Matthew Tysz - The Last City of America

Altogether, Chicago had a larger army than the entire West combined with Baltimore.

This magnificent assembly was supplied by the superior production of Pittsburgh. Helicopters with light armor for hit-and-run assaults. Slow but heavy tanks. When it came to the artillery—only the artillery—Grakus sacrificed accuracy for quantity and firepower. Shells from the sky, whistling to the ground—they didn’t necessarily have to hit a man to stop him from fighting.

All of this, the assembly and production, were represented in a small-scale way in the streets below Herb Tower, where Grakus was standing, watching his city beneath the afternoon sky. He summoned his advisers to join him. He had made a decision. When the advisers learned of it, they were shocked and afraid.

“But my lord,” one particularly frightened adviser intervened, “shouldn’t we wait for them to make the first move?”

“This trial will further divide the West as long as it lasts, my lord,” said the underhost.

Possibly.

Grakus kept his focus on the skyline.

But the West wasn’t struggling to become divided, was it? They were struggling to unify. Harold was struggling to be trusted. Their war leaders were struggling to mobilize. Why give them the time to do these things? And what would Grakus do with that time? Let his army’s passion run cold? Time was something Grakus no longer needed. Chicago was ready. America was ready.

She stepped onto the marble patio in the back of the capitol building. The orchards were lined in perfect rows down the lawn before it. Petals fell in a slow pink rain beneath the purple evening sky. Even as they died, their aroma was fresh.

A man with black hair and a white lab coat was at the edge of the patio, taking in the scene. Angela was sure it was Adrian’s friend, Harold. She came beside him and saw that it was.

“Hello, my lord,” she smiled.

Harold turned, bowed his head. “My lady.” He seemed preoccupied—a similar pensiveness she saw a lot in Adrian. She didn’t blame him, but she wanted to know him better. Her husband owed this man his life.

“Were you born in Chicago?”

Harold looked back out at the orchards. “My earliest memories were at an orphanage in Pittsburgh. But I was still a boy when I was sent to Chicago. They had me studying neuroscience for about six months before I was picked up by a doctor from Rush.” He chuckled. “I guess a simpler answer would have been ‘no.’”

Angela looked to the yard as well. “If I liked simple, I wouldn’t have married Adrian.”

Harold smirked. “He sees himself as a far simpler man than he is.” He stepped closer to the edge, where the grass rose slightly over the marble. Angela stepped with him.

She knew a lot about Harold Del Meethia, but only through Adrian. And there were things about him even Adrian didn’t understand. Couldn’t understand. To Adrian, Harold was a man in firm control of everything. He knew what to do, when and how to do it. And if there was no way, the crafty scientist would make a way. But Angela saw him at a different angle. She saw an entirely different man.

“The news likes to simplify things,” he looked at her, confusion in his eyes. “Was it really Adrian who called the attack on Manhattan?”

Angela looked at the designs on the patio. “What happened at Manhattan was as much my fault as it was his. And everyone who acted without question.” A petal from the orchards landed on her shirt. She let it be. She looked up as a breeze carried many more gently toward them. “The world brings suffering. But none of it would matter if we just learned to help each other heal.”

A petal landed on Harold’s shoulder. He brushed it off. It landed on his shoe. “Healing is a decision a person needs to make on their own.”

“A decision?” Angela looked at him, then back to the yard of orchards. “I like that. But who says it has to be made alone?” She rubbed her arms. It was getting cold.

Harold smiled. It was forced. “I can see how you’re a match for Adrian.”

“You have more in common with him than you think.”

“…My lady, you are misinformed.”

The petals began to fall all at once from a place in the sky to which the breeze had lifted them. Angela raised her face to it. A beautiful rain from a dark sky. “All these experiments you’ve done, the knowledge you followed. You anticipated something from it. But you never knew what that thing was, did you? And after all you’ve done, you haven’t even tasted it, have you?”

She heard a sigh, and then, “No.”

She turned from the sky to him. “But then you left Rush. You went on a journey. You met people. Made friends. Lost friends. The journey made you feel something your studies never did. So why not pursue that?” She watched Harold, hunched forward, looking at the yard. Silent. Angela was afraid she had offended him. She added, “I’m sure your skills could be used to help Adrian and me in our city.”

“Well,” Harold looked away from the yard, but didn’t face her. “I’ll probably have nowhere else to go after this war.”

“I used to tell myself that same thing,” she said. “A decision’s easier to make if you can convince yourself you have no options.”

Angela expected Harold wouldn’t respond, and he didn’t. And she was starting to feel silly lecturing a man old enough to be her father. In silence, she remained with him. They watched the petals fall as the sky turned from purple to black.

Trial was in twenty minutes.

There were more people than usual in the building this evening. They were dressed nicer, carried themselves straighter, smiling, laughing, chatting. Maybe they were starting to feel that whatever decision the West came to, they would come to it together. And they would come to it soon.

He walked into the bathroom. It was empty, but such good fortune never lasts. He walked to one of the sinks.

The room was white except for the dark spaces of a few missing tiles. It was clean, smelled clean, but at the same time had a filthiness to it. The light on the far side was flickering. It gave the room an eerie feel.

Adrian set his hands on the counter and looked at the mirror. He hadn’t done that in a long time. Just looked at himself. He liked the way he looked. His eyes seemed a little darker than they used to. Maybe his smile lines were fading. But in all, he liked the person looking back at him. He was a man. A husband. A father. A skylord. He doubted he could have been any of these had he stayed as he was a month ago.

He turned on the sink. Hot water filled his hands. He rinsed his face over and over, absorbing the water and the heat. He felt at ease. He dried his face.

The door opened. His body hardened. He looked up. It was Francis.

Adrian kept his eyes on the sink. He was ready to leave, but he couldn’t. Francis would think he was leaving out of fear. He turned the sink back on. Washed his hands. Francis stood at the sink next to Adrian’s and combed his hair. He had the kind of hair Adrian wanted. Adrian was yellow, like the other Mercados. Francis was dirty blond. It was manlier and beautiful. Adrian kept washing, pretending to struggle with something under his fingernails.

Adrian never hid from himself that he was just as drawn to the right man as he was to the right woman. It’s just that he never saw the point to such a relationship. He wanted to be a father. Maybe if he had Hephaestus, he would have set his vision wider. And he already loved Angela. Still, Francis was a difficult man to turn away from. And the mutual attraction was flattering. The tension made it hotter.

Francis stopped combing his hair. It looked like he was staring at Adrian again. Adrian kept scrubbing.