CHAPTER SEVEN: WALKIN' IT ALONE
In the days before the true revitalization of magic, before the Emperor ordered admittance of all immigrants to be discontinued, entering and settling in Vector was not very difficult. Gaining residence was easily attainable if one could simply read and write. Background checks were nil, if one didn't barge in wearing combat boots and toting rifles. Ponzo had chosen wisely.
A massive wall of steel, the top bordered with barbed wire and patrolled by a small squadron of guards, encircled the city proper. A normal visitor or prospective citizen entered the city via one of two double-doored gates, one on the north side and the other on the south; there were many other smaller entrances, but they were restricted to all but merchants and military personnel. Setzer and Benedick, with Chocy, Benedick's war-bird, and their luggage, walked up to the north gate. Setzer motioned for Benedick to fall back a few paces and rode Chocy to a security checkpoint off to one side of the gate; all immigrants had to register here and apply for citizenship. Three guards manned the checkpoint: two sat inside a square booth, one stood at attention, holding a clipboard under one arm. Setzer approached the guard and stated his business.
"Name?" the soldier asked; he held a pen over his clipboard, and jotted down every word answer.
"Setzer Gabbiani."
"Age?"
"16."
"Place of birth?"
"Kohlingen."
"And who's that fellow with you?"
"He's my manservant, Bruce Benedick. He's practically family. I've known him for as long as I can remember."
The soldier turned to his comrades in the booth and whispered something, pushing the clipboard through the window slot. The two perused the information and brought out a pair of thin cardboard slips, sending them through the slot.
"These are your temporary residence cards," said the first solider, handing them to Setzer. "In a few weeks, you'll have to report to the Chamber of Admissions and receive proper proofs of citizenship and files. These will last you for a month--plenty of time to get situated."
"Much obliged," Setzer smiled. The gates swung open, and the two were waved through.
Few people were in the streets. Banners of vermilion marked with a single black swoop hung from the windows and eaves of brazen buildings, glinting softly in the starlight. Street lamps burned at each corner, and the breeze sifted dirt and dried papers into dunes around the posts. Far away, the whistles and bells of the factories of Vector signaled the night shift's beginning.
Vector was the most industrialized city in the world; only the kingdom of Figaro could be considered any sort of competition. Manufacturing of factory machines, of textiles, of plastics, of guns and steel, and only the gods knew what else thrived, and the goods were sent out in bulk to all nations, from Jidoor to Mobliz. Trains and steamboats entered and left in unceasing droves, and the clash of wheels and metal grated in the background at all times. The noise was especially loud at night, for many shipments were sent out in the late hours to escape the crowds.
In all the hustle and bustle, unknown to Setzer and his fellow immigrants, rumors seethed among the clever people of the capital that not only machines were being made in the factories. There was a certain place only a few blocks down from the Palace, the MagiTek Research Facility, where strange and dark things took place, things so mysterious and unnatural that clever people dismissed them as fancy and the average citizens either did not know or understand.
But still the clever people talked softly amongst themselves. In the MagiTek Facility, they whispered, a young soldier of great potential had been taken down into the very heart of the machines and experiments and had disappeared in a great flash of fire, never to been seen by his troops again. They also whispered of a small child, born of two gorgeous parents selected for their beauty, who had gone into the Facility and emerged with her skin bleached snow-white and tiny ice crystals lattacing in her fine hair. But these were only rumors, and later, when Setzer got wind of them, he never believed.
Lodging did not prove difficult to find. Setzer found a respectable inn and paid for board and food for two. Now established, he set about the task of finding a suitable home, which he did quite easily.
The apartments he selected suffered from a slight case of wood-rot and the ventilation was poor, but they were clean enough, affordable, and could house two quite comfortably.
Benedick, on the day of their moving in, took one look at the place, its walls papered in a paisley pattern and small cracks marring the ceiling, and said: "How revolting!"
"Thank you very much, Mr. Benedick," Setzer grunted as he set down his bags. "It'll look better once we get some new paint and furniture in here. Please be a good manservant and keep your opinions to yourself. I'm tired, and I want to sleep."
Bedding was unrolled and the two lay down in the darkness. Setzer tried to rest, but the nighttime traffic seeped through the thin walls of the apartment, and the rays of lamps from the other buildings cut in through the window, casting a chunk of light plumb across his face. Benedick started snoring, and Setzer left all hope behind.
He sat up in his bedding and glared at the window; he felt angry at everything. He so wanted to sleep, but the more time he spent awake, the more he realized how much had to be done. He needed to find a steady job; he needed to buy furniture; he needed to seal the cracks in the ceiling; he needed to claim his residency, and a thousand other little things. Gods, when would it end?
Seizing a pen, he rummaged around in his bags for a sheet of paper; he had bought a ream in Kohlingen. Setzer put the paper on top of a book, and began to write a letter.
Dear Mama and Papa:
I'm writing to tell you that I've arrived safely, and that I've settled down quite nicely in my dorm. I share it with a boy who's very nice, but he snores so loudly and drives me crazy. Is it normal if I have violent fantasies about his death?
Chocy is fine, and he sends you his love. I hope you are all well; how are Mandy and Benny? Please tell them that I am all right.
The place here is not bad, and I have no real complaints, but sometimes the work just accumulates, growing and growing on me till I can't get any sleep. At times, I just don't know what to do. Could you kindly give me some advice? Gods help me, I miss you.
One last thing: Could you send me a little more GP? I'm not in any dire straits yet, but my own meager funds barely cover the costs of books and meals.
Please write soon.
Your son,
Setzer
He folded the paper and placed it beside his mattress; he would have Benedick deliver it to the post office tomorrow. It would give the old man something to do while his master went out job-hunting.
A few buildings down from the inn was a tavern, which Setzer learned was the favorite haunt of a number of Imperial soldiers, most of them young fellows. Setzer thought it wise to make their acquaintance; perhaps they could clue him in on what jobs were available.
