Pasha Malla - People Park

Affixed to the wall above Favours’ head was a six-foot version of the NFLM crest: atop an outline of the city, a naked woman and winged man entwined in coitus. Above this image was written New Fraternal League of Men: The Mighty Ones of Eternity , and below it the four pillars: Silentium. Logica. Securitatem. Prudentia.

The gong exploded again, again, again, and Olpert slid into the end of a pew as Helpers shuffled in, some twirling pingpong paddles. The High Gregories took their seats on the dais, flanking Favours. At the far end of the table was Wagstaffe, the NFLM’s current Silver Personality and host of We-TV’s Salami Talk , which featured interviews leavened with a barely euphemistic sausage-making theme. In person he was even more orange-skinned and drastically chinned than he seemed on TV.

Beside Wagstaffe was Magurk, the Special Professor, a ratlike and savagely hairy man. As an L1 he’d wrestled Olpert into a half nelson and demanded to be told which pressure points it was possible to kill a man by striking. Out of nowhere Olpert’s grandfather had come barrelling down the hall, dropkicked Magurk in the lower back, and, as he crumpled, suggested, That one?

To Favours’ right, in the Imperial Master’s chair, sat a tense, taciturn man Olpert remembered as Noodles — older than the rest, in his sixties, golfshirt tailored into a turtleneck. Framing a stoic, pink face were a white brushcut and matching goatee. Noodles rarely spoke, just icily observed, yet was always nodding, as if his head were physically affirming its own secret thoughts. He worried Olpert even more than Magurk.

Griggs, the Head Scientist, took the podium. His hair was puttied into twin crisp halves, beneath which his face remained expressionless and waxen, almost animatronic in its movements, the way the forehead crinkled and flattened, the nose dipped obediently when he opened his mouth to speak. Quiet now, he said, in a voice like wind over water.

Pivoting on his hindquarters the bullish Summoner wound up and bashed the gong a final time. The murmuring around the room faded. Everyone stood for the Opening Oath, led by Griggs in a droning monotone from the pages of How We Do , the ongoing codex of NFLM ideology and activities. Olpert joined where he could remember: Let us all swear an oath. . A new year is dawning. . Stay awake to the ways of the world. . sworn and bound. . in eternal execration. . the last days and times… from generation to generation and forever. . the mighty ones of eternity. . all men.

The gong sounded again, the NFLM lowered into the pews, and the Summoner, perspiration ringing his armpits, squeezed into the empty seat beside Olpert. He nodded, a downward bob of his neckless head, his shoulders were foothills that sloped into the mountainside of his face. With a glance at Olpert’s nametag (his own read: Starx ), the man took Olpert’s hand and whispered, Good lookin out, Belly.

Starx’s hand was weirdly tiny for such a huge man. The handshake felt to Olpert like having his fingertips gummed by a small, toothless lizard.

Hi, said Olpert. Good looking out.

The meeting got underway: Griggs conceded the mic to Magurk, who took it in his furry fist and began strolling the aisles. Terrified he’d be recognized, singled out, perhaps even attacked, Olpert slouched and averted his eyes. From the back of the Hall four Recruits crammed into Little Boy Desks, ducktape over their mouths, videotaped the proceedings — that was new, the cameras. One was the cripple, Diamond-Wood.

The rest of the men were the same as ever, broad and tense, with a primordial intensity in their eyes that goaded: Try and test me, just try. All of them, save Griggs in his socks and sandals, wore those same black sneakers. Olpert covered his left loafer with the right, then the right with the left. For some reason he found himself trying to estimate how many individual testicles were in the building — and had to shake his head to rattle the dangly jungle this conjured from his brain.

Magurk’s speech, whatever it had been, was over. My people, he said, you ready to show this city the best weekend of their lives? Are you with me? Are you fuggin with me ?

Yeah! roared the men.

Starx punched the air, grinned at Olpert, whispered, Gotta love this stuff.

Magurk passed the microphone to Wagstaffe, reassumed his seat at the edge of the dais, rabies frothed at the corners of his lips. Positioning himself in the Great Hall’s most photogenic light, Wagstaffe spoke rousingly of courage, the four pillars, the NFLM’s responsibilities, history, order, the cameras rolled. The speech seemed a little too performed, infused with a mannered nonchalance meant to deny the presence of a viewership beyond the Temple. But people would be watching. They always were.

Was it less of a lonely life to be watched like that? To know you were seen? Olpert thought of his own life, the furtive hush of it. As a child he had more than anything wished to be invisible, to just drift through the world without being heard or judged. Two pews back was Reed, stroking his moustache. Did Reed have a wife? A family? Or was the NFLM his only family, and was that enough? The New Fraternal League of Men, thought Olpert: like a religion, except all they had to believe in was one another.

Wagstaffe handed the mic to Noodles, who pressed it to his lips, nodded, nodded, the room was silent, expectant — and with a final nod tendered it to Griggs.

Applause.

Helpers, Griggs began, though Olpert lost focus — Starx had shifted, his arm pressed against Olpert’s. It was a hot, heavy arm. He was very close, he smelled of boiled cabbage and wet towels clumped on the floor for a week, his nostrils flared and whistled. There was something almost soporific about his breathing, the steady in-out rhythm of it, it lulled Olpert, he listened and lost himself a little —

And now Starx was elbowing him, standing. Everyone was standing.

Olpert flushed and jumped to his feet.

Starx moved gongside. What had Olpert missed? He checked his watch, an hour had passed, how? Everyone rose for the Final Oath, which Olpert lip-synched as best he could. Starx banged the gong a final time and came at Olpert, seized him by the upper arms. Olpert tensed to create muscles there (biceps, triceps, whatever).

What do you know, Belly, said Starx, me and you: partners. B-Squad.

Me and you?

Yeah. Pretty big honour. Us as the magician’s official escorts or whatever.

Starx still held him, Olpert was growing exhausted from clenching his fists. Around the room like a prisonyard dance men had partnered off muttering in low tones. Starx’s eyes scanned Olpert’s face — and at last he was released.

Me and you, Belly, said Starx, smacking a small fist into his palm. Big time. You work security? Good. Here’s our lanyard. You take it, it won’t fit me — Starx gestured sadly at his colossal head. Nice to get a Citypass though. Ever drive one of those wagons?

No. I don’t drive much really. I get a little nervous on the roads —

Great. Seriously though, Belly, this kinda makes me think they’re grooming me for a bump, if you know what I mean. Maybe even to HG. I mean, because you’re still, what? Technically only Probe or something, right? Because you quit or whatever.

It’s Bailie.

So you’d think they paired you with me because I’m like, senior or whatever. Bigups have gotta be due soon. I know Noodles has his eye on the top spot — I mean, Favours isn’t going to be around forever.

Across the room the old man, deserted on the dais, had spun himself around. He bumped against the wall, a disoriented animal trying to tunnel its escape.

Poor guy, said Starx.

My name, I mean, Olpert tried again. They spelled it —