Mark Newton - The Broken Isles

‘Yeah, everyone. Even Coren.’ Diggsy laughed at that. ‘I guess it’s probably what Lim would have wanted, too.’

She looked down at her plate for a moment. Then she met Diggsy’s gaze. ‘What kind of things will you want me to do exactly?’

‘You’re the real brains, we all know that. You see the bigger picture while we lose ourselves in the detail of animation. Coren’s too full of himself to care about such things. Me, I’m too laid back and just want to enjoy things as they are.’

‘And Pilli?’

Diggsy shrugged. ‘You’re the smart one, Jeza. You should be the one to deal with the guy in charge of the army. You’re much better than any of us at that sort of thing.’

‘Really?’

‘Really, and maybe it’s why I don’t want you drinking all the time.’

‘It’s not all the time,’ Jeza replied with a frown, but still, she couldn’t contain her excitement. She leaned over the table and kissed him, and sat back happy and determined. But first, she resumed her dinner and everything tasted just that little bit better than a moment ago.

They finished their meal and headed home, to their room at the top of Factory 54.

It wasn’t much, but it was nice to have everything all in one place, and certainly better than most other cultists lived, surviving in a windowless room with little but a few technical manuals to play with. As it was, most of their existence was actually spent in or around the factory. Every flesh-being, every mechanical device, every crude relic was manufactured by the team. Most of the meals she ate, most of the boys she’d slept with, were all under the one roof.

The hour was late, nearly thirteen, and a little tipsy from the drink Jeza shambled up the rusting metal stairs. Suddenly she realized what a noise she was making and then tried to act stealthily to make up for it. Diggsy chuckled as he pushed her towards their bedroom.

They opened the door, and she pulled Diggsy to the bed, one soft beam of moonlight hitting the wall behind them. Haphazardly, she pulled off his clothes, then her own, before dragging him clumsily under the bedclothes.

He was tender, too tender and too slow at times, when she wanted that little bit more . He did this thing with his tongue, which she appreciated, but he was more hesitant than she really liked.

Enough . .

Jeza pushed him over on his back, climbed on top of him and, once he was hard and inside her, she began to fuck him aggressively.

A little later and they both collapsed in a state of sweaty breathlessness. She’d needed that, even though he barely lasted five minutes. What was it with good-looking guys? Did they just not try that hard to hold it? Still, it had only been their fourth time. Maybe things would improve as they grew used to each other.

The room seemed hazy, she could taste the drying alcohol in her mouth and, just about satiated, she passed out.

Jeza woke up in the night, paranoid. Diggsy lay asleep beside her, his arm sticking out of the bed; she pulled the sheet over him to keep him warm, climbed out of bed and walked to the window that overlooked the streets behind Factory 54.

Hidden somewhere behind the clouds or over the horizon, none of the moons was present, and the place was in darkness. She stood there, naked and cold, suddenly afraid of what she was getting herself into.

She remembered the screams from the war. These streets were, not too long ago, littered with carts that carried dead bodies from the centre of the city. She remembered people crying and the carts becoming more frequent. Some of the bodies had limbs missing, and even though she spent her time working with the animation of flesh, her experiences had not desensitized her — she knew that they had been real people.

At the time they had all felt survivor guilt. They felt they should be doing something to help — but, as she said at the time, their contribution would come through what they were good at, not lining up to die with so many others. Now was their time. She knew that, and liked that the commander spoke to them like real people and didn’t dismiss them like other cultists.

She was only eighteen. Part of her wanted to spend time studying and drinking and sleeping with Diggsy. If she was to represent those who worked at Factory 54, would she be some kind of commander herself? When money began to flow in and out, would she be in charge of its distribution? Would she be assuring the commander that they would hit deadlines?

What seemed a wonderful idea in the bistro began to cause her concern and she realized, then, that she would not be able to sleep well.

Instead she reached into the drawer beside the bed and pulled out a small sketchbook and pencil, and immediately began to plan out what their next monster might look like and how it would function in a war like the one that had just passed.

‘What’re you still up for?’ Diggsy asked groggily.

‘I’m. .’ She paused. ‘I’m just thinking about projects, that’s all.’

‘You’re crazy,’ he said, smiling. ‘Knew you’d be excited about being in charge. Let’s worry about that in the morning, yeah?’

‘Yeah,’ she said. Sighing, she tossed her sketchbook to one side and climbed back into bed, allowing Diggsy’s warm body to consume her.

In the morning Jeza headed down the metal staircase with the sketchbook under her arm. Seeing the mess, she put it on the table and began clearing up the plates and beakers, the crusty bread and the warm cheese, from the night before. No one else was up yet; she was often the first down each day and liked the silence of the morning routine. It gave her time to think before things became hectic and Coren began wittering his usual nonsense at anyone within earshot.

The factory was cold so she began lighting the firegrain stove they’d hooked up to a larger system, which in turned channelled the heat around the entire building in one fairly efficient system. It coughed and spluttered like someone taking their first few drags, as the rich grain sparked and fired up.

That was usually the alarm call and, true to habit, moments later some of the others began stirring, banging drawers or doors upstairs.

‘Fucksake, Jeza. Don’t you ever sleep?’ It was Coren, lumbering down the metal stairwell, his heavy steps clanging as he came down.

Shortly after, Pilli strolled gracefully downstairs, wearing some fashionable jumper and boots with her laces undone. She sauntered into the kitchen area, said good morning, turned on the firegrain stove and placed the kettle on it.

The three of them sat down at the crude, stained table while the sun reached a point above the rooftops that shone a beam of light across them. The kettle began to boil; in the distance the firegrain system coughed.

‘Whose turn is it to make breakfast?’ Coren asked, his gaze flickering between the two girls. He yawned.

‘Yours,’ Jeza replied, glaring at him.

Pilli smiled, pulled back her hair to tie it. ‘Are you going to let him near the stove after last time? He tried to cook with a relic!’

‘Hey, those fish were edible,’ Coren protested. ‘They tasted fine.’

‘Sure — once Diggsy scraped them off the ceiling for you,’ Jeza said, standing. ‘OK, I’ll cook some oats. Happy now?’

After breakfast, Jeza gathered them all around the table, Pilli, Diggsy, Coren and Gorri, so that they could get on with business. At first she wanted to make some formal announcement, something to clear the way forward. She had rehearsed a few lines in her head but they all sounded ridiculous. In the end, she opted not to acknowledge her new position at all — it seemed to be largely a label she wore outside this room.

‘So,’ she said, ‘getting on board with the military-’