Speedily Setzer introduced himself to the most amiable-looking soldiers. He bought them drinks and tobacco and made jokes with them; the boy soon became quite popular with his new clique. The soldiers, to show their favor, taught him how to throw knives with deadly accuracy, and Setzer found he was good at the sport. It gave him something to do when he wasn't worrying about money or shopping for furniture.
Finally he decided to ask about the prospect of work. That day, he hailed one of his new friends over to the bar, ordering drinks for two. The soldier got to his third glass of mead when Setzer said, "Could you help me out? I have a friend who just got fired, and he's been down on his luck ever since. He used to work in a iron foundry, but now he can't get a job anywhere. Do you know of something? I'd like to help him out."
"Hmmm..." the soldier mused aloud as he licked the mustache of foam from his lip, "let me think." His eyes lit up and he lowered his voice; Setzer could hardly hear him over the noise. "Now, this is very privileged information I'm going to give you. I wouldn't tell this to just anybody, but you're a pal and know how to throw a good spread. No less than you deserve. But you have to promise me that you won't tell another soul except this friend of yours. And remember: you never heard it from me."
"I'll be damned before I betray a drinking friend's trust," Setzer said solemnly. The soldier caught the youth in a headlock and drew him close.
"The man your pal needs is named Mr. Mulciber."
"Mulciber?"
"That's right. Weird little cuss, ugly as sin, but the man's a wizard, a genius with metal and machines. I've been to his workshop only once in my entire life, but gods! the things he can do! My father's a friend of one of his workers, and I think he liked me well enough, because he gave me this."
He reached at his belt and drew a knife, the blade hissing from its sheath. He held it under the counter for Setzer to admire.
It was one of the finest pieces of craftsmanship Setzer had ever seen. The blade, wickedly serrated and poniard-sharp, glittered almost as if by its own illumination, inscribed with sweeping, lapis-inlaid runes. The hilt was gilded and scalloped around the edges; a garnet-eyed bronze dragon coiled around the pommel, grasping a crystal orb in its jaws.
"He made that all by himself?" Setzer whispered.
"Isn't it gorgeous? Yeah, he made it from his own supplies, hammered out the blade and pommel, carved them, put them together. He can do just about anything with metal."
"Damn. He must be rich by now, if he can make things like that."
The soldier shrugged and sheathed the dagger. "You'd think that, wouldn't you? Crazy as it seems, the man's a nobody. All of his clients are small local factories that need his services like--like once or twice a year."
"You're putting me on." Setzer said flatly. "How could things like that not attract attention? If everybody was blind, perhaps. I'm sure the Emperor himself would want to have such a man working for him personally."
"That's the trouble. Mulciber doesn't care about money or prestige. He's a stubborn old cuss. But that actually makes it better for your friend. The man needs all the help he can get, poor wretch. Tell him to go see the man, if you want. I wouldn't work him myself, but a job's a job. Here's how to get to his place."
The soldier took up one of the bar napkins and a grease pencil, scribbled down a crude map and some directions. Setzer took the napkin and put it in his breast pocket.
"Thank you kindly. Here, let me purchase another drink for you," Setzer decreed. He slid some coins across the bar to the keeper, who stuffed them in the register and scooted off another tankard.
The two clinked their glasses together and quaffed. The soldier began to ramble on about other matters, but Setzer only listened with half an ear. His mind was turning and twisting over the new information he had heard.
Setzer realized that he really didn't have many other alternatives. He needed a job, any sort of job, to merely keep his body and soul together, and there was always Benedick. The little cache of gems was almost gone; he had calculated that he had enough to pay the rent and other expenses for only another month more.
Furthermore, the soldier had aroused Setzer's curiosity. The youth knew a liar when he heard one, and was certain that his drinking partner hadn't fibbed. The job and this Mulciber sounded intriguing. Surely looking deeper into the matter would not harm anything.
Mulling over these thoughts, Setzer felt a sense of carefreeness that he hadn't felt since his childhood. He chuckled merrily to himself as he drank his ale, and resolved to visit Mr. Mulciber the very next day.
Dawn filtered in through the blinds, and Setzer hauled himself out of bed. He changed into clothes suitable for an interview, donning his Stray charm and his father's coat for extra luck.
Benedick slept on the apartment's (used) sofa, and the old Doman was snoring away a storm as usual when his master entered the living room. Setzer woke the man and told him not to wait up.
"I'll probably be gone all day, if all goes well. You won't have much to do here, so if you want to look around, go ahead." Setzer said. "I'll get breakfast on the way."
With that, he went out to a street corner, bought some fruit from a vendor and hailed a carriage; he didn't feel like saddling Chocy. He got out a few minutes' drive later in front of a large building that looked like a garage with a store's facade soldered on to the front. Across the facade the were the words MULCIBER'S SMITHY.
A CLOSED sign lay in one of the windows, but Setzer heard a faint ringing from inside. He circled around and found a large garage door--which was flung wide open. The boy slowly stepped forward for a closer look.
The inside of the building was one of the strangest places Setzer ever laid his eyes on. From the garage entrance to the plywood wall that separated the back from the store proper, the place looked like some kind of storage barn, with a high ceiling and no walls.
Scattered like toys abandoned by some freakish giant child over the huge expanse were huge work stations and various machines for every smithy's need. Half-finished jewelry and weapons lay on cold anvils; huge furnaces stood inactive and silent; wooden benches laden with strange, delicate tools formed roughly rectangles. Propped up against the back wall were monoliths, half-shaped and bizarre machines for factories.
A dais of sorts lay at the very center of the workstations, and Setzer was astounded to see that the furnace on the dais was blazing away, shooting geysers of sparks and steam into the air. The smell of melting metal filled the air with their heady, coppery scent, much like the smell of coins except much stronger. Clanging noises from somewhere behind the furnace reverberated off the walls, bouncing on and on until infinity.
"Excuse me? Sir? Is anyone here?" Setzer shouted, cupping his hands to his mouth. The clanking cut itself off, and a shadowy form moved around to the edge of the dais.
