Platitudes in F Maximum
“Look at these fucking contracts, Guylag,” Bertram says, patting the stacks of papers on his desk.
His office has grown since Sreckt was seized, the last of its oaken veneer peeled away to reveal curves of green and amber glass, built in what will come to be known as the Revivalist style.
A hundred bouquets dot the room, shedding their scents in a language Guy can’t understand, each a peace offering or a veiled threat.
“We’ve got new hires coming in from every corner of the city,” Bertram continues.
“Clearwater and Strangleroot. Palas defectors. A quarter of these are Crypsis, I’d bet.
Maybe a salt or two trying to burrow their way in.
Even rats know which way the winds are blowing.
But what can I do for you, Lieutenant Moulène? ”
“Eir Bertram…” Guy hesitates. He feels naked in the green shafts of day that spill in from the domed skylights. “I … have a request.”
“Ask away.”
“I would like … given the circumstances…” The look his boss gives him is so attentive, so paternal, that he feels the need to apologize.
He wants to tell Bertram he has been a better proprietor than any of the others, that he has been more humane, vastly more just, in his compensation.
That Guy believes, wholeheartedly, he will stand atop a changed Tiliard, and that the laurels will look fantastic on him. “I need an advance,” he says instead.
“Need?” Bertram’s smile is boyish, warm. “Aren’t you a bold one?”
Guy grits his teeth, gathering the courage to plow through the years of debt still stretching before him. “I’m sorry, Eir Bertram. I’ve tried to save, but—”
“No, no, I like that. Shows initiative. Tell me how much you need, and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Eight thousand marks,” Guy says quietly.
“Whatever for, my friend?”
“A riverboat ticket.”
Bertram takes a slow breath. “You signed a contract.”
“Not for me. For Tyro.”
“Tyro? Oh—yes. Yes. Of course. It’s so hard to get a ticket nowadays.
” He smiles sadly. “I’d love to help you.
If that’s what you really want—believe me, I’d hand it over in a heartbeat.
Though … it’s what … even at your salary, eight, nine years until you pay off your debts?
A little far out to be asking for an advance. ”
“I know.”
“Once word gets out I’ve done you a favor, how many others will bang at my door for one? I can’t afford to be seen as a man who treats his contracts flippantly. BGS would fall apart.”
“Please,” Guy says. “She can’t stay here. The city is—”
“Changing?” Bertram stands and rounds the desk, gentle smile on his face.
“You ever see a good molt, Guy? Like the kind chimeras go through—seems so suffocating. So violent, doesn’t it?
You’re scared. I get that. You don’t want blood on your hands.
But there’s already so much on the hand that feeds you.
You’ve seen The Price of Beauty. You’ve cleaned up after Ripest Fruit.
You know what flows down the river that turns this old mill of ours.
” Bertram reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a stick of something sweet-smelling.
“It’s natural that you want to protect Tyro from it.
I was the same way about Reames, you know.
For a long time, I didn’t think he could handle this place.
He was a … unique boy. But kids are resilient.
Your sister’s safe with BGS. She’s not out in the streets.
Who else would take care of her if something happened to you?
” He lights his cigarette, and a strong, attractive scent wafts from the glowing tip.
“Relax, Guylag. That wasn’t a threat. Shake out your shoulders, have a seat. Just on the floor. I’ll sit with you.”
Guy says nothing. He only crosses his legs where Bertram pats the marble.
“So,” Bertram says, leaning against the desk. “A riverboat. Where were you going to send her?”
“South.”
“Just ‘south’? That’s a bit of a vague journey.”
Guy shivers, suddenly struck by the absurdity of his plan. “I have a friend. With a villa. In Dagdrun, I think.”
“Do you?” Bertram takes a long, steady drag, clearly trying not to laugh. “You know, sending her away won’t keep her safe. What happens in Tiliard spreads to the rest of the valley. Remember Ostlerfell.”
Guy hugs himself. “I know.”
“There’s no getting away from this old stump.
” Bertram offers Guy the cigarette. “It’s got its roots in us as much as in the ground.
It’s in every part of us. I mean, look at you—you’ve got your songs, your stories.
Not one piece of the Tiliarder canon has spared you.
They’re permutating through you. It’s obvious in your libretti. ”
Guy inhales, feeling a little sick. “What?”
“I keep track of all my employees, Guylag. Reames accuses me of micromanaging, but really—in this case it’s not that hard. You’ve been leaving little scraps of operettas everywhere. I like them, actually. I actually think they’re very good.”
