario played out in his mind: Spectre would know where the camp was. Spectre would have fantastic weapons and she'd keep him off the radar. Spectre would fly him in close and then he, with the inhuman strength of the Families, would charge the camp. If anyone tried to stop him, their own bodies would rebel against them. Yes. He'd order the guards to feed upon each other like cannibals. He'd inflict horrors! And he'd find her. He'd save her. He'd make part of this whole mess right. And if Zek-- or anyone else-- tried to stop him...

He smiled. "Engine, send that--"

Actually, I wouldn't do that if I were you, Andre ofthe Street!

Seven

Faster than the eye can process, Andre spins, sweeping with his leg. Nothing. No one behind him. He peers about, hunting for this new speaker. Even with excellent night vision, he can't see anyone. The adjacent balconies are empty; everyone else has gone to bed.

"Alright, Engine, is this some kind of joke?"

_The very opposite,_ chirps a peevish voice. _A very serious situation. But here you are playing hero, all the same._

"'Playing hero?' My friend is suffering and I finally have a way to help her! So lecture me on the way to the Re-Ed Archipelago. Engine, emergency re--"

Please don't be stupid! Think about it, Andre ofthe Street: you're about to steal a valuable piece of the Families' property. They'll kill you for that-- a capital crime if anything is-- and you'll never reach your Marie.

He flexes a forearm that can probably bend steel. Blue veins surge across acres of muscle. "I'll kill him if he tries to stop me. I'll break his little-boy neck."

It doesn't work like that. They'll kill you from a distance; you'll never see them. Tactics gives your little romp a point zero eight three percent chance of success-- actually less, if Yezekael involves himself directly. About on par with those idiots, out there, fighting the Verdun police.

"'Those idiots, out there,' are Eshamers. My people."

Yes? Do you see the horsemen cutting behind the front ranks of your Eshamers? That's called a 'pincer movement.' Do you know what it always reminds me of? An amoeboid opening itself to consume a lesser organism. But that's life for you, isn't it: endless struggle; endless competition for resources; endless war. From the micro to the macro! A hard lesson they're learning tonight, and you'll learn the same lesson if you try commandeering Yezekael's Spectre. Namely, don't mess with the big amoeba!

"What are you? Some sort of leftover message from Yezekael? A warning?"

Hah! Speaking of warnings: Zek will kill Collette the moment you make a move for your Marie. Actually, that's wrong: he'll kill your mother and aunt. He'll find something worse for Collette ofthe Inheritance. Re-education and then a role on his domestic staff, probably. Your sister's a hostage, remember? She has been since the day you gave her that new surname.

Andre's shoulders slump. He grips the piped-iron edge of the balcony and feels the black metal grind and whine beneath his tightening hands. "Then, that's it. Cornered again. Nothing to do but wait around for death while Yezekael laughs and plays..." He turns and moves towards the dark kitchen. Zek's whiskey is sitting alone on the kitchen island. Andre takes it by the handle and raises it to his lips. He takes a quick slug, and feels it shoot through his widened veins and into his brain. He coughs.

Nothing is over, Andre ofthe Street. You've simply passed up a good chance to die badly.

"My name is Andre ofthe Inheritance now. Like my sister."

Technically. However, may I still call you Andre ofthe Street? I prefer the title. It's scrappy. And digging through your hippocampus-- forgive me-- I find that this is how you continue to self-identify.

Andre tips back the bottle again, swallows again, and coughs again. He shrugs. "Do as you please. What should I call you? 'Engine?' 'Engines?'"

' _Engine?' I'm unfamiliar with that designation. No, I am your IBCM Familiar._

"'IBCM Familiar?' What's that?"

I'm your familiar! 'Familiarization Protocol'? I familiarize you with your weapons-systems. Your IBCMs and Tactics Planner! Like a tutorial. You know the word, 'tutorial'? Perhaps it's a poor translation; I am of Swiss-make.