The world's ugliest man glared down at the boy. He was a dwarfish person with a pot belly, though he never ate much, and arms like a gorilla's. His right leg was twisted and set with a brace; he had slumped, broad shoulders and poor posture. A huge milky-red blotch swam in one eye; the other bulged from its socket. Fine black dust settled in the creases of the cheeks and eyes, the lines of the rubbery mouth, and inside the cauliflower ears.
"What'cha want?" the dwarf barked in a rusty nail of a voice; Setzer, entranced by the man's sheer hideousness, struggled for words.
"Is Mr. Mulciber in?" the youth managed to inquire.
"I'm Mulciber."
From what the soldier had told him, Setzer had gathered that the famed Mr. Mulciber wasn't the most genteel man to walk the earth, but he felt that this was one of the sickest tricks Stray had pulled on him to date. The man ought to have been cleaning latrines for the army.
He forced himself to remain composed; Mulciber had put his arms akimbo and snorted impatiently.
"Sir, my name is Setzer Gabbiani. I'm seeking employment, and I decided to try here."
"I don't need no more help," Mulciber said. "'Sides, I don't think you'd be up to the work here. And stop callin' me sir."
Setzer licked his lips, finding much to his distaste that they tasted slightly of charcoal. This Mulciber was going to be a tough nut to crack, he knew; and he also knew that he had no idea about how to proceed. In Jidoor, his youthful vigor, handsome looks, and charm had never failed to attract people's attention and liking, but Vector was turning out to be filled with philistines.
While his mind whirred away, gasping for a suitable response, Setzer's hazel eyes shifted in all directions, taking another view of the workshop.
On the second glance, he discovered that the place was egregiously under-productive. His father had taught him all the signs and tricks of successful business, and he saw very little of a good trade here. The equipment on the racks and anvils looked old and worn, and there simply seemed to be no order; things were made almost at random, with no limit or schedule, as evidenced by the great numbers of half-finished items--hardly anything looked completed. Setzer was not surprised. He suspected that men of Mulciber's ilk did not have much financial acumen.
"Well, sir, maybe I could do something else. Do you keep books? I'm very good with numbers, and I don't mind paperwork."
"An egghead!" Mulciber snorted. "I've already got an egghead on my team, and I sure's hell don't need any more. Worthless little weakling, he is. And I sure don't want any of your snotty clothes and pretty airs and 'sirs' all the time. I ain't a sir. So get yourself out, pretty-boy, before your face looks worse than it already is!"
Setzer, his heart beating hard and his stomach hurting, went over to one of the workbenches and picked up one of the few near-completed items, a gorgeous brazen shield polished to sun-bright sheen, embossed with highly detailed pictures of gryphons, pegasi, chimeras, and giants waving spiked clubs.
"What's this, Mulciber?"
"A shield."
The boy resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "It's a fine piece of art. It must have taken long to make. Did you work on it yourself?"
"That I did." A smile twisted Mulciber's face, and abscessed teeth clamped together proudly. "Ain't nobody in the whole damn world who can make a shield like that. Just need to fix on the straps, and it's up for the sellin'."
"Amazing. And do you run this whole place by yourself?"
"I do everything 'cept run the shop."
"Even the books?"
"Even the books." The mismatched eyes narrowed dangerously. "Don't think you'll get a job pushin' pencils for me, whelp. I don't let nobody look at my books."
"Listen. Do you enjoy doing the accounts for your business?"
"Hell, no. Take me forever to do."
"I come from a merchant family. I know how to do accounting. If you let me do a job here--any job--I can save you time. That means that you'll have more time to make things. You'll be able to work on what you love. You can make twenty shields. You can spend time on your art rather than annoying paperwork."
A shadow passed over Mulciber's face, and he stopped glowering. "I don't know. It's temptin', but I don't think you'd like it here. What's a pretty boy like you want with people like me and my workers, anyway? Why're you so rarin' to work for me?"
"A person's got to work. I need money. I've no parents."
"Mmm. Aw'right, tell me: If I've got sixty swords, sell 'em all at fifty GP, and each sword costs me thirty-five to make, how much do I earn?"
"Nine hundred GP," Setzer answered straightway.
Mulciber did not reward the answer with any kind of nod or smile, but looked up at the time clock on the wall and jumped down from the dais, limping past Setzer without a thought. He went through the back entrance and stopped a few feet out into the alley. Setzer silently followed, hoping that his request had not been denied.
The sound of rumbling and squeaking could be heard in the distance, approaching steadily, crescendoing into a beautiful racket. Setzer strained his eyes, but saw nothing. The sounds were very close.
A rickety old wagon, the wheels ungreased and looking ready to fly off at any moment, thundered into view and came to screeching halt. Two saggy-backed, sorry-looking chocobos, one white with black spots and the other missing half its feathers, pulled the wagon; on the rough, splintered sides the words COMPANY CAR were scrawled jauntily in white paint.
Approximately twenty men crowded together in the wagon, all of them laughing raucously and some spitting off the sides. A white poodle, complete with the snowball haircut and its ears tied with faded pink ribbons, jumped out and yipped shrilly. The men scrambled out, still laughing, and collectively moved towards the workshop, one of them hitching the chocs to an iron pole. The laughter ceased abruptly when the men saw Setzer with their boss.
Dead silence reigned for a few moments. Setzer felt a trickle of sweat down the back of his neck, but he met the sea of gazes without flinching.
Finally, one of the men, a hirsute fellow with a nose that looked like it had been smashed with a hammer, disengaged himself from the crowd and stormed towards Mulciber.
"Mulciber! What the hell!" the man shouted. "Who's the pansy?"
"He's our newest addition. He's going to work the books and...well, I'll find him other stuff to do. What of it?" Mulciber retorted. A few in the crowd began to grumble.
"Godsdammit! How'd you let him talk you into it? I know those rich folk--they sweet-talk you and screw you as nat'rally as breathin'. Why's he even here? The yuppies have their places to work, we've got ours." The man scrutinized Setzer with a scowl. "He's a stick, too. He won't last. Just get rid of him."
