Everything Abridged, page 30
“These victories are a league above our humble origins. I remember when the society was just another newsgroup content to spray-paint ‘cuckold’ on the cars of local leftist agitators. Today, SRM is the hidden vanguard of New York’s ideological future. Which makes the presence of a spy all the more unacceptable.
“We face annihilation at the peak of our powers. This traitor has reached the highest levels of SRM, defiling this chamber. The obvious solution is interrogating the spy. Since they don’t have the courage to step forward, we shall interrogate the entire council.”
A contemplative silence fell over the room. Then Tessa, wearing a rubber bald eagle mask, rose to her feet and clapped furiously. The applause quickly spread through the rest of the crowd. Her enthusiasm surprised Nell. Tessa always seemed disappointed by the society’s focus on overturning their failed democracy over a broader race war. The mask she’d brought to her first council meeting had been whiter and pointier, hinting at other allegiances. She was near the top of Nell’s short list of likely traitors.
“Interrogate me first! My boy needs to know his daddy’s not a traitor,” shouted Leland.
“No, torture me! I get bullied all the time, I can take it!” said Brandon. He ran an active junior cell that had astroturfing web forums down to an art form. Nell needed to make sure to keep his fingers intact.
“Let’s get going!” said Irene, who had discreetly joined the meeting at the tail end of Nell’s speech. “I don’t see why we’re talking about torturing me instead of doing it.”
Nell shone with pride. Her last secret society would have whined endlessly over their rights. SRM understood the spirit of martyrdom.
“I’ll take my fingernails off myself,” Dustin added after the applause died down. “One question: Who’s going to do all the torturing?”
The question stole Nell’s momentum. She hadn’t considered all the details yet. She was less than half an hour out of Math 203 and still having trouble thinking in words instead of integrals.
“As overseer, that burden falls to me,” she improvised.
“Then who’s going to torture you?” asked Dustin. Nell’s grip on the podium tightened. Evidently they had different ideas about executive privilege.
No one in the room was an option. She’d screwed everyone over at least once to become overseer, and they’d interrogate her with extra gusto. Waterboarding could easily turn into drowning with the right undercurrent of spite.
“I’ve found an independent contractor,” replied Nell. “Someone we can trust to interrogate the council evenly and fairly.”
“How?” asked Leland.
“She’s not part of the society. Or society at large. Therefore, she can’t have betrayed us already and has no incentive to betray us in the future.”
The applause returned. Nell bowed, walked graciously up the first flight of stairs, and sprinted up the second. She darted through the ground floor of the YMCA at twice the speed of the treadmill users, bowling over any camp counselor or yoga instructor dim enough to get in her way. In the parking lot she jumped on a bike that wasn’t hers and pedaled past six blocks of suburbia hidden in urbania. When the tall buildings returned and the lawns disappeared, she ditched the bike, sprinted to the doorstep of 923 Mordekaiser Lane, and mashed the buzzer for apartment J.
“I know you can hear me, Mya!” shouted Nell. “I’m not leaving this doorstep alone!”
The speaker clicked to life.
“I’m busy. Doing creative things,” said a deep, somnolent voice obscured by static. Nell could imagine her sister in an unwashed sweatshirt, playing Cyborg Farmer. She mashed the buzzer again.
“Nell, I live on the sixth floor. I love you, but I don’t like you enough to make the walk down. I’m moving to a second-floor studio next month. Try me then. I’ll need help lifting stuff.”
Instead of mashing the button, Nell simply held it down. Six minutes later, her sister opened the door.
Mya had a faded UPenn sweatshirt, her omnipresent smartphone belting the Cyborg Farmer theme song. Most of the rings under her eyes were missing, which meant that she’d slept this week.
“You look better than usual,” Nell said. She realized the diplomatic failure the second the words escaped her mouth. Asking for help would take some adjustment.
“That’s not something you should say to your twin. It’s bad for your self-esteem,” Mya said, letting her gaze sink back to Cyborg Farmer. Nell tried to discern if she was genuinely offended and promptly gave up. Understanding Mya was an insane woman’s project, and she had degeneracy to destroy.
