108: Bywel

“so it’s just the two of you?” Issac asked.  Gorshen plant hummed its operation through the walls of the small office the three now sat in.

“whaddaya mean?” Cillian asked.  he sat three empty glasses on the small, square table, and placed an unopened bottle of liquor next to them.

“what do you call this, by the way?” Issac asked.

“sunset,” Cillian said.

“funny,” Issac said, eying the bottle with a sideways glance.

“everyone’s unfulfilled hope,” Cillian responded sardonically, cracking the bottle’s seal.  he filled the three glasses with the dark liquor.  Sorensen was too distracted to notice his: a bird’s nest of wires and dials crammed into a telestrator-sized box occupied his full attention across the room.  Cillian brought his own to his lips without delay.

Issac played mental chess with the glass that sat idly before him, starring at it momentarily.  there was history in that glass, nights destruction and self-loathing, nights of numbness, of escape, of banter and lust, of joyful reverie; there were simpler times, better times, worse times.

“it’s been almost a year since i had a drink,” he said, more to himself than either of the daysiders.

“no time like the present,” Cillian said, raising his glass above his head before taking another long pull.

“well, fuck it,” Issac sighed, and reached for his glass.

“atta boy,” Cillian said with a wry smile.  “but you were saying?”

after a sip of the liquor brought Issac a monetary shudder, he repeated, “so it’s just you two?”

“just us two what?” Cillian asked.

“you two,” Issac paused for a beat.  “are the whole rebellion?”

Cillian laughed out loud, nearly spitting liquor from his lips.

“then where are the others?”

Cillian’s laugh slowed to a chuckle.  “here and there,” he said with a wave of his hand.

“what is that supposed to mean,” Issac asked, incredulously.

“look,” Cillian said meaningfully, “it’s not exactly a parade for freedom of religion and thought out here.  we aren’t the first miners to get fed up with it, you know.  but everyone else, sooner or later, they get impatient, they speak their mind, and someone hears ‘em.  someone who shouldn’t.  it don’t take much to trump up some charges put your trial on every telestrator on dayside — and nightside, for that matter.  you can imagine, it don’t take too many Joe Rebels gettin’ tied up by their pinkie toes to scare off anyone’s been thinkin’ on cookin’ up a little dissent of their own.  the people out here, Issac–”

a clang of metal interrupted him.  Issac and Cillian looked at the sound’s source: a cursing Sorensen had dropped a long, thin strip of metal, which wobbled slowly to a stop on the floor.

“will you keep it down over there?” Cillian joked.

a distracted “yeah, yeah,” was the only rejoinder.

Cillian returned his focus to Issac.  “anyway, the miners.  StarEx don’t spend too much money on their education.  that shouldn’t surprise you.”

“it doesn’t,” Issac said.  “do children on dayside even attend school?”

“oh, sure, sure,” Cillian said, “for a few years, learn the basics like reading and writing.  basically just the skills they’re going to need to cut dry out of Klin’s surface for the rest of their lives.  most of ‘em don’t even know enough to realize just how short their end of the stick is.”

“what about nightside?” Issac asked.

“basically the same story.  the people are a lot different over there — i haven’t met too many myself, but i’ve met a few.  it changes you, never being outside, never seeing the sun.  they’re quieter, more isolated.  not like us wild daysiders,” he said with a grin, and looked at glanced at Sorensen.  the younger man was still wrestling with what Issac was now almost certain was an antenna, but was finding little success.  with a second loud clang, the antenna slipped out of Sorensen’s hand and crashed once again to the floor.  he swore loudly at it and struck the side of the machine.

“what’s the matter,” Cillian called with a smile that Sorensen ignored.

“assembly is not happening as it ought to,” he said, glaring at the box.

“what is that thing, anyway?” Cillian asked.

Sorensen closed his eyes and drew in a long breath.  when he finally exhaled and opened his eyes, he was markedly calmer.  “it’s nothing,” he said.  “just a little project.”