Setzer opened his mouth to defend himself and to mollify those offended, but Mulciber spoke first.
"Shove it, you, and get back there " he growled, pointing to the other workers. Once his orders had been obeyed, the blacksmith spoke to the crowd, "Some of you men don't seem too keen to have the whelp workin' with us. I don't blame you. But I gave my word, boys, and I won't break it unless the majority of you simply won't have it. Well?"
Yet another bout of silence ensued, and Setzer's courage was failing. The group of men before him were almost to a man stocky, dour-faced, broad-shouldered, hard men with callused hands and horny, blackened fingernails, and the boy wouldn't have lasted very long in a rumble with one of them, let alone the entire group. He feared for his life.
Another man stepped forward, but this one was scrawny and one of the very few whose clothes had any semblance of being clean. His eyes, jaundiced and fatigued, looked out in a perpetual squint behind wire-rimmed spectacles, and when he spoke his voice wheezed.
"I'm just as surprised as anyone is," he said, "but he doesn't look like a dummy. And I can see that he's been through a few scrapes himself. He's been worked before, as bad as any of us. He must have some good reason to be here. I don't think he'll give any trouble. Let's at least give him a few days and see how he does. It wouldn't hurt, would it, boss?"
Setzer could have kissed the man if he didn't look like he had some kind of head cold. Mulciber's ugly face turned almost thoughtful and he plucked at his ratty beard.
"You eggheads sure do stay together, don't you?" the hairy man shouted, forcing his way back up to the steps. "Of course he'd stick up for the punk!"
"Enough out of you!" Mulciber raised his fists. "Who's the boss here, me or you? And I have to agree with the shrimp. What'd it hurt to have the kid along for a few days? Anybody really object?"
His questions were met with a negative murmur. The dog suddenly began to yip again, making the men laugh and shout, "Hell! Even Penelope doesn't mind! She's got you beat, Coroban!"
"It's settled, then. Come on, you sons of bitches! It's past workin' time," Mulciber roared, swinging around to go inside.
"I won't work if he's with us!" cried Coroban. "You men are shit-witted! Before you know it, he'll take over this place and put his gutless rich friends in charge!"
One of the men turned around and called back, "You just go ahead and quit, Coroban. Who cares? See if anybody'll take you!"
Coroban snarled and, after a moment's deliberation, stomped along with the rest. Setzer remained rooted in place; he felt he could hardly walk.
Someone touched his coat sleeve. Setzer glanced up and saw the thin man who had spoken up for him.
"You'd better stay away form Coroban if you can help it," wheezed the spectacled man. "He's got the nastiest temper in all Vector. He makes the boss seem like an angel of mercy. I can't baby-sit you, but you can stick with me. It's safest. Let's go."
The two walked side by side into the workshop. Along the way Setzer remembered his manners.
"Thanks for helping me," the youth said.
"No need. I was in your place once. He didn't want me, none of them wanted me, but I convinced them. Sure was hard, though. I can't believe I got the job even today."
"My name's Setzer Gabbiani."
"Livius Savaunt. I'm the electrical engineer," came the response. Livius lifted up a small toolbox and rattled it while extending his free hand for a shake.
"You'd better let me take that coat. It's not fit for work, and it'll only get sooty," Livius said. Setzer removed the article and gave it to his helper, who found a box and carefully put the coat in storage.
Around them the men lit up the furnaces and took up their tools. Mr. Mulciber came towards Setzer, a stack of huge binders and some pens and inkwells hefted in his arms.
"Here. And do them right, boy, or else."
"Thank you. I won't disappoint you."
"Yeah. I guess Savaunt's going to show you the ropes, so you won't be needin' me. You can use that old table over there. Now get crackin'," Mulciber indicated a table and chair propped up along with the machines and hobbled away.
Setzer pulled the furniture from the corner and plopped the binders and writing utensils on top of the dirty tabletop. He seated himself and cracked his fingers. The little poodle Penelope trotted over and, after sniffing his leg thoughtfully, laid herself at the boy's feet. Setzer smiled and reached down to scratch her ears.
"Why do you guys take a dog to work?" Setzer asked Livius; the engineer's workstation was only a few feet away, and they could talk to each other easily.
"She's our company mascot, of course." Livius smiled and laughed. "We all wanted a mascot a few years back, and at first we wanted a Doberman or a pit bull, or some type of monster like that. But when we all were discussing it, one of the men said: 'Hell, why not get one of them fluffy poodles with the puffy haircuts? One of us here has gotta have some class.' And there it is."
Livius gave Setzer a final encouraging smile and turned back to his machines, leaving the boy to his books.
The workers had been relatively quiet. They had busied themselves finding their tools, getting out their unfinished projects, and throwing their coats and vests into a heap next to the door that led into the shop. They whispered among each other, spat on their hands and rubbed them together, and some exchanged tobacco.
From his high post, Mulciber's voice rang out: "Go!" The relative tranquillity was shattered.
At the word, the men stopped everything and scurried to their workbenches; the whole place burst alive with flame, smoke, and noise. Fires belched from furnaces. Hammers and tongs beat their hollow, dull sounds on top of great anvils. Metal bubbled and effluvia of steam burst out into the air. Two men ran the company lapidary, and the diamond dust-covered disks shrieked. Sparks from furnace and anvil leapt onto the floor and danced for the slightest second before extinguishing. The smell of molten metals wafted up from cauldrons and crucibles. Ingots of gold, silver, and gray smoldered. Men shouted out instructions to each other and coughed. Bright flashes of light sparked up nearby as Livius tinkered with the wiring of the machines. Soot wafted down, filling eyes, hair, and mouth just like the sand of Figaro Desert had done. This was the place the Mulciber lorded over from his dais, instructing and surveying every little thing.
Setzer blinked and shook his head. He gathered his wits and opened up the first binder, only to have his concentration broken yet again. The books were a complete travesty. Most of the figures looked as if they were scrawled down as an afterthought, filling up margins and never staying within the ledger lines. He could not tell where one month's expenses and profits began and the other ended.