“Of course! Very insightful, and mordant, and a third thing. I need your help saving the Society for the Restoration of Monarchy.”
Mya returned to eye contact but kept swiping at the screen. The game had been reduced to muscle memory.
“Is that your LARP thing?” Her voice didn’t rise or fall from word to word. In high school, Nell thought that she was possessed.
“SRM is not a LARP thing, it is the future of this failing country. I need you to torture them and lightly question me to root out the traitor in our midst.”
“Shouldn’t you finish the revolution before breaking out the circular firing squads?”
“Enough jokes. Come back with me and I’ll buy you one of those poison sacks you call food.”
“A Taco Queen beef piñata?” asked Mya. Her eyes widened.
“The same.”
Mya shut the door. Six minutes later she returned with jeans, a notebook, and a cleaner version of the same sweatshirt.
“This should be fun.”
“There is no fun in the revolution.”
“Some revolution.”
Mya strolled behind her sister, which threw off the “panicked sprint” pace Nell was trying to set. She stopped to look at the pillar-flanked buildings at least three times during the shortcut through the urban suburb, bringing Nell to the edge of fratricide.
“Can you imagine how much it costs to own a house like this in Brooklyn?” asked Mya. “In a block of four others like it?”
“It will be standard for the nobility,” Nell said, distracted.
“We already have nobles. This is where they live. You’ve missed your boat.”
Nell wrote off the comment as part of the acute progressive dementia afflicting writers around the world. Mya was a victim. Mercifully, a victim clever enough to sniff out the rot in the society.
The pair returned from Nell’s ideal future to the debased present surrounding the YMCA. A vagrant held the door with one hand and a crimped Big Gulp cup in the other. He tilted the cup toward Mya, shifting the change within. Then Nell put on her dragon mask. He squinted, shook his head, and walked away.
Mya didn’t ask about the mask, the beeline they made to the basement door, or why none of the YMCA employees (Leland’s men) tried to stop them. She just wrote two short notes in her book and kept walking.
“Any questions?” Nell asked before opening the door to the council chamber.
“Nah, I get it so far.”
Inside, the cell leaders of SRM stood in a near-perfect circle. Each held a pistol to the head of the member to their left. Eyes shifted with the sisters’ entry, but no heads turned.
“How did this . . . what?!” shouted Nell. Her sister nodded and scribbled more shorthand.
“You were taking a while, so we assumed the spy’s cohorts had killed you. Logic dictated that you were innocent and the traitor was still in the room. So we decided the best thing to do was execute each other and let our cells carry on. Zero tolerance: degenerate spies wouldn’t dare return.”
Nell had switched off the safety on her own ten-millimeter before she caught herself.
“I’ve brought a local blogger,” announced Nell. Her sister leaned over and whispered in her ear. “I’ve brought a local author,” Nell corrected, rolling her eyes. “As you all know, writers are half-degenerate. One foot is in this world of filth and reassignment surgeries. A handshake with a screenwriter is enough to catch six different strains of the same venereal disease. But the other foot is in the old world, where blood and letters were pure. They wrote the speeches of kings and plays about other kings conquering them. It is the second profession. As a half-breed, this woman is equipped to sniff out degeneracy’s familiar scent and snuff it out.”
“I don’t get it,” said Tessa. “Is this a rap thing?”
“It’s my sister. She’s cool.”
There was a general murmur of consent as guns were returned to their concealed-carry positions.
Mya had gotten creative during Nell’s speech. A YMCA T-shirt was tied around her head in the same ninja mask she’d learned to make online ten minutes before last year’s Halloween party. It was a small thing, but the gesture made her part of the room’s natural flow.
“Thank you for electing me High Inquisitor,” Mya said at twice her typical volume. Nell did not recall an election. “Torture’s kind of a blunt instrument. I’m just going to use interviews.”