“what kind of project?” Issac asked curiously.

“just…” Sorensen sighed again.  “the authorities don’t want us talking with nightside.  really, they’re outnumbered and surrounded, so they don’t want the two sides working together, you might say.”

“i can see that, i suppose,” Issac said simply.

“right.  so i’m trying to contact them anyway.  this thing’s been able to receive signals for over a year now.  but i haven’t gotten anything.  i just got this new antenna, but, well, you can see how that’s going.”

“if you’re hoping to receive signals,” Issac asked, “how do other people know where to send them?”

Sorensen smiled subtly.  “they know,” he said cryptically. “or i think they do.”

“fine, don’t tell us,” Cillian said, rolling his eyes.

ignoring him, Sorensen glanced at the timepiece on the wall and said, “i’m on overnight tonight.  i have to get going.”

“i think i’m gong to take Issac to Bywel,” Cillian said.

“sure,” Sorensen responded, “just be careful.”

“come on, it’s me we’re talking about here.”

“i know.  that’s why i said it.”  Sorensen wiped his hands on a grimy rag, which he tossed onto his machine.  “goodbye, Issac,” he said as he exited the room.

“so if it’s not just you two,” Issac said, returning to their previous conversation, “then who else is it?”

“it’s complicated.  like i said, we can’t just go around saying who we are and what we think and what we’re trying to do.  and you don’t know who you can trust, either.  Sentuel and his guys have been known to offer pretty substantial rewards to get miners to turn each other in.”

“Sentuel?”

“StarEx head of security.  a real cold bastard.  not crazy like your friend Sefrin, but, well, you hope you don’t run in to him.  Torgaminus was the last guy who tried to start a movement on dayside; got pinched when i was twelve years old. word has it, Sentuel — he was just a run-of-the-mill security guy in those days, but they say he got Torgaminus’s wife to turn him in.  how he became chief.  that’s how they tell it, anyway.”

“what happened to Torgamnius?”

Cillian shrugged.  “same thing that happens to everyone else.  told the galaxy he was planning ‘violent acts of terror on a protected and essential Klinian corporation.’  it’ll make the evening news on a few ‘strators on a few nearby worlds, but no one pays it enough mind for anyone to think there’s somethin’ ain’t right about it.”

Issac frowned.  he found it hard to believe that one corporation on one world could have so much absolute power.  he found it even harder to believe that he had never known about it, not in any detail, anyway.  but, he thought, that’s precisely why they could do whatever they wanted.  everyone had a story they could believe if they wanted, and who wanted to spend their time digging around for a story about some grimy, uneducated laborers when they’re might not be anything to talk about in the first place.

“but,” Cillian said with a sigh, “things will have to be different now.  we know there are others out there, and we’ve even talked with some of them.  but it ain’t as easy as just pickin’ up a comdisk and meeting for a drink.”

“different because of the guns?”

“sure, the guns, yeah.”

“you think that a few cases of guns are going to allow you and a few people whose identities you may or may not know takeover the most powerful corporation in the galaxy?”  Issac was surprised by the acidity of his own words.  Cillian just smiled.

“well it’s the guns, but it ain’t the guns, if you know what i mean.”

“i don’t.”

“well you can’t expect people to line up to be the next one on the front lines if you’re a guy in a bar, right?”

“sure.”

“well now i’m not just some guy in a bar.  i’m a guy in a bar with guns.”

“i see.”

“come on,” he said, standing.

“i told Marteen i’d play a set in about an hour.”

“play a set?”

Cillian grinned.  “rabble rousing in the desert ain’t my only  talent, kid.”

Issac followed Cillian into what he was now familiar with as a building entrance.  Bywel, along with the vast majority of buildings in Gorshen, were almost entirely underground, so that the streets were mostly dotted with what appeared to be nothing more than small shacks.  above-ground buildings did occupy a respectable portion of the city’s land area, for often the larger buildings were entirely above the surface, but, particularly in the entertainment district — which, Issac noted, was significantly smaller in proportion to the size of the city than any such district he’d been to in any town of comparable size, on any world — almost everything was below-ground.  Bywel was no different.  otherwise nondescript, the entrance had two large metal doors with a simple, unadorned sign above it, simply bearing the establishment’s name.

