Jal lies on his back on the wooden floor, eyes staring up through the window at the night
sky. The air has a smell of burnt metal that pleases him. Clouds stained orange from the
factory lights below race overhead, swollen with rain that falls in heavy drops on his
upturned face. The clouds absorb corrosive chemicals from the alchemical furnaces
below, enough to cause burns, but they don't hurt him.
Slowly getting up, he leans out the window to look at the foundries, close but hazy in the
rain. Holding up his hand, he can feel the heat they generate even through the metals
that cover his skin. Running his hands over his body, he feels its rough texture, the
raindrops vanishing from his face to be absorbed by the intelligent symbiotes that live in
his body- absorbed to be used by them. They had created his carapace from metals he
had absorbed from the air and water- they could find a use for anything.
Katya hated this place- she didn't come to visit him often. It had been three years since
they had found themselves in the courtyard, defeated by the Tep. Since then, Jal had
been an actor playing at the thing he should be- a charlatan, a joke.
In the half-light of the room, he can see his paintings leaning against the walls, his
journals and books stacked in corners and spread across the floor, the weapons he used
for murder. He looked at his metal, crystalline hands-a shadow of what he was before, a
weapon that had failed.
Jal feels a tickle at the back of his neck, and laughs a little. There's a part of him that's still
alive- the part that he had held onto so tightly those years ago. That ancient language
that Katya had seen moving through his soul- not a part of him anymore, but something
that was always close at hand. It always came when he called, and he could make it into
whatever he wished.
"Here now," he says to it as it moves over his shoulder. "Into my hand."
It moves down his arm as he thinks it, into his hand. First it's a pistol, then an orchid.
Sitting down, he lays it gently on his leg. He has tried to paint it, but failed. He has tried to
write about it, but words are inadequate for a language that has none. The shadows of it
still danced through his mind- it would be part of him again. It had a physical aspect, so
he could incorporate it back into himself- there were talented surgeons whose expertise
wasn't limited to mere science. Dr. Pendle would help him- everyone has currency that is
unique to them, and Jal knew the type the Doctor required.
A sound from downstairs interrupts Jal's thoughts- someone stumbling over the garbage
and shattered masonry that covered the floor; someone who obviously couldn't see in the
dark. Jal listens as the person continues to loudly stumble around the room below while
he slowly steps back into a corner, squatting low with his hands resting on the damp floor.
Eventually, the person manages to find the ladder and begins to climb, each step
creaking loudly as they ascend. Jal watches quietly as the top of a head appears above
the floor, the sound of heavy breathing from exertion. Then the full head appears, the
shoulders, the body and legs as his visitor at last clumsily steps from the ladder to the
floor, shaking.
The person looks out the window at the factories and sky- head, face, and body covered
by a Fetah. They then scan the rest of the room, eyes missing Jal crouched in his dark
corner. Instead, the person focuses on the paintings that lie scattered around the room.
Moving toward one, the person stops inches from it, his breath escaping the Fetah in
clouds of moisture. Raising a hand slowly, he runs it over the canvas.
Raising himself up quietly, Jal is across the room in three quick strides. Reaching out
quickly, he grabs the person's hand, pulling it back.
"Don't touch that," he says quietly. "It isn't dry yet."
The person jerks his hand away, taking several steps back, hands raised. "I'm sorry,"
says a disembodied voice, distorted by the voice box of the Fetah. "I- I didn't think you
were home. I didn't think you'd mind if I came in and looked around."
Jal smiles at the familiar voice of Siah. "Hmm- well, what do you think?"
"Oh- the paintings?" Siah's masked face leans closer. "These faces- they're familiar.
They look like you- us? No, you- you without me. It's hard to tell with the blue light in the
foreground- it distorts the features." He pauses for a moment. "This is from our dream,
isn't it?"
"My dream," says Jal. "It isn't yours any more."
"No- no it isn't," says Siah. "Are you going out this evening? I know you find the work I
want done distasteful, but it's necessary- perhaps later you'll understand why."
"I don't find it distasteful at all. As long as you keep paying . . ."
"Please, don't say any more," says Siah, shaking his head. "I find this whole transaction
very- questionable. If there were any other way for us to resolve this . . ."
"But there isn't."
Siah looks at Jal for a long moment before speaking again. "No, I don't suppose there is.
Do as you're told and you'll get your reward as promised. I should leave now- I'll see you
later on tonight.
*
Jaldeja waits a long time after Siah is gone, lost in thought. Rain washes in sheets
through the window, running in torrents down the wall to splash loudly against the
windowsill. Water also drips rapidly from the ceiling onto the concrete floor. How long
had it been since he'd seen Katya? The thought drifts across his consciousness, finding
purchase with other memories, a distant pain. He watches the rain and closes his eyes
to listen to it more closely.
A sharp tap from across the room- opening his eyes, he is on his feet- a panorama of still
canvases, darkness- a flicker through the window from the metallurgical furnaces that
makes shadows dance looming then small around the room. There is nothing that wasn't
there a moment ago.
Another tap, louder this time- but perhaps it's because he's focusing on the spaces
between the background noises, listening- now another, quicker this time, and another.
There is something different about the room- one of his paintings has changed- the
outline is different. He moves closer to it.
Tap.
Another drop of water stains the canvas, taking color from the border he had placed it in.
Looking up, he sees water flowing across a crack in the ceiling.
Tap.
Running his hand over the canvas, the image is lost. Walking over to the window, he
holds his hand under the torrent of water to wash it clean. His paintings, his writing-
these were fantasies- a symbolic world of make believe where his ideas were a reality. It
didn't compensate for his failure; it wasn't nearly enough to satisfy him- he was an
architect who could only draw schematics of things that would never be created.
Turning around, he strides across the room, opening a sealed locker that is kept
carefully dry. Inside is a long, delicate weapon that Jal grasps gently- a Needler, a
weapon that fires darts silently with burst of compressed air. He would need to finish his
surgeries soon if he was to survive.