Perfect. Nell’s odds of losing her fingernails had already fallen exponentially. Her mood soared until she noticed that the High Inquisitor stood behind the overseer’s podium. She still had the book, which was rapidly filling with illegible notes.
“So, inquisiting. Could we form a line in the back?” asked Mya. “I don’t think I can inquisite everyone in the room at once. Crowds make me nervous.”
The leaders of the uprising formed a single-file grade school line in the back of the basement. Leland ended up in front and gave Nell a questioning glance. She nodded and he stepped before the podium for judgment.
“I bow before the council’s wisdom,” said Leland. He took a knee.
“We saw the council’s wisdom earlier. It was going Jonestown,” said the High Inquisitor.
“Sorry.”
“Not my problem. Let’s hear your elevator pitch.”
“Pardon?”
“Summarize yourself. Tell me your qualifications as a reactionary.”
“Well, my code name is Red Dusk, and my name is Leland. I majored in advertising at Purchase, but my minor was in classics. The Spartans knew how to live. If society continues down this sinful path, Zeus will bathe us in lightning.”
“Pagan,” muttered Tessa.
“Very nice,” said the High Inquisitor, still scribbling. “Did you intern before this?”
Leland hid his confusion poorly.
“Do you have any experience in other reactionary organizations? It doesn’t have to be a management role, or even paid.”
“No.”
“I see. Very suspect. Do you have any character references?”
“Your sister?”
“Any character references that didn’t steal my clothes in high school? They don’t have to be professional.”
“My wife likes me, I think.”
“Works for me. You’re dismissed,” said Mya. Leland returned to the back wall in a state of total bewilderment. “Next suspect.”
Tessa strode to the podium with regal poise. Nell suspected that Tessa imagined herself as the first queen of the new America. A difference of opinion they would need to discuss later. Over knives.
“Code name?” asked the High Inquisitor. She balanced her pen on her pointer finger, having somehow grown bored during the transition between suspects.
“White Eagle.”
“Cool. Real name?”
“Tessa Dean.” Something in Tessa’s voice prompted Mya to take a note. Perhaps the naked disdain.
“Miss Dean, where do you see yourself in ten years?”
“A position of great importance.”
“Like what? Doctor? Lawyer? Lead guitarist? Give me something to work with.”
Tessa tapped her temple with her thumb as she thought. “Duchess,” she answered carefully.
“Ah, so you’ve got a different kind of loyalty problem. Carry on.”
Tessa’s stride was upgraded to a full-on waltz on the way back. Nell quietly wished she’d coached her sister before the meeting. Missing a chance to bury a rival felt wasteful.
“Who’s next?” demanded the High Inquisitor. She’d folded Nell’s opening speech into a paper airplane. Brandon came forward and imitated Leland’s exaggerated kneel. Then the plane bounced off the nose of his wolf mask. He glared at the High Inquisitor with open ire.
“Code name?”
“Razor Alexandria.”
“Edgy. Real name?”
“Brandon Daniels.”
“What does the Society for the Restoration of the Sixteenth Century mean to you?” asked the High Inquisitor. Nell weighed the value of correcting her and opted to let it go until justice had been served.
“The world sleeps, but I am awake. Degeneracy has infected everything. The food is poison, and the media is worse. Our leaders do not rule for God or country. They simply rule to rule. I learned the truth after Jenna left me for that dick Martin. That wouldn’t have happened if a king were in charge. Or the church.”
Nell nearly cheered but maintained decorum. Brandon had an artful way of painting a young monarchist’s pain. She considered him the Raphael of the Dark Enlightenment. Yet Mya just looked bored.
“You’re a threat to a few things, but not this organization. Next.”
Nell’s turn had come. She took her time on the way to the podium. Mya probably needed the time to come up with a softball question for her.
“Code name?”
“Apex.”
“And your real name?”
Her sister’s voice rose and fell, with human enthusiasm. This threw Nell off-balance.
“Nell Jackson.”
“Nell, you seem nervous. Do you have a reason to be nervous?”