“on Dulvern,” Issac said, “we would have called this a nightclub.”

“why not call it the same thing here?” Cillian called, stepping through the doors and into the downward-leading stairway.

Issac stopped for a moment.  “because it’s day.”

“it’s always day,” Cillian said, his voice fading into the stairwell.  “in terms of light, anyway.  we still have a standard night, when respectable people sleep.”

“so a standard-night club?”

“if that works for you.  come on.”

Bywel cloaked Issac in a blanket of sound.  a group of three musicians occupied the stage, and the vocalists contra-tenor fought against the deep, grungy bass sounds of the musicians.  the room was dark, lit only with faint reds.  the constantly darkened state of dayside’s underground structures was revealing itself as a pattern.

Cillian had left Issac half an hour earlier.  before he had departed mysteriously, Cillian had introduced Issac to a few of his acquaintances, miners all.  C’moy Tocts was among their ranks.

“so where the hell did he run off to?” Issac asked over his glass of sunset.

Nilks smiled ambiguously.  “you’ll see,” he said.

“so you guys hang out here all the time?” Issac asked over the loud music.

“yeah,” Tocts said.  “the place is his, so we don’t really go nowhere else.”

“just because he comes here?” Issac asked, confused.

“no, i mean it’s his place.”

“what do you mean, ‘his place.’”

“whaddaya mean, ‘what do you mean?’”

Issac stared for a moment.  “wait, what?”

“you didn’t know he owns it?”

“Bywel?”

“sure,” Nilks said, beginning to laugh.  “few years back, some lifer got a favor from a rich offworlder and jumped planet.  put th’ place up for sale, real cheap.  Cillian called in a couple few favors, and landed himself the deed fer–” he finished the sentence by waving his hand to include the whole room.

“huh,” Issac said mostly to himself, sitting back in his chair.  he looked at the nightclub with new eyes.  he lit a cigarette — he had finally found a pack of his own not long before — as the vocalist’s high-pitched voice faded away and the stage lights dimmed.  there was movement in the half-light, but Issac could not make anything out other than a handful of figures redistributing musical equipment and swapping electrical cords between the ratty red curtains that framed the stage.

“here we go,” Tocts said, turning his back on Issac to face the stage. a moment later, the lights faded up again, and a new group of musicians laid black to the blackwood floors of the Bywel stage.

“welcome, miners!” the voice said, and Bywel’s patrons cheered loudly in response.  the voice was familiar to Issac.  “this song is called ‘disintegration.’  my name’s Cillian, and i hope you hate it.”

immediately, the sound of distorted string instruments and heavily-struck percussion ripped through Bywel’s interior, shaking Issac, pleasantly.

Cillian possessed center stage dominantly.  the music roared behind him, and from beside him, and throughout him.  he screamed, rather than sang, into the cone-shaped audio amplifier before him.  the muscles in his neck strained and his abdominal muscles, now exposed by the removal of his shirt two songs prior, flexed madly in his effort.  Issac could make out none of the words that Cillian sang — or, rather, screamed — and he had consumed enough sunset that such focus would not have been expected.

Issac passed the next thirty minutes easily.  the songs stirred him, if not through their specific message then through their emotion.  in the music was a deep seeded angst.  in the music was the struggle of miners, fingers worked to the bone, children untended, wives unloved, dreams neglected.  the music, and even more so, its effect on the miners soaking in each conflagrated beat, cut Issac to the core.  so many people, laboring day in and day out — well, always day in, Issac supposed — to bring home a meager living to a family who lived on the scorched side of a forgotten world — forgotten, that is, except for the massive power and income of StarEx, Klin’s only galatic significance.  and what a significance it was.