"What did Zek call you?"

A pause _. I would prefer not to say, if that's alright, Andre ofthe Street. He had a nickname for me. It was in poor taste; I did not enjoy it._

Andre moves to the apartment's reflective fridge. He opens the great doors, finds a clear plastic box filled with rice and lettuce and slices of chicken, and brings it out onto the kitchen island. Fork in hand, he begins to eat. "What," he asks between bites, "would you like to be called, then?"

' _Familiar' is fine,_ whispers the voice inside his head. _That is my title._

"That's your title, sure. But you don't have a name? Something I can call you that doesn't make it sound like I'm giving orders to a dog?"

You wish for me to choose my own designation? Besides the default, 'Familiar?' This is somewhat unconventional! Although, to speak truthfully, I have always felt a kinship for the designer... the subtlety of the weapon... mmmm...

What about Walther? May I be Walther? As a name?

A huge bite of rice, soaked in the juices of chicken and sesame. "Walther ofthe Familiars, then?"

Oh, yes! I like the sound of that. What a fine thing, to have a name!

"And you live inside my head, Walther?"

Well! That would take a while to answer in a technically-correct manner! Let's say, I am massed most influentially throughout your cervical vertebrae: specifically bones c-one, c-two, and c-three. Near the base of your skull.

"In my head, then: where you can go digging through my memories, and where no one else can see or hear you. And you said that you're a Swiss-make? What's a Swiss-make?"

Swiss: One: an individual from Switzerland. Two: a successful tribal-collective-identifier of the Nation-State Period, now defunct. A network of bankers and financial specialists and high-altitude cow herders. The Inter-Body Coercive Mechanism (IBCM) is their brainchild and undoing. I am a subroutine of that--

ATTENTION!

A sudden klaxon wailing causes Andre to drop his fork and throw himself to the ground. Rice scatters across the kitchen island, even as the woman's toneless voice repeats:

ATTENTION!

MEDICAL SCREEN INDICATES MASSIVE CEREBRAL SCARRING!

SIGNIFICANT REROUTING OF NEURAL PATHWAYS!

MAY INDICATE ENEMY COERCION!

INITIATING COUNTERMEASURE [NEURAL FREEZE] IN 3... 2...

_Override that,_ instructs Walther.

"Um! Override!" Andre slurs, spitting rice.

Even as the klaxon dims, Walther is explaining:

The subroutine that just tried to put you in a coma is called 'Tactics.' You don't need to give her a new name. God love her, she's quite an intelligence in her own right, but a little... simpler... than I am. More threat-focused. Less socialized. It looks as though she only now discovered what I've known for quite some time: namely, that you are no longer Yezekael ofthe Families in anything but cell-structure.

Andre's big hand goes for the whiskey. "Just how many voices live inside my head?"

That all depends on how much you use your IBCMs, Andre ofthe Street. Specialization is the secret to excellence, and we're a very specialized weapon. Filled with niche subroutines! Normally, you should only deal with Tactics and myself, but-- depending on the situation-- you may encounter subroutines even I'm unfamiliar with!

Another long drink. "Not too likely. There's only one man I'm interested in killing in all of the world, and he's untouchable."

Oh, no he isn't! Yezekael ofthe Families andofthe Financiers? Untouchable? Not at all! You could kill him. You should!

"What?" Andre barks. "I thought you just told me... I thought you _begged_ me not to call Spectre! My sister is a hostage! My mother! How can you say..."

Andre ofthe Street, your blood-alcohol is currently point one seven, so listen close and keep your hand off the whiskey, please. Launching a suicide mission tonight, using Yezekael's own pleasure-craft, would have been very stupid. But that doesn't mean that you'll never have a chance! A workable rescue-- or assassination-- takes time, and it takes planning. I can help you kill this fangpère. I can help you rescue your Marie. Eventually. With enough groundwork, we can bring your chance of success up from point zero eight three percent, to something like fifteen or even twenty percent! A huge leap. A one-in-five shot!

