29. Bardov
BARDOV
The punching bag was rated for immortals, yet Bardov still destroyed it in under fifteen minutes.
It split along the seam, spilling sand across the gym floor, and he stood there, watching it leak with morbid fascination.
It felt good to destroy something, but at this rate the Guardians would prohibit him from using the gym.
It was the second punching bag he'd obliterated that week, and since he didn't have a job or get paid, he couldn't cover the damage.
You can't keep destroying their gym equipment. Armos didn't look up from the weights he was curling. They will bar you from entering.
They should get better bags.
There is no punching bag in existence or on a drawing board that can survive your moods, Voset said.
Bardov didn't answer. He picked up the roll of tape and started fixing the broken seam just to have something to do.
He tried to read, but he was easily distracted and kept losing his place in the book. He tried to watch television, but nothing held his interest for long. He hated being cooped up in the windowless underground, and being allowed into the penthouse once every few days to see the sky was not enough.
"We are moving to the village soon," Yaaf said. "There will be more to do once we are there."
"Like what?" Bardov spat. "Watching Navuh while his mate wheels him around the house? Forgive me if I don't find that exciting."
"Perhaps they will allow us to join them on their rescue missions," Camdor said. "That's what the Guardians do most of the time. They rescue trafficking victims."
Bardov snorted. "They don't get to kill anyone. They are not allowed. They leave the scum to the human police to deal with."
Yaaf looked at him. "Are you so eager to kill?"
Did it make him a bad immortal if the answer was yes? Not all killing was bad. Some killing was necessary, and males like him were needed to do it. He'd discovered a long time ago that not every one of his teammates had the killing instinct, despite their identical programming and collective mind.
He was different. He knew that, and the others knew that, but the clan didn't, so they weren't making proper use of him. They could send him on missions their own Guardians didn't want to take on.
Somewhere in the far corner of the gym, Yaaf's phone rang. As he answered it and Sullha's voice came on the line, the rest of them did their best to retreat and give him privacy. But then Yaaf's walls came down in surprise, and the feed poured through all of them, undiluted.
Vinnah.
Right hand of the First Mother. Holding the book. Leading the hymns.
The bag swung back and thudded into Bardov's chest.
In another corner of the gym, Tersan set the barbell down and sat on the bench. On the treadmill, Voset lost his footing and jumped off.
Sullha wants to talk to you, Yaaf sent.
To us? Bardov asked, even though he knew Sullha wanted to talk to him alone.
To you. She asked for you.
Yaaf came holding out the phone, and Bardov recognized the grief on his face because he felt it too. His mother wasn't dead like Yaaf's, but she might as well be. She was dead to him.
Bardov took the phone. "I'm here."
"Hi," Sullha said, her voice heavy with sorrow. "I know the others hear everything, but I'm not talking to them. I'm talking to you. The news about your mother is yours alone."
"How bad is it?"
"It's bad."
She told him what Burda had reported. His mother had been promoted and was now the First Mother's right hand.
She was telling the enclosure's children that Tomek and Bianca were with the god and that it was a good thing.
When the moon was full, they would make an offering, and Burda suspected it would be one of the orphaned children.
His mother was a murderer.
He was a killer, but that wasn't the same.
Bardov had no problem destroying monsters who deserved to die, and his mother was now one of those monsters. Anyone who thought that appeasing a god by sacrificing a child's life was a good idea was a demon wearing human flesh as a disguise.
"Did Burda say whether my mother supported the sacrifice?"
The pause was long enough for him to know what Sullha's answer would be.
"Burda was under the impression that Vinnah supported the First Mother without question."
"Thank you for telling me the truth." His voice came out level, which surprised him. "I know it wasn't easy for you."
"If it were my mother, I would want to know. Being prepared is half the battle. Are you going to be okay?"
He nodded, even though she couldn't see him. "I'm not alone, Sullha. I'm never alone. We share each other's pains the same way we share each other's joys, and by distributing them among us, we lessen their impact."
That wasn't true of grief.
The collective could only create a fence around it, not diminish it. But he didn't want her pity, and she didn't need to know that.
Sullha was quiet for a long moment. "I never thought of your collective mind that way, and now I'm a little envious. I wish I could distribute my pains so they wouldn't affect me as much."
He chuckled. "The trade-off is sharing the joys."
"Worth it."
"I guess it is. Goodbye, Sullha." He handed the phone back to Yaaf.
One by one, the others came, not through the link but in person, surrounding him and forming a barrier of muscle between him and the rest of the world.
Your mother didn't celebrate giving you away, Bardov, the collective said in one voice. Someone built a religion from the grief, and it helped with the pain.
I know the reasoning, Bardov said. They took her son, and then they took her grief. He wrapped the tape once more around the bag's seam. And now she is the first lieutenant to a woman who wants to feed a child to a dead god. It doesn't matter how she became a monster, only that she is one now.
No one argued. When there was comfort to give, they gave it, and when there was none, they didn't pretend there was.