“What? No.”
Mya made another note. There shouldn’t have been anything to write down. The next suspect should already have been on the firing line.
“All right, then. What’s your greatest strength?”
“Loyalty,” Nell boasted without reservation.
“Base pandering—very suspect. What’s your greatest weakness?”
“I’m clearly a bit too trusting.”
“Ah, so you often feel betrayed. By the world, this organization, and even the crown itself. That feeling could drive a woman to extremes.”
“Was there a question there?” Nell asked, struggling against the current of the conversation.
“Now you’re questioning the High Inquisitor? Do the rules of this society mean anything to you?!”
“Mya, I’m going to beat you like a socialist the second we get out of here.”
“Out of line, Apex. You’ve said more than enough, and currently stand as lead suspect.”
“Your stories are pretentious garbage,” Nell announced. “They teach you not to write in the second person in high school. Semicolons don’t make you look smarter, and neither does the word ‘redolent.’ You’re going to die unknown and alone in Bed-Stuy long after it ceases to be fashionable to your type.”
The High Inquisitor slammed her right fist against the podium. Then she shook it out and cradled it in her unbruised left hand.
“Deputy White Eagle, kindly restrain the suspect.”
Tessa was behind her with a pistol drawn before Nell could start her next insult. A minute later, both of Nell’s arms were tied to the radiator with YMCA T-shirts. She sat cross-legged and glowered at her supposed comrades. They avoided eye contact with religious dedication.
“Go fuck yourselves,” Nell suggested.
“Disregard the suspect, and gag her if she pipes up again.”
“Yes, Inquisitor,” said Tessa, standing comfortably to Mya’s right. Nell wondered if calling their parents was a betrayal of the uprising.
She’d known from the abundance of iron eagle tattoos in the room that some members of the society resented working under her. But Nell never imagined that they resented her enough to put a different black woman in power. Only the enemy deserved that kind of reflexive, self-destructive spite.
“Next, please,” Mya said with new enthusiasm. She put the finishing touch on a longer burst of notes as her next victim approached.
“Good afternoon, High Inquisitor,” Dustin said amicably. His newfound decorum made Nell want to punch him in the kidney.
“Did you say afternoon? I have a thing at three. Let’s try to move this along.”
“As you wish, High Inquisitor,” said Dustin.
“Code name and name.”
“Orbital Hammer and Dustin Seed.”
“Why is monarchical revolution important to you? Try not to go on for too long.” The High Inquisitor pecked at her phone with her unbruised hand.
“We’ve tried everything else for a hundred years,” Dustin began. “On some level, nations are arbitrary. But a king gives a nation’s spirit a voice. Belief follows. And that belief turns it from something arbitrary into something real.”
The Inquisitor put down her phone to scratch a short note. It couldn’t be more than a word.
“It’s him.”
“What?” said Leland.
“What?!” said Dustin.
“Whatever,” said Nell.
Tessa didn’t waste time with questions. She already had a gun under his chin.
“Damn you,” Dustin hissed.
It took one angry pull for Nell to free her right arm. The knot was garbage unworthy of brushing against the wrist of a future noble. She undid the other knot more casually. Every second of silence left her treacherous followers in limbo a little longer.
“Explain,” Nell said, rotating her wrists.
“He spoke intelligently and persuasively about bringing back feudalism. He couldn’t possibly be one of you.” Mya’s voice returned to its flat default.
“Did you need to tie me up to learn that?” asked Nell. Sensation slowly returned to her fingers.
“Good job me,” said Mya, ignoring the question. “You’ve really earned that beef piñata, Mya.”
“You statist pigs are obsolete,” spat Dustin. “Anarcho-communism is the wave of the future! Your society is just a dead end, soaking up valuable talent.”
“That’s nice Mr. Crazy Person,” answered Mya. “Good luck walking the plank, or whatever fifteenth-century ritual they have here for snitches. Nell can’t afford an iron maiden, so you’ll probably survive. I’m going to try selling a write-up of this to Vice.”