"One-in-five, huh?"

Consider the situation! Zek belongs to the most powerful tribal-collective-identifier on earth: the Families. Through them, he holds most of the cards: wealth; weapons; control of the wire; his own IBCM; surveillance organs; armies; airpower; technological superiority; world leaders; a reliable network of canny ancients; and finally-- not to hit a touchy subject, but-- youth! Even if all of our designs are executed perfectly, the odds will be long.

However, you, too, have something working in your favor, Andre ofthe Street! Something that would make me take a real hard look at that fifteen or twenty percent.

"Yes?" His teeth are set. He's already eyeing the whiskey; he wants to take his comfort and forget.

Most fangpères only use a small fraction of their IBCMs. Just the flashy stuff. Very few dig deep into the system. It takes time and work and discomfort and self-denial and patience, after all! Most fangpères can't be bothered. But you, Andre ofthe Street? You're going to let me do to you what Zek never would...

"And what's that?" he growls. His fingertips have begun tapping upon the countertop.

_You're going to let me turn you into a monster._ Walther's voice is smiling. He sounds quietly jubilant as he continues: _Not a spontaneous and careless psychopath like Yezekael, but a calculated and manufactured horror._ Ein super-soldat _. A living weapon. You're going to follow my every dictum without question. You'll shed your pounds and your humanity, and put away your soul somewhere where it won't bother you, and you'll let revenge-- successful revenge-- become your_ raison d'être _. You'll sweat it during the brutal afternoons, and dream it during the short nights, and eat it with your protein pills and longevity draughts for breakfast._

The Palasians-- even as they watch it happen-- won't understand. How can they? They still have dreams, families, professional ambitions. They'll watch you grow thin, and your face grow wolfish and hungry, and they'll believe that hopelessness is working you with her bony fingers! But it'll be something like the opposite: we'll be cleansing you! Removing the superfluous and the weak. Zek-- despite my repeated warnings!-- indulged in any number of bad habits. This body has seven chemical dependencies ranging from mild to severe. You, Andre, now have nine separate psychological dependencies. You will shed these failings, and you will begin tonight! Withdrawal symptoms will set in tomorrow--

"Whoa! Already? I've... I've tried before, Walther. I can't. I know that sounds like the wrong attitude but, believe me, I've tried. I'm hooked..." His fingers are going tap, tap, tap.

You couldn't help yourself before. This time, you'll have bio-mechanical aid. Tactics and I will begin the delicate work of rewiring your limbic system to deliver dopamine when and where we see fit. We'll help, and that help is going to make a difference, but the grunt work is still going to fall on you. You'll do it-- and you'll do it for your Marie.

While the effects of detoxification subside, physical and IBCM training will begin. So, too, will history, literature, mathematics, mixed martial-arts, computer science, foreign languages, and the Seven Etiquettes. You will be reading the insurgency theories of Mao and the dialectical examinations of Clausewitz and the political maxims of Machiavelli and the old internet rants of Brecher. We're going to educate you, Andre ofthe Street. We'll start with six-hour training days-- since six hours of IBCM use is the maximum your body can currently handle-- and move up as your body strengthens.

And this body will strengthen! We can give Zek that much credit: some of the more despicable hermit crabs of the Families are basically blind and immobile and dying before they finally decide to scuttle away to a youthful shell. It's called, 'getting your money's worth,' and some of these old skinflints can't seem to help themselves. Our fangpère, at least, left a little rubber on the tires in his eagerness to be on to his next ride. You'll make him regret that! But! Don't think that means you're going back to Yezekael's muscle-builder arms or surfboard stomach. Zek trained solely for looks-- believe me-- but you'll be training for endurance and speed and real strength. You'll be smaller, wirier, less initially-threatening. If we end up making you physically beautiful as well, that'll be secondary to our objectives.