“give ‘em quite a show,” Tocts said admiringly, the deafening music nearly drowning out his voice.

the word “unfair” pulsed through Issac’s mind.  for a moment, he wondered if that was because Cillian was screaming it repetitively in the chorus to his latest song.  then he was sure it was.  then, a moment later, Issac was convinced that in fact that was not it all, but rather that the word had come to him because of the dignified poverty of those men whom he was now surrounded by.  he felt a rising compulsion to do something…something for these people who had every possible circumstance conspiring against them.

but then he thought of Leah.  where was she?  was she alright?  was she thinking of him?

Leah.

**

Leah walked alongside Afnen.  they had left Elttaes moments before, Leah having agreed to join this new and intriguing man on an evening’s adventure.  he refused to disclose their destination, but she had agreed on the condition that the surprise would not be disappointing.  “not in the least,” Afnen had assured her.

they procured a groundcar taxi, and Leah slid into the backseat next to Afnen.

“where to?” the driver asked gruffly.

Afnen leaned forward, an action that clearly irritated the taximan.  Afnen quietly and cryptically gave the driver the destination and leaned back, a satisfied smile on his face.

“planet?” Leah asked.

Afnen’s face tensed suddenly.  “what?” he asked.

she gave a satisfied smile of her own.  “oh, nothing.  just something i heard a guy i know say to a cabbie one night.”

“so you know me, then.”

“who said i was talking about you?”

“but you said–”

“then you did say something about a planet!”  she laughed quietly in her victory.  a little piece of the puzzle.

Afnen raised his hands in a posture of surrender.  “fine,” he said.  “you got one word of it.  you know where we’re going, then?”

she folded her arms across her chest and looked out the window.  out of the corner of her eye, she saw Afnen glance at the bulge her breasts made as she squeezed her torso.  she raised her elbows slightly, exaggerating the effect.

“no,” she said obstinately.  “but you’re not as mysterious as you think you are.”

“aren’t i?”

“you aren’t.”  light drops of rain began to streak across the cab’s windows, the gentle plunk plunk of their impact sounded on the roof.

they look like sentences. the voice was almost audible in her head.  what? she had asked him.

the way the drops line up.  almost like each one is a letter.  or maybe a word.  like they’re trying to tell you something. that’s silly.  it’s just water.  someone might say the words on the pages of your books are just splotches of ink. i guess, if you didn’t know how to read.  but there’s clearly a pattern.  do you know there’s not a pattern?  just because you can’t see it, does that mean it’s not there? but it’s constantly changing.  it’s random.  i agree, then i disagree.  it is constantly changing — but then, what isn’t?  we’re driving through the city.  it’s the same, but it’s constantly changing, isn’t it?  there, a man is crossing the street.  he’s changed the balance from one sidewalk to the other.  and there, a streetlight turned off.  we’re moving: our perspective is different from one moment to the next. but you said you disagreed.  sure.  you said the drops are random.  how do you know? they just are.  it’s just happenstance of moisture in the atmosphere gaining mass, falling, being caught by the wind, and hitting a moving vehicle.  it could have happened a thousand different ways.  could it have?

it was Issac’s habit to frustrate her with unanswerable questions.  the scene played through her head in an instant, and she felt herself flood with the desire to rebut him.  absolutely, she should have said.  she could have supported it with logic, with physics, with subtle reasoning.  she had her weapons ready.  but Issac’s delighted grin was nowhere to be shattered with her impeccable arguments now.  and his arm was not around her, and she was not elbowing him in the ribs with the joyful annoyance that only familiarity and trust could bring.

instead, it was unpredictable voice of Afnen Uvnor that brought her back from her reverie.

“you are,” he said.

“mysterious?” she asked, dropping her arms to her sides.

“inherently.  it’s not often you see a girl reading a book — a real, paper book.”

there he was, mentioning the book again.

Afnen leaned back in his seat and let out a long sigh.  the rain began to fall harder now.  “people will read again,” he intoned.

