The Death of the Wave (15 page)

by all the people it could have been, but wasn’t.

Whose face is that beneath the mask?

Then it was Breaker 256, half-blinded,

silent before a jeering crowd,

begging to be part of them

with a traitor’s eyes.

But now?

Whose face is that beneath the mask?

I dream the many versions of this dream.

Sometimes I am a Breaker, tall and erect in black uniform,

a rifle in my hand, and terror in my heart.

Sometimes I am an aristo, all grace and genius

and strange cold misgivings.

But the dream never changes.

I stand on the stage before the crowd,

beside the kneeling figure with the covered face,

and I pull the cover away.

Last night, it was the face of Darwin,

still beautiful beneath a riot of blood,

His blood was red, as mine is.

And his one good eye stared into mine

the only thing spared from the brand

and begged me to end his life.

The night before, it was Blue, the Artist

nearly prostrate with exhaustion,

clothed not in the uniform of a prisoner

but in fine clothes of the Palaces

made filthy by sweat and gore.

Even here, his pride!

But run to the end,

like a fox that was chased

too far and too long,

and now has nothing left

but to die with some dignity.

I dreamt the dream again tonight.

Tonight, it was my face.

376.

He of the whippet head and steady eyes.

My torturer.

My comrade-in-arms.

My shadow.

I stumbled upon him in a Palace hallway on my way to meet Descartes,

to talk about my mother, the fire, and the king.

376 was standing sentinel outside a reception room waiting to be called in,

in pristine black uniform.

He nodded to me, as a soldier does when he recognizes a comrade,

and I looked at him carefully for the first time.

He was, is, first and foremost, a Breaker.

More powerful than the angels,

but without a will of his own.

Sonnet’s blood still on his hands and mine.

I had seen him the night of the slaughter, front of the line and first to fire.

Unmistakable.

It is the way that he moves and the way he holds his head.

And upon that grave face I trace lines that look like my own.

Another forgotten child of the king.

“256.”

“376.”

We regarded each other and I was the first to look away.

He stood steady, his dark eyes concerned and sharp as flint.

“Did Author confess?”

False Author? That traitor?

I nodded.

“I think she did not.”

He smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes.

“It’s you, isn’t it?”

376 is clever.

The words leapt to my lips before I could stop them and we clashed—

“Don’t tell—”

“They’ve taken Descartes.”

The information did not, could not register.

“The correspondence between yourself and Descartes under the name of Author has been confiscated. Given over.”

“By whom?”

I looked into 376’s serene killer’s eyes.

He had a look on his face that transcended grief or pity

and did not answer.

“It is better for him if you confess.”

It was enlightened, the gaze of a demon or an angel.

But—

“I cannot. The Artists…they need me.”

And I watched with horror as he began to laugh.

“You truly believe that, don’t you? That they need you. But what of the son of you and your pet?”

“My son is safe,” I murmured and 376 inclined his head.

“
So be it. I will not inform Galileo without your words. But the orders are that I
question
Descartes tonight. If you do not confess.”

“You,” I whispered, and at last the calm eyes looked away.

“376, if I confess, Galileo will kill me.”

“Yes.”

He paused, and then hesitantly—

“Unless you let the traitor, our false author, take your fall.”

I started.

This was the automaton.

The man who killed school-children without appearance of regret.

The man, who for all his apologetic glances,

tortured me at a single word that fell from Galileo’s lips.

The man who allowed my brother to fall, and fired upon his own people,

with all the terrible implacability of duty.

What was this new treason?

He smiled again without allowing it to reach his eyes.

“Yes. I know,”
he explained softly. “
The night of the fire, your actions, the words of your boy. You wouldn’t have led your lambs to the slaughter, not you. Someone must have betrayed you. Someone lied.”

And it was, it is, just a job, those steady eyes revealed

as he stepped forward towards me and into the light.

No pleasure in the chase.

No pain in the fall.

“If I confess…if Galileo finds out—”

“Will I help you? I will.”

He touched my cheek in an instant of misplaced affection.

“But not for you. For your son. Perhaps you will find him, when this is all over.”

“Do you,” I began and at the look upon his face, I corrected myself.

“Did you have a family?”

He smiled mysteriously and turned away.

One last risk.

But I saw it.

There was a bracelet on his wrist that was beaded by a child.

“Confess,”
he pleaded, for he knows what he is,

and what he must do.

But I could not.

I cannot.

And with that, I turned,

and I left him to his work.

I had told them of the correspondence.

My enemy.

Descartes.

Galileo allowed me in to see him in his holding cell in the Citadel,

before he was sent to the Barracks.

He was curled up on his side across from his cot

facing the wall.

I had seen other aristos, and knew all about might and majesty.

But this was different.

I could hear the strange heart beating.

“Author will be detained,” I murmured, my mouth dry in that stale room.

For there was only silence.

“But it will be quick,” I added.

