Chapter 108

My world stopped for a moment. I looked into Harold's eyes as he stood in the doorway, staring back at me. The deep creases in his wizened face seemed like canyons. That moment stretched, and I found my gaze traveling over his features. Had he really aged this much? When had he grown so old? It was a stupid thought, but my mind was in a distant place, my consciousness drowning in a sea of horror, anxiety, dread, and, well… concussion. I found myself saying, "Father? What's… what's happened?"

Then Harold said, "Blurgh ba durgedy flurgh."

I frowned. What the hell did he mean? I tried to say, "Harold..."

Instead, my mouth produced a sound somewhere between a burp and a sob. Olaf was speaking then, but his voice sounded like it was coming from underwater.

"Flowp wop! FLOWP WOP!" he said, his words making no sense to me.

Harold's face grew panicked as he suddenly moved toward me. Why was he rushing? I needed him to answer my question. And why was he rising above me, toward the sky?

It took me that long to realize I was sinking to the ground, dropping like dead weight and slipping free from Olaf's already injured grip. The ground didn’t rush to meet me—I slowly sank down to it, as if drowning. I had the faint awareness that I was slipping into unconsciousness for the second time that day. I was frustrated, riddled with anxiety. What had happened with Father? Had he returned? Was he dead? I needed to know.

But all the questions melted away as my vision tunneled into a corridor bordered by blackness. A steady ringing filled my ears, and my torso felt oddly cold in a sickening way. The last thing I saw were the faces of Harold and Olaf looking down at me, the hazy grey sky too bright above them.

***

Voices and beeping—these were the first sensory inputs that pierced my eternity of nothingness. The beeping was familiar. I understood it was some kind of medical monitoring device. As I drifted up from the depths of nonexistence, I discerned that I must be in a treatment center. The beeping was likely the sound of my heartbeat, or perhaps brain impulses. I was also aware of two voices, one male and one female. They were speaking quietly, but without much concern for being overheard.

The female voice said, "I heard Miami has sent envoys to them, to try and persuade them that they're better off as part of their sphere, but Miami is also assembling an army to go over there and take things over."

The male voice, ever so slightly condescending, chuckled and said, "They won't send an army, Martha. That would be too provocative. The next thing you know, the Empire in the East would send one to counteract them, and before you know it, the lords up here would have formed a coalition. Then we'd have three armies warring over one Tower, and that's without worrying about the goddamned natives."

Martha's voice, the female voice, carried a shudder as she said, "The Free Men?"

Stolen novel; please report.

The male voice responded, "Going into the Badlands isn't worth it. Let Dallas have influence over the new Tower, or let it choose its own path, but trying to take it by force would just mean a cataclysmic war that wouldn't be worth it."

Martha's voice drifted on, "But it's a Tower, Jacob! A Tower! It's a whole city, and five more Griidlords! That has to be worth a lot."

I felt my eyelids crack open, almost without my bidding. Everything was too bright. What I saw was a patchwork of squares with odd shiny borders. It was like a chessboard where all the squares were the same bland shade of off-white. After a moment, I understood that I was staring at ceiling tiles. Ceiling tiles were not employed in many buildings of that era, which meant I was in the main hospital—the good one, the one for those who could afford not to bleed to death from brain injuries.

Jacob's voice came back, all too knowing, all too certain. "It will take years for that place to be a city worth knowing. Right now, what you're talking about is a Tower, and, alright, that's a grand prize, but what's all around it? Barren plains? How long will it take for this 'Houston' to become a city worth anything?"

Martha's voice returned, slightly scolding, "Jacob! What do you know about the Badlands? Honestly, the way you're talking, I'd swear you'd been there."

Jacob's voice stuttered, defensive, "I've read about it, I've spoken to a Wildknight from the Badlands!"

Martha's voice deepened with scorn as she said, "A Wildknight? Really?"

Jacob began a stuttering reply, but Martha cut him off. "Oh, he's awake!"

A face filled my vision—not exactly a face, more like a hazy, unfocused suggestion of one. The image above me was vaguely the outline of a human skull, haloed by short, fuzzy grey hair.

Martha wore the tunic of a doctor. I recognized the style. I was indeed at the finest clinic in the city, deep in the heart of the metropolis where Order levels were high, the rarest tech functioned well, and pockets needed to be deep.

I stammered, "Am I... will I..." Martha reached down and touched a finger to my lips. "Shhh," she said, "you'll be just fine. What you need is to rest for a while."

She turned her head suddenly and snapped, "Jacob! What in the name of the Oracle are you doing?"

Jacob was outside my field of view, but I heard a door clicking. His voice was apologetic, "I was instructed to inform him if the lad woke."

Martha's gentle features contracted in a brief snarl, but the vicious visage quickly faded to a stern frown. She said, "Jacob, this young man needs rest. No doubt he'll have to be up much sooner than we'd like to try and become a Griidlord. That could have waited."

Jacob's head and shoulders passed my line of sight. He was young and wore the tunic of a nurse. He said, "The man is head of household to the wealthiest man in the city. You think I was going to ignore him?"

Martha rolled her eyes and said, "He'll probably burst right i—" She was cut off as the door opened, and immediately I heard Harold's voice.

He said, "My young master is awake?"

Martha replied, "He is, but he's disoriented. The process we employed to set him right will leave him terribly fatigued. He can't be—" But Harold's voice cut her off again. He may have been placid in the company of his employers, but Harold had run a household for a long time. And, in his own way, he had real standing in the city. He was my father's friend and agent.

He said, "I'm afraid it can't possibly wait. I have substantial matters that need to be discussed, and I need his approval to take a course of action."

Even in my confused state, it quickly dawned on me what that implied. If he needed my approval to take a course of action, that meant...

I was his nominal employer now.