Burning fire and metal scorched his nose; the soot choked him; the steam and smoke stung his watering eyes; the incessant clanging and banging resounded dully in the throbbing of his temples. He could not understand the numbers before him. Setzer pressed his fists up against his ears and shut his eyes, baring his teeth in frustration.
He felt another touch on his sleeve, and the boy looked up into Livius's bespectacled face once more. In his hands the man held a pair of heavy-duty earphones and welder's goggles.
"Here," Livius said. "It's a damnable racket, isn't it? You'll get used to it." He clapped the headphones over Setzer's ears, and the din did lessen quite a bit, though the sounds still came through quite clearly. The goggles, though a bit smudged, kept the soot and smoke out of his eyes. Setzer thanked Livius and faced the ledgers again with a lighter heart.
Scrawled numbers and misadded prices streamed down the pages, row after row after row without end. Setzer frowned and screwed all of his efforts into correcting the accounts into making some sort of sense. His neck began to ache, and he suddenly felt tired. He desperately longed to be home with Benedick, in Jidoor, even out roaming the prairies and deserts, anywhere but here.
Still, he consoled himself, he had to consider himself fortunate. From the looks on the workers' faces when they first saw him, he had been almost certain that they were going to torment him mercilessly, perhaps even do him violence. Yet not one of them had even thrown a glance in his direction.
The noise and heat continued without mercy. A strange new undercurrent unfurled itself into the layers of sound, a deep crying sound. Setzer listened more closely. It was the men singing. They had no sense of pitch or rhythm, and every note seemed smashed together, but the sound was rich and solid.
It's a long, long way before you
Ain't no-one gonna help you walk it
No man and no god
But walk it you gotta, and walk it 'lone, 'lone, 'lone
'Till you lay down that hammer
And give Vector your clean white bones, bones, bones
Slowly, very slowly, Setzer hacked through the pages, muttering the numbers to himself; chew marks quickly covered the end of his pen, and his fingers bean to hurt.
A whistle screeched over the voices and noise. The men immediately set down their tools and walked from their stations, clustering around into small circles of five or six. Some of them brought out their lunch pails and began to eat small loaves of bread with cheese and meat, their sooty hands streaking the food; others brought out tobacco and began to smoke or chew. Setzer sighed and removed his rather silly-looking accouterments.
One large group of men, about seven or eight, Livius among them, encircled a bucket in one of the corners; they began to unhitch their pants. Setzer looked away, disgust curling his lips. They're all a bunch of animals, he thought to himself. They didn't even have the decency to go outside instead of spraying in front of everyone like dogs. Was there nothing normal in this horrible place?
One of the group at the bucket saw Setzer's repugnance and laughed: "Aw, ain't that cute? The little lad's embarrassed!" Many heads swiveled in the boy's direction like a bunch of sunflowers.
"What's the matter? Ain't you never seen a guy piss before?"
"Maybe people like him don't piss," someone mused. "Maybe that's why they're always squirming and sticking up their noses--gotta find some release or they'll explode!"
A great peal of laughter erupted from the throats or nearly twenty men, which was quite loud, coming from such large, rough fellows. Setzer felt his ears burning; he clenched his jaw. He did not like being the butt of these people's jokes, and he felt angry and ashamed.
The laughter died down, and as it did Setzer heard Coroban's voice.
"You lily-livered fuck! You're gonna get us all fired one of these days!"
Setzer whipped his head around to find Coroban shaking Livius by the neck. Livius did not look very surprised, but he shrank away and tried to wriggle free, clutching at the hands grasping his neck.
"Mulciber won't let that happen, and you know it. Please let me go so I can eat my lunch and do my work," Livius whispered.
Coroban loosed one of his hands and punched Livius hard in the stomach. Livius groaned and coughed, spit trickling down from his bottom lip. His knees went slack, and only the hands holding by his neck kept him from collapsing.
"He'll kill him!" Setzer whispered. He started to rise.
"Don't you trouble yourself none," one of the men said, moving quickly over and pulling him down. "He's used to it. 'Sides, the boss wouldn't stand for it much longer. Look!"
Descending from his dais, Mulciber silently came up from behind Coroban and grabbed at the sooty-black hair near the nape of the man's neck. Sinews of forearm and neck strained.
"You let the egghead go this instant," Mulciber growled. He twisted his wrist around to yank harder at the tender skin. Coroban set Livius down, who fell to his hands and knees, his thin body racked with coughing.
"Of all my workers," Mulciber continued, "I hate you the most. Always flauntin' my orders. How many times have I told you to leave him alone?"
"Tchah! You always baby the shrimp. He's screwed us all over, and you still take his side. If I was in charge, I'd have both of these egg-suckers out of here. All they know is stuff any idiot can read out of a book," Coroban said.
Near the arguing men a large crucible filled with a molten coppery liquid seethed over a short furnace which whistled with blue-white flames in its belly. Mulciber tripped up Coroban's heels and spun the man around like a discus, shoving his captive's face a few inches above the bubbling metal. Coroban writhed, and the skin on his nose and cheekbones began to peel and blister.
"There's only one electrical engineer here," Mulciber hissed, eyes flashing murder, "and I got lots of people like you. You ain't nothin' special. I could get rid of you, and this place wouldn't suffer a bit. Cross me again, and I'll have you out. Out! And I won't care if you're breathin' or not." He jerked up Coroban's head and shoved him away. "Ah, off on you!"
Coroban gnashed his teeth and moaned an elegy of soft curses, but he backed down. His hands hovered over his burnt skin. The men, who had watched in great amusement, rang with laughter and cat-calls.
"Way to lay down the law, boss!" someone hooted.
"Boss isn't afraid of hell!"
"Stop your blubbering," Mulciber said to Coroban. He turned away and called, "Ratchet! Where the hell is he? Ratchet!"