**

Cillian’s group had finished their set a fifteen minutes earlier, and he had once again rejoined Issac and Tocts at their table.  the thought of the oppressed still stung Issac’s mind.

Cillian clanged down three glasses on the table.  they were full of sunset.  “to the dawn!” he cheered, raising a glass high into the air.  Tocts submitted eagerly, taking the shot in one.  Issac glared at the glass for a moment, but, after bout of hesitation, did what he wanted to.

the glass almost lifted itself to his lips.  “fuck it,” he said before the liquor drained down his throat.  the world spun around him.

the hours had passed by quickly, and Bywel was nearly empty.  Cillian and his group of musicians had finished their short but intense set some time ago, and he sat, still shirtless and sweaty, sipping at a glass of sunset.  Corgan Nilks had taken his leave of the club some time ago, and Cillian and Issac sat alone for a time.  both were intoxicated.

Issac was just concluding a retelling of his history with Leah, and the events that brought him to Klin.  “and now that i’m here,” he said, words slurred, “you know, it’s like, i feel like i need to do something, but, i don’t know what, and, you know, i need to get back to Leah though, because we’re supposed to get married, and i–”

“i know,” Cillian said, interrupting a sentence that Issac had no intention of finishing.

Issac brought his eyes from the table and focused on Cillian with a great effort.  “what’s the matter?”

Cillian frowned and rubbed a hand against his short beard.  “nothing,” he said.  “just a lot on my mind.”

“d’you, you know, wanna talk about it or anything?”

“no,” Cillian said plainly, gazing into the distance.

just then, there was movement at the door.

“we’re closing in fifteen minutes,” Issac heard someone say.  the response was low, and Issac could not make it out.  he swiveled his head in the direction of the voices.

a man entered the bar, followed by two men who kept their distance.

“wonderful,” Cillian said with quiet sarcasm.  he sat up stiffly and waited for the man to approach.

“Cillian,” the man said ambiguously when he arrived at the table.  he was of medium height, but impressive physically.  his hair was dark, as was his hard-lined face.  his thin lips drew themselves downward at the edges into a fixed grimace.

Cillian smiled plastically and tilted his head slightly to the side.  “Ash,” he responded acrimoniously, making little attempt to hide the hostility behind his words.  “what can i do ya for?”  Ash pulled a stool out from below the table and sat.  “sit, by all means,” Cillian said sardonically.

“I’m Issac,” Issac said with more friendliness than he intended.

Ash’s cold eyes flicked to Issac for a second, but he did not respond.  he looked back to Cillian, pressing his lips together tightly before saying, “i want some.”

Cillian scratched his beard with his right hand and gestured to the bar with his left.  “i think there’s time for one more before closin’, ol’ buddy, but i ain’t a bartender.”

“don’t be a fool,” Ash said harshly.  “you know precisely what it is that i refer to, and do not pretend otherwise.”

Cillian shrugged in an exaggerated fashion.  “i thought i did, but i guess i was wrong.  so, please, if you wouldn’t mind dumbing it down for me just a touch, i’d really love to hear what you’ve got to say.  otherwise, Issac here and i were just on our way out for the evening.”

“i want the guns.”

Cillian slapped his palm on the table and leaned forward, eyes open wide.  “jesus,” he said quietly but violently.  “where’s your head, man?  we’re in the middle of a fucking–” Cillian looked around rapidly.  Issac’s eyes scanned the floor — none of the few remaining customers seemed to have noticed.  Ash did not flinch, his stare did not falter.  he looked steadily at Cillian, who stood suddenly.

“follow me,” he said, walking away from the table quickly.  Ash stood and snapped his fingers.  the two men who had accompanied him into the bar pursued as Ash followed Cillian.  unsure of what to do, Issac stood, unsteadily at first, and followed the group tentatively.  they passed into a dark hallway and through a door Issac had not seen earlier.  they wound through yet another hallway, and arrived eventually at a closed wooden door.  Cillian pressed his hand against the palmscanner and the door slid open.  Issac caught up finally, and he saw Cillian turn to Ash.