Guy is unsure what to make of this. “You do?”
“Can’t read the music for the life of me—you never learned common notation, did you?”
“No.”
“Ah. Never too late.” He takes the cigarette.
“You know, I don’t want to be anyone’s boss, Guylag.
I’d rather be a patron.” He ashes on the floor.
“I know a few people who would love to see what you write. And if you throw a good fight in there, a few poetic deaths, you can make us a killing. Just needs a little editing, and you could do it. You can give Tyro a good life. Here, at home. You can’t send her away now. ”
Guy holds his head and reaches for the cigarette once more. “I … have to.”
“That’s very noble of you. But you see, you can’t, Guylag.”
Guy stares at him.
“Oh, dear. I’m trying so hard to soften the blow, but you’re not getting it. She signed a contract. Weeks ago.”
Guy’s breath leaves him.
“The stuff’s hitting you hard, isn’t it? Sorry. Here.” When Bertram plucks the cigarette back, Guy’s hand stays in place. “Just a little experiment. Third-eye and ecdytoxin. It’s perfectly safe in small amounts. Not very good smoked, though, is it? Reames says atomized will be better.”
“What’s she…” Guy attempts. “What’s she…”
“What’s she working on? Oh, I couldn’t tell you. Paperwork or something.” Even in the sickened dizziness of the smoke, Guy can easily grasp the edges of the lie. We do need small hands down there.
“Fire her,” Guy says. “I’ll take her debts. Whatever you’ve invested into her—into her training, gear—her health, whatever. I’ll pay it back. I’ll pay all of it back. Twice.”
“You’re so sweet. Can’t believe a bleeding heart like you became an exterminator. You really aren’t made for this. You’ll be better as a dramaturge.” Bertram rests a hand on his back. “It’s kind of funny. She wanted to sign on with the name Sigmund. As in the Torturer.”
Guy releases a noise that isn’t quite a laugh. “Oh, God.”
“I wrote ‘Clevette.’ Much better. I’ve always wanted to name something Clevette. I don’t want to be the kind of man who names his hirelings, but sometimes they make such poor decisions.”
“Does … Dawn know?” Guy croaks.
“I should think. He helped her read through the contract.”
Guy closes his eyes, clenching his fists around his knees.
“Oh, my friend. Don’t berate yourself. It was inevitable. They all grow up. You can’t hold her weight forever.”
He wants to hit Bertram, more than anything.
He wants to break his nose, his jaw, he wants to shove him to the ground and stuff a fistful of those piled-up contracts into his mouth—or, he wants to want to—but he can’t muster the rage.
Bertram’s words are so soothing, sober, kind, true.
He can’t fight them. His will deforms under their weight, his hatred warps, beat by beat of his burning heart, into bittersweet acceptance.
He can do nothing but lean against his boss and cry.
“That’s good,” Bertram says in his ear. “Excellent. Let it out. You want another drag?”
“I can’t do this,” he moans.
“No, no. Of course not. Here.” A gentle hand wraps around his wrist, across the black bar of his first firing. “You need space. And that’s no sin. Unfortunately, the space you need isn’t in my office.”
Guy lets his boss pull him to his feet. “Thank you, Eir Bertram,” he finds himself saying.
“That’s a good lad. Take a day off. Take two.
” He guides Guy to the door, arm around his waist. “I’ll call admin, see where they placed her.
We’ll see if we can’t give you some time together.
How about that?” He puts out his half-smoked cigarette on a nearby bouquet.
“You can make it through this. Both of you. Just keep your head down and carry on, Guylag. And don’t do anything rash.
It’d be a shame if little Clevette never saw those stories of yours come to fruition.
” He squeezes Guy’s shoulder with a kind smile. “Now, that one was a threat.”
“I wish I had spoken to him,” Mallory says.
He leads Aster through a dark passage above the Root of Black Eyes, toward the old Sreckt manufactories.
Under his bandages, his threads grow and flail and weave him back together.
“I wish I had talked to him because I know we felt the same. We were both trapped, and changing. But I was afraid. And ashamed how right he was, to try to keep me out of all this. Ashamed that I had called him a liar so many times and for once he had told me the truth.”
They emerge onto the mossy factory floor, and he leads her over jammed assembly lines, empty vats, overturned shelves.
Surgical equipment and rubber tubing lies scattered among the debris, familiar implements of the Sanitarium, left behind when BGS moved its medical wing to the basement of Metaldrip Defense Industries.
Aster squeezes his hand a little tighter as they pass by.
“Dr. Whyck worked down here,” she mutters.