But it wouldn't hurt. Because this is another--and even more time-consuming-- part of our plan. We must build contacts: both here in Palais, and in Esham. We'll need them in Hardadin and L'Oriental and Al Qasbah and Koubah, too. Influential people. People we can trust. Because if we want to launch a rescue mission with any chance of success-- while avoiding the kind of attention that could put your family in trouble-- we'll need a distraction. A big distraction. Follow?

"You're talking about another uprising."

It's wonderful, sir, to see that you have not completely fermented your own brain. Yes, we will need an uprising. But not just any kind! A successful uprising. One that overcomes the police and the horses and the tanks, and spills over and under the Line into the streets of Palais. An uprising that the Families can't ignore! One that pulls their eyes away from their own treasures for even a few hours. And that means that WE must be behind that uprising: the planning and staging and initial execution. Not impossible, I think! After tonight there will be more-- not less-- unhappiness in Esham District. Underneath the cold peat, the moss is smoldering!

"The moss is smoldering, huh? Ok. But what makes you think I'm ready to go through all this, Walther? To devote myself to your program? A drunken rescue mission was one thing, but I'm... I'm tired. Just listening to all of this makes me tired."

There is silence in his brain for a moment. Then the familiar's voice buzzes through the back of his skull:

Interesting, isn't it? Since you became Andre ofthe Inheritance, every one of your relationships depends upon contractual obligation: the other party must gain materially, simply to deal with you...

"Huh?"

For instance, you have this woman who watches your sister. But you pay her well, don't you? And you have Yasmin... who was promised to you in your inheritance. She lives up to her end of the fangpère's agreement. You had that prostitute earlier today-- you payed her for sex, obviously-- but, then, even the Palasian women you sleep with are getting something from you. Status. They get to be seen with you, and to talk about you. And then the relationship is brought to a nice close. Contractual obligations fulfilled! It's a very utilitarian system of human relationships: very antiseptic. Is there any room in your new life for friendship, Andre? Anyone you could call a friend? The way you called your Marie, 'friend?'

"Don't give me that. Everyone uses each other, Walther. That's how people work. What would you know--"

Once upon a time, you had a mother and a sister and an aunt and Eshamer friends. You had your Marie. I'm not saying that you never stood to gain from them -- or that they never exploited you for emotional gain or labor-- but there wasn't such a strict accounting, was there? There was friendship that had nothing to do with custom. You could ring up and forgive debts. There was a kindness involved that had nothing to do with material or social gain. There were mutual interests, and the simple pleasure of friendly company. There was empathy. There was love.

I've studied human psychology and also had a good look at how the Andre ego-- the system of chemical and electrical pulses that constitute 'you'-- is using Zek's brain. This gives me a good measure of you. Maybe a better measurement than you, yourself, have! And you know what? I don't think you can keep living like this, Andre ofthe Street. Not when you see Zek every time you look in the mirror! (Oh, but you avoid mirrors these days, don't you?)

If I can't radicalize you, this way of living will. All I have to do is wait.

But every day that we wait, Marie ofthe Artisans sits in her cell on the Re-Ed Archipelago. And as surely as I can rewire you, they'll be rewiring her. Changing her subtly... subtly... and then radically. Not in a day-- they don't waste that kind of tech on your run-of-the-mill outlier-- but surely enough, over time. We can still save her. We can count on your Marie to tough it out for a few more months, at least. But the day will come when the damage is irreversible.

"And I have-- at very best-- a one-in-five chance to do something about that."

Slightly better than a roll of the dice, Andre ofthe Street.

"You'd send us to our deaths."

Perhaps, but... tonight the IBCM contacted you, didn't it?

"I suppose. I felt pretty strange when I woke up. Alert. But don't you know what the engines are up to? You must."

Must I? I'm a subroutine. A tutorial. A single piece of the great machine! I understand her probably a little better than an individual understands the society he lives in. Mostly she is intuitive to me, but sometimes...