He did not turn to face me.

“It will be very quick.”

I was struck by the nature of his fragility, the lightness of his frame, the thin legs folded against his chest as if his only wish was to disappear into the stones.

The gaunt shoulders were shaking.

And I knelt beside the one that Author must had loved,

and asked him:

“What should I do now?”

He never turned to face me, only lay there broken but whole,

a tiny burn on his throat the only thing

that shone out for his suffering,

and said.

“Write.”

I am aristo.

I am half the monster that they tell their children

about at night, the angel that they swear to adore.

And 376 knows this.

He knows that I know.

I met him outside in the hall after the questioning of Descartes was over.

His usually impeccable coat was unbuttoned, his hair in disarray.

I called his name, and he turned to me in guilt and shame

and with terrible conviction.

He was ram-rod straight even there,

and I remembered the unsmiling boy

who received the uniform.

His eyes glistened with tears and

I thought it was for my Descartes,

the man who would not betray me.

Little did I understand.

He had lost someone he loved.

I called his name again as he turned away,

and he trembled at the fate of a Breaker.

My brother that tortured another brother.

“You should have stopped me,”
he whispered.

“You should have confessed, it would have been better. I will not be forced—”

“You will not be swayed,” I finished dully, watching the broad shoulders sag,

a carthorse that had pulled a load too heavy for it for too long.

“You are betrayed, 256,”
he murmured.
“In Galileo’s house there are many traitors and they will brand you as one of them.”

“ Then you must do it.”

“I?”

“Yes. Who more fitting to brand a traitor than another traitor?”

But you would give me aid, you would help me?

One risk alone, and why the change?

Were you buying me time?

So many confessions.

I was under suspicion.

A report to Galileo of the confession of the alleged author, yet

he ignored the tragedy that has fallen.

I would not think of a father.

Artists had been slaughtered, burned.

I was meant to be freed from my post in the Hives.

I had made my choice, my hand in the revolution lifted forever.

Shall I tell them?

“No.”

What now?

I had been waiting for Galileo to order an issued report to the Artists

telling them that their cause had been lost as it had begun.

But he did nothing.

He only watched the crowd, the dark eyes far away.

I had turned to go when his words called me back.

“Look at them,”
he murmured, at the crowd beyond the gates.

“Look at them feel.”

The eyes flickered, the only living thing in a dead face.

“What is it like to be human?”

I waited.

And then I turned.

“I do not think I am qualified to answer that question.”

But

“Why do you want so badly not to be human, Author?”

And he knew.

He knew from before.

But the choice of your life was an illusion, 256.

He never intended to let you go.

A brand was heated in a darkened room,

and we were lost.

But before the fall.

376 and I created the dual plan

to punish false Author,

and to free me from the Citadel.

I thought that she was a traitor.

I trusted the boy.

False Author would die in my stead,

but first we would brand her a traitor

as I was branded a traitor.

Her face, as mine is, would be ruined by hot iron,

and then by gunshot.

There would be no mistake.

The night before I killed a king.

Darwin.

Whenever I doubt, when beside you,

I would not doubt again.

You are hope, strength, and destiny.

I saw only your face in the darkness,

past the blade,

the myriad miracles of you.

Your hidden gaze and

the smile that seems

as rehearsed as a play.

The night before I killed your father.

You said that you loved me.

We were in your chambers,

and you were wearing the dress-shirt

that I always have loved,

open at the collar.

You had climbed down from your lofty perch,

your desk abandoned.

Finally, Darwin.

You sat near the fire.

You were steady, protective,

and I was sitting so near you that

our shoulders touched.

Darwin.

You said that you loved me.

For I whispered that I was frightened

and was delighted to see you draw me in, that you

encircled me in your arms

and said:
“Nothing may harm that which I love.”

You would never easily permit my affection.

Yes, when I reached for you,

you glanced up

and drew away.

Darwin.

“But you said you loved me,” I murmured,

and reached again to caress the smooth planes of your face.

You shivered under my touch,

and pure unhappiness darted from your eyes.

“What is love, again?”
you questioned as a child does.

“It is to protect, to cherish, to have as one’s own,” I replied.

“It is to be the heart to the mind of another.”

You smiled then, to have an answer.

“That is what I have for you. What is it to be human?”

And you so charmed me that I laughed!

“It is to have all these things and more.”

But when I had moved within the circlet of your arms,

and had bent to kiss you,

you overthrew me,

frightened, you shook,

and curled yourself up in front of the fire.

“Is that what it is to be human?”
you cried.

I would never do anything that you would not permit,

but my heart was bitter enough to say:

“It is to be in pain,” I whispered savagely,

not meeting your eyes.

“It is to want, and never gain.”

And you looked at me, and startled, whispered:

“That is what I want.”

You, the eternal angel, that being removed from desire

from lust, from the sexes, from pride and from failure.

You wanted to be like me.

How I had
envied
you.