From one of the benches a man rose up and stepped forward with long, no-nonsense strides. Setzer caught a good glance of the man as he passed. He only had seven fingers, both pinkies and the fourth finger on his left hand completely gone--they simply weren't there. His face, long and lean and ashy-gray, was accented by sharp lines around his mouth.
"What?" the seven-fingered Ratchet asked in a monotone voice.
"You know what. Fix that blubbering simp up. Faster you go, the faster he'll shut up and give us some peace!" Mulciber whirled around and stormed out a side entrance, slamming the door.
Ratchet, his stolid expression never changing, guided Coroban to a work bench and grabbed a leather bag from the workers' pile, pulling out unguents, cotton swabs, and bandages. Coroban shouted and wailed when the first hint of salve touched his scorched face, but Ratchet only told him to shut up.
Meanwhile, Livius had slowly stood himself up and walked back unsteadily towards his machines. Setzer ran up to him and helped him over to a seat.
"Are you all right? Do you need a doctor?"
"No, I'm fine." Livius's wan face tried to smile and he straightened out his spectacles.
"Fine! That man's got to be put away. Why do you tolerate it? Why hasn't he been sacked by now? None of you would be sad to see him go, from the looks of it."
"Mr. Mulciber won't ever fire Coroban," Livius coughed forlornly.
"Why not?" Setzer demanded, nonplused. It simply boggled the mind. Setzer could not fathom why Mulciber of all people would give any dispensations to Coroban.
Livius looked gravely at the young man. He spoke in a low voice. "Well, it's only natural you wouldn't know, since you only just met the man. See, the gods know how long ago, when Mr. Mulciber was young, he got married to a lady. Oh, stop laughing. It's true, you know."
"I'm sorry," Setzer said, his mouth screwing up in an effort, "but I would have bet anything that Mulciber would be the least likely man on earth to get a girl."
"Well, he got her. Not for long, though. She couldn't bear being tied down to such an ugly man, I suppose, and she ran off. He took it very hard, so I've heard. But this young lady had another sister, and the sister's son was Coroban. That's why Mulciber won't ever fire Coroban. I think Mulciber feels some responsibility for the brute. But--" Livius's face grew dark. "It's not going to last forever. They fight like cat and dog. Coroban's going to go too far one of these days, you mark me, and Mulciber will kill him."
"I wouldn't wait around long enough to see that happen," Setzer said. "You know, Livius, I think you'd be better off if you quit."
"I couldn't do that. I love my work," Livius answered. "Mulciber pays well, and I've got four at home to feed."
"I see..." Setzer felt extremely awkward--what did one to say to that? He thought it better to let the subject alone. "Who's that Ratchet fellow over there?"
"He's the company doctor, and a good one. Whenever there's an accident, he always knows what to do. Used to be a surgeon in the Imperial Army, I'm told. He never talks about it."
"What happened to his fingers?" Setzer whispered.
"Oh, I don't know for sure. Some accident, I suppose. I never asked him."
A worker standing nearby turned around on his bench; he grinned widely and crossed his legs. "That's crap. This is what I've heard--and I take stock in the source. Ratchet there got stationed in some godsforsaken outpost in the mountains, back when the Empire was having trouble with the people up there. Guerrilla fighters and the such. Well, the guerrillas attacked the outpost. They used little pipe-bombs that had shrapnel pieces in 'em. Some of the shrapnel caught ol' Ratch right in the noggin, and after that he went kinda crazy. Had screaming fits and tried to run away, but they caught him."
"I doubt that. The army shoots deserters," Livius coughed.
"I know that," the man said, a bit nettled. "I live here too, you know. They didn't shoot him because he was a good surgeon. Men like him are hard to come by. Only a moron would've shot him. But they didn't let him off free. That's when he lost his first finger. Chop!" He whacked the side of his hand against his bench. "Of course, that only made him crazier. Two more fingers. Chop, chop! After the third, they say he lay down in his bed for three days, staring up at the ceiling, not speaking or moving or eating. He was a godsdamn log. On the third day, he got up and went to work as if nothin' had happened. That's when he started talking so screwed-like, and stopped smilin'. He served out his term and came here after he was discharged. And we're all the richer for havin' him." He raised his voice. "Ain't that right, Ratch?"
Ratchet shrugged his shoulders and continued to tend to Coroban's burns.
"Hey, Ratchet! Count to ten!" someone shouted.
"It was not funny the first three hundred times you people have said that," the company doctor's monotone said. "The next time one of you gets hurt, I won't help you. You can all go to hell for all I care."
Livus reached for his pail, fishing around in it for some limp, rather pitiful sandwiches; Setzer remembered with a curse that he had forgotten to pack a lunch for himself. Well, he did have something to divert his attention from all this hell and hunger. Setzer happily returned to his book-keeping--it was good to take his mind off the horrid stories of chopped fingers and jilted love.
He hadn't been working long, though, when he felt a tingling sensation in between his legs, gradually growing more painful. He desperately needed to go to the bathroom, but he swore that he would die before he went to that wretched bucket.
The pain grew worse, and he couldn't take his mind off on how good it'd feel to let go. He needed relief, to hell with the gods! He quietly slipped from the table; Livius caught the movement and whispered, "Don't."
The boy breezed by, staring straight ahead as he went to the bucket; the color of his cheeks ebbed as he undid his belt. The smell was vile, for the bucket was not emptied until full to the brim. Setzer felt himself gagging as he speedily did his shameful business. He felt like a brute.
Pulling up his pants and buckling his belt, Setzer began to turn around to stalk back to his desk when something heavy hit the back of his head, spending him wheeling off balance and smacking hard against the floor. He lay sprawled for several seconds, not knowing what had just happened. He finally lifted up his head a little just in time to catch sight of Coroban storming away, fists balled up and red at the knuckles.
Nausea formed in Setzer's belly, and his already aching head felt as if it was splitting in two. The ceiling above whirled, making him feel like he was floating. He then let his head fall back onto the oily ground in a dead faint.
"He's starting to come out of it," a distant voice spoke; it did not change pitch or tone. Setzer groaned in darkness with an effort and grimaced in pain--if he hadn't known any better, he would have sworn that he had been bonking his head against an anvil all day.