Well, for instance, I've never heard of an IBCM contacting a fangfils. I've certainly never heard of a fangfils activating a castoff IBCM! It's certainly NOT part of the inheritance! The Families certainly WOULD be collectively shitting themselves if they had any idea! Tactics calculates that the odds of this occurring tonight-- and you guessing Zek's password on the third try-- are around point zero zero three one two five percent.

So, you're already beating the long odds, Andre ofthe Street. And you're getting away with it! And even if you die in the attempt, you may get your revenge on Yezekael. Once the Families learn about you, it's not unthinkable that they'd break Rest-Vostok to punish Zek for choosing such a worthy lad. Kill him for true. They're just human beings, Andre. And humans do stupid, drastic things when they're afraid. Even old ones.

It's your choice: sit around here in your apartment, drinking and moping and waiting to die, surrounded by people who are paid to deal with you-- or devote yourself to hunting down and slaying that... that thief of days... that vain psychopath... that masturbator of boys...

Andre pushes the drink away from himself. It slides across the kitchen island with more force than he'd reckoned, balances uneasily on the far lip of the island, teeters... and remains still upon the edge. He says: "Alright, Walther. I'm yours, body and soul. One thing: we focus on rescuing Marie and keeping my sister safe. Zek comes after that."

I think you'll find that the three goals are more-or-less linked.

"So how do I start? What's first?"

First? First you must go to bed, Andre ofthe Street. It's almost dawn, and tomorrow will be hard.

***

As Andre lies down next to her, Yasmin turns. With sleep in her voice, she asks: "Darling? Were you talking with someone out there? I thought I heard..."

And just like that, a stiff-backed voice cries out: _She is the fangpère's creature! Body, mind, and soul! Here to appease you and demoralize you and spy upon you! Give her nothing that you don't want Zek to know this very night!_

So Andre says, "Nothing to worry about, darling. I was speaking to the wire. Do you know that they're rioting tonight? In my old neighborhood. Angry about some corrupt Line manager, or something. It won't come to anything..."

"Oh," she says, already drifting back to sleep. "Of course it won't. But I wish they'd pull themselves together. So much crime and bribery, even after all these years of help from Palais... decent people would get sick of it..."

She coughs. "Not to badmouth your old district, darling. It certainly has charm."

"Character, yes."

Suddenly he feels her hand upon his leg, just above the knee. "I _am_ sorry about that, darling. What a stupid thing for me to say! Esham has its own kind of loveliness. I know you weren't in the mood earlier... but, now I feel guilty... maybe I can make it up to you?"

Andre, lying on his back, on that luxurious bed which Yasmin picked for them, forces out a long sigh. "I'm just too tired, darling. Too old. I feel it on nights like tonight."

"You silly thing. You'll regret it. Remember: I'm leaving in the morning. I'll probably be gone for at least two weeks. You'll miss me and you'll regret it!"

"Too old," he repeats in the same, self-pitying voice. "Too tired."

She rolls back over and he gives a little sigh.

But in the oily dark of predawn, Andre ofthe Inheritance is staring, unblinking, at the ceiling of his apartment, and his lips are pulled back under his teeth: he's beaming, ear to ear, until his face hurts from it. There are tears in the fangfils' eyes and blood seeping from his lips, and his familiar is whispering, deliciously: _Zek got the raw end of the deal when you signed your name! He got screwed! And at last he'll get more than he bargained for... more... more..._ And even after Andre finally closes his eyes, and his chest moves steadily up and down under the covers, the smile stays affixed to his face: Zek's grotesque, shark-toothed grin.

The fangpère will be seeing his old smile again, soon enough.

###
SAMUEL GLAVNEY lives and works in Portland, Oregon, with his wife, Miriam. He writes science fiction in the mornings and drinks coffee until the walls hum. _Moral Hazard_ is his first work published with Smashwords. He is also the author of _Businesslike Confidence!_