“not them,” he said, indicating the silent and humorless men who were apparently bodyguards.

“then not him,” Ash retorted, pointed at Issac.

“yes, him.”

“who is he?”

“he’s Issac, which he already told you.”

“then they come, too.”

Cillian sighed and scratched at his short beard. “look,” he said, “i know we’ve been best buds for a long time now, but it’s my fuckin’ bar, and if you don’t like the rules then you and your guards are free to find somewhere else to not drink, or whatever it is that you don’t want to do.”

Ash pursed his lips and glanced at his guards, taking his eyes of Cillian for the first time.  “your conditions are arbitrary and, not surprisingly, unreasonable, but i have no choice but to submit.  shall we?”

“after you, sweetheart,” Cillian said with an acerbic smile.

Ash entered the room and Cillian followed him.  he gestured to Issac to follow, and Issac did so.

the room was small, but elaborately decorated.  dim lights cast shadows across paintings and statues that were primitive in appearance and, to Issac, unfamiliar in style.   there were no chairs, andin their place, thick and elaborately ornamented pads lined the perimeter of the room, each with a luxurious backrest.  Cillian plopped down on one of the cushions and indicated for the others to do likewise.  they did.  he opened a small cabinet and produced a bottle of sunset and three glasses. he offered one to Issac, which he accepted, and one to Ash, who declined with the raise of an open palm.  Cillian sipped the liquor and exhaled loudly.

he said, “let’s start over, shall we, now that not just anyone can overhear us.”

“he can overhear us,” Ash said.

Cillian sighed in exasperation.  “look, if you want to talk, talk.  here i am, tryin’ to be a reasonable guy, and you wanna drag your feet.  you know there’s only one reason why i’m even letting you stay, and even that don’t mean everything.  if i say he’s fine, he’s fine.”

“my concessions continue to mount,” Ash said, “while you are yet to make one yourself.”

“you’re in here, ain’t ya?”

Ash paused for a moment, as if he were considering.  Cillian waited.  Finally, Ash said, “i have come to understand that you acquired a shipment of projectile weapons from the trader Lathan Devers.”

“who told you that?” Cillian asked, as if he were not expecting an answer.  he did not get one.

“it is irrelevant,” Ash said.  “your behavior proves that the claim is true.”

Cillian smiled mockingly, then said, “did your sources tell you that Devers is dead?”

“they did.”

“then you know these guns come at the cost of a good man’s life.  a good man and his crew.”

“i did not know the man, but i understand that he has aided the miners in the past.  it is regrettable that he will not be able to continue to do so in the future.”

“regrettable,” Cillian repeated coldly.  “you always had a way with words, partner.”

“my proposition is this,” Ash said incongruously.  “one half of the shipment of weapons and ammunition in exchange for detailed information regarding our operation that is delayed only by lack of said weapons.  you may find that the aforementioned operation is one in which you wish to participate.  in that case, i can ensure maximal cooperation for our mutual benefit.”

Cillian considered for a moment, then said with more than a hint of distrust, “what kind of operation?”

“the particulars must be withheld, of course, until such time as the weapons are in our possession.”

“so how do i know you don’t just take the guns and bolt?”

“because it would not be to my advantage to do so.  such an action would almost certainly lead to open conflict between our respective organizations, and open conflict would first expose us and then destroy us.  i would think that such reasoning would be obvious.”

“ain’t nothin’ obvious with you, sweetheart.”

“but you follow the logic?”

“yeah, i follow ya,” Cillian said roughly.  “but tell me one thing.  this ‘operation,’ it’s hitting StarEx, i’m guessing.”

“of course.”

“and that bastard Sentuel?”

Ash broke his fixed expression for the first time, but only slightly.  the right corner curled up slightly into the beginnings of a smile.  “of course.”

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