Hands patted at his cheeks, very gentle but strong enough to wake Setzer out of his dazed stupor and open his eyes. He looked up into a gray, blasé face. He recognized the man, but could not for the life of him recall a name.
Setzer became aware of a strange sense of emptiness; something was awry about the hands that still rested on his face. Darting his eyes around, he found he could only count seven fingers on his resuscitator. Setzer yelled out and slapped at the freakish things viciously. The gray man didn't seem to mind, though.
"Well, he seems to be quite chipper, Livius." The steady monotone flanged down a few steps. "Boy, you'd best learn not to be alone when you go to take a piss."
"Thank you, Ratchet," a voice wheezed. Livius's face appeared beside Ratchet's, and the two men helped Setzer up. Livius handed Ratchet a tin of tobacco and some paper.
"Nng--Where'm I?" Setzer groaned.
"The sick room." Livius answered. "Coroban knocked you for a loop, didn't he? You got stunned and have been in here for twenty minutes." He gave the boy an enthusiastic ruffling up and down of the lower arms. "Do you think you could come back to work? It's still lunchtime, but it'll be over soon. Mulciber won't care if you slipped up the first day, just as long as you get back to work on time.
"But you've missed lunch, I'm afraid," Livius continued. "If I hadn't eaten all my lunch, I would have shared with you."
"It's all right. But thanks anyway. And you too," Setzer mustered a smile for Livius and nodded to Ratchet, who had gone off into the corner, rolled the tobacco up in the thin pieces of paper, and began to smoke.
"No need," Ratchet grunted. "It's my job. But be careful next time. Sometimes this place reminds me of my wretched old station. It's better here, though. I can't abide those army pricks." He puffed the cigarette for all it was worth, his teeth clamping down on it.
"Ratchet," Livius said loudly to Setzer, "isn't as patriotic as most people should be."
"Mpph!" the medic/engineer blew a ring of smoke out of nostrils and threw down the unfinished cigarette; he quickly rolled another one. His jaw relaxed, and he puffed some more, gracefully balancing the smoke between his dirty fingers. "You house one little punk for a single night, and you never hear the end of it." Ratchet nodded at Livius knowingly, but he spoke to Setzer.
"Not two days ago, I found a young lad in my tool shed. A real sorry sight, too, all bedraggled and skinny enough I could see his ribs. I took him into my house and let him sleep there for the night. Would have let him stay as long as he wanted, but he left before I woke up."
"I don't see anything wrong with that," Setzer said.
"While he stayed with me, I talked a little with the boy. It turned out that he had been stealing equipment from Imperial garrisons and pawning them. He didn' look in the least bit sorry about it. And this upsets our patriotic Livius."
"What was his name?" Setzer asked.
"He never said, and I never asked. He did say he came from Jidoor, though."
"Please, tell me, what did he look like?" Setzer demanded. His heart pounded rapidly, and he could hardly breathe. He didn't dare hope, but maybe, just maybe--
"Red hair, blue eyes. Looked about as old as you. Why do you ask? Do you know the miscreant?" Ratchet answered, rolling another cigarette.
Setzer didn't speak. Lorenzo! In Vector! He wondered whether to go out looking for his childhood friend, but he found it was impossible to figure out where to start. Lorenzo could have been anywhere in the city by now; perhaps he had even left and moved on. And it certainly wouldn't have been good for his reputation to be associated with someone who had fallen afoul of the law. Setzer felt ashamed, but he could find no way to reach or help Lorenzo, even if he did have the resources to do so.
But it was comforting to know that his friend was out and about somewhere, in difficult straits but alive. It seemed a harsh life, but Lorenzo would find a way to survive, Setzer knew. He didn't know what to think of the whole matter. He decided that brooding over it wouldn't help anyone, so the boy turned his attention to the here and now.
"You are so difficult at times, Ratchet. I can understand stealing just to get by. But this boy seems to have been deliberately selecting Imperial garrisons; that's stealing from the government. You knowingly housed a traitor!" Livius was saying.
"And what would you have done, my dear friend?"
"I--I suppose I would have helped him," Livius admitted. "But I wouldn't have let him stay once I heard he was an opponent of the government."
"No calling of the guards? How generous."
"The boy would have landed himself in jail soon enough without my help. You are so cynical, Ratchet. You don't even love your country."
"The Empire can rule as long as it pleases," Ratchet answered, his face with that strange expression of his--not really pain, definitely not pleasure, not really much of anything, except maybe bored. "Or else some holy revolutionaries can take it over. It makes no difference to me. Either way, things will be no better or worse. Life will always be filled with hard work, as it always has--to hell with promises. People can do what they may."
"You're so treasonous sometimes, Ratchet," Livius sighed. Ratchet seemingly ignored the comment and spoke again to Setzer.
"Livius is a phenomenon. He's so old-fashioned, he thinks that if he goes through life making nice with people that he'll actually get something in return. Hmm! When will you learn that virtue isn't its own reward, dear Livius? People don't want kindness. Live as I do, undeceived."
"Oh, I love you too. You cynics are a boring lot, "Livius huffed; he got up and walked to the to the door before leaving, he turned to Setzer and said, "There's still a few more minutes for you to rest. I'll be seeing you."
Ratchet threw down his cigarette and rolled another. "Ah, Livius," he said, leaning against the door frame, "he's a good man. Generous, gentle, meek, and respectful to everybody, bless his bleeding heart. Was there ever a man so stupid? I would like him, if I could. Of course, everyone he helps always forgets, but you must admire his persistence. I wish that at least once he'd find something worthy of his overflow."
The boy gaped at the medic, and to Setzer, the stories about the shrapnel seemed very likely--the man certainly acted like it. He suddenly wanted to leave and get back to work; he did not like being alone with the man. There was just something obscene about his seven fingers and his ashy face.
"It's very near time to go," the monotone voice said. One more cigarette was rolled. "If I had some pain medicine, I'd give you some. But since I don't, you'll just have to tough it out."
After the final whistle screeched, Setzer wasted no time in loitering. He bade Livius a quick good-night and thanks, and quickly went out of the garage to a street corner, where he waited for a public carriage. He shivered in the bitter late autumn winds; he was cold, hungry, his head twinged. He wanted to sink down by the corner, go to sleep, and never wake up, but he could not do that--he had to keep a stiff upper lip.
To pass the time, Setzer watched the men load up in their 'company car'. It was simply amazing to see that they could all fit in and not break something. Penelope yipped and sprang into a man's lap, making the passengers laugh.
Coroban was the last man to come out of the workshop, and as he lifted his leg to step into the cart, the drive clucked to the chocobos, and the conveyance rattled off, leaving Coroban alone to shout filthy curses into the wind which carried the sound of mocking laughter. Setzer repressed a smile, but Coroban shot him a look of sheer malevolence nonetheless. Thankfully, a carriage pulled up at that moment, and Setzer scrambled inside.
When he finally got to the apartment, Setzer collapsed in a chair. At his master's entry, Benedick hurried from the next room.
"Greetings--Oh, what sight is this? Are ye well?"
"I have a bitch of a headache."
The old man dipped a rag in the water pitcher and placed the compress on Setzer's forehead. Benedick then put a kettle and some soup on the stove, declaring, "A smattering of tea and stew will clear us of this deed. Ye did not stop by the bar again, did ye, Master?"
While the tea steeped, Setzer, wrapping a blanket tightly around himself, related all the day's events.
"I like it not, Master," Benedick said gently. "Ye should eschew the company of such men; no good will come to ye if ye stay on."
The warm blanket, the chance for rest, and the prospect of food and drink calmed Setzer's jarred nerves; he felt a vague sense of clarity, and he answered the manservant:
"It's really not so bad, now that I think about it. I've made a friend in there, and he can help me stay out of any more trouble. I need a little time to adjust, that's all. I've got a job, at any rate."
"I fear for ye, Master; such labors might be the death of ye. I don't desire that."
Setzer smiled and patted Benedick on the cheek saucily. "Well, let me think about it. How about that food? Is it ready?"
Benedick yelped and sprang up over to the stew, which was boiling and looked to spill over the edges, and he quickly snatched up both the pot and tea kettle, holding them for a few minutes over the burners. Setzer chuckled, which prompted his manservant to shoot him an annoyed look.
"Here, ye cheeky boy," Benedick sniffed, pouring out the tea and stew, set on a tray, and placing the vittles on Setzer's lap. Setzer gave him a hearty thanks and spooned up the stew ravenously, not even bothering to chew the pieces of meat in the broth.
"A carrier pigeon arrived at the window today carrying a message and a pouch for ye, Master," Benedick reported as Setzer ate. The boy nodded for the letter to be brought and opened it, still slurping his meal all the while. He recognized the handwriting as his mother's.
Dearest Setzer:
Your father and I were glad to receive your letter. I thank the gods that you arrived safely.
I hope that life in the reformatory has not been too rough on you. Do they feed you properly? If not, than I swear, I'm going take action; what it is, I don't know yet, but rest assured that it won't be pleasant. There's nothing more savage and final as a mother's revenge.
As for your snoring roommate, I prescribe placing cotton balls soaked in vinegar in his mouth. Your father used to have the same snoring disease, but after I gave him the treatment only once, he's never made a peep in his sleep since.
Your friends Mandy and Benny are well, and so are we. Ruadh's family has returned to Vector, but before they left your father and I along with the Gaetans and Mandy's parents paid them a visit. They received us rather coldly, but with courtesy, and they say that they bear no grudge. They say, however, that they do not wish to ever see you again until you have served all of your years in the reformatory. They were angry that they didn't have the satisfaction to see you leave, but I gave them some of my jewels, which pleased them.
I wish that we could be with you, dear boy; it must be terribly trying for you, and quite lonely. But your father and I can only offer you this: You are a capable, intelligent boy, and a Gabbiani. We trust that you can handle everything, even if they do seem overwhelming sometimes. The gods have seen you this far; they will not abandon you. Remember, we are your parents, and we love you. Keep your chin up, ride out the rough, and always act as befits a gentleman.
Our thoughts are with you always.
Love,
Mama and Papa
On the back of the letter was a postscript, this in his father's less elegant character:
P.S. Just because you are a Gabbiani, do not put yourself above learning from other people less well-bred than you. Listen with an unbiased ear, reserve your judgment, and remember everything. Be always on your guard and think. Gamble often if you must, but do it wisely. And for the gods' sake, always use good taste; live richly, but not gaudily. That's what brought down our family, you know.
Gods prosper you.
Brining the letter up to his lips, Setzer grinned and kissed it; he thought he could detect the faintest hint of his mother's perfume on the paper, and the smell of whiskey. He tapped his feet joyously and hugged the letter to his chest, his spirits lifting greatly.
"It's a letter from my parents," he told Benedick happily. "They send me their love, and that I didn't have to feed you if you keep on snoring."
"You know," he continued, "I've made up my mind. I'm going to go back to work tomorrow. Can't go throughout life without getting my hands dirty. Perhaps I was better off than most; that doesn't mean I'm not made of stern stuff. They'll see I won't be pushed around."
"I still do not think it prudent; but if ye persist, then I cannot stop ye," Benedick said somberly. Setzer smiled at the man's distress and patted the old cheek again.
The boy folded up the letter carefully, planning to store it away later, and reclined back in his chair, the warmth of the meal soaking into his bones; he looked on the prospect of another day in Mulciber's shop calmly and without fear. The work would get better. Lorenzo was alive and able to take care of himself. His parents and friends were safe and doing well. He had a roof, food, and his very own servant; things could not be all that bad.
I've been working as hard as I ever had in my entire life, he thought to himself, snuggling deep into the chair, but I'll make it. I may be deluding myself--I don't think so. But if I am, what does it matter? Daydreaming can't kill me.