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Description
Conveyor belts. Of course. To go with his factory and his pick-up truck. A modern Death. Harmonia moves away from his palm flattened against the small of her back, smiles at him—soft, tender, sweet, a most un-Harmonia smile—then at Cadmus, and even the knight, and turns her back on them all, to stalk over to the boxes and pick one up—a small velvet thing that looks fit to house a pendant, or a ring. Shaken confidence, but recovering. Alright. Eyes to the front, Alexander.

OPEN THE BOX, MISS LOVE. OPEN ALL THE BOXES. OR OPEN AS MANY AS YOU CAN REACH OR SEE OR FIND. KEEP WHAT TRINKETS YOU FIND, IF YOU FIND ANY. AND LOOK FOR THE KEY. YOU MUST HAVE THE KEY TO OPEN THE DOORS, MUST YOU NOT, MISS LOVE?

A key each? A key for either, and no bloodshed?

ONE KEY, and he can hear the faint shivery echoes, now, not one voice but three, and the girl’s face no more filled with surprise than his, the knight’s no more than Cadmus’. HOW ELSE WOULD THIS BE INTERESTING?

“I rather prefer pearls,” Harmonia says, too-bright voice dashing itself to pieces against the silence, “but I suppose these’ll do.” He turns on his heel to see her pocket solitaires. “Alex. Some help?”

He moves to her side, takes the box she hands him—rather bigger, this, and flat—and she takes his hand and lets him into her mind—just a sliver, just a fraction, merely what their blood allows. Think you we can defeat them, Little Brother?

I know not. The box holds shredded paper, and paper chains. The girl has power enough, and knows how to use it, and the knight…

Harmonia puts the blade of her sword into a crack and forces open a crate. And jumps to the side as scorpions come pouring out. Crushes the nearest one under her boot. “To work, then.”

More conveyor belts screech to life. The girl moves to one of them. Harmonia sighs, ducks beneath the one they’re standing before, and goes to another. Hefts a heavy chest off, and starts work on it. Looks briefly away from the splintering wood. “Cadmus.”

He cuts his eyes away from the knight—lions stalking each other, carefully circling—a moment and then looks back. “Harmonia.”

“If you would stop posturing?” The lid of the box creaks open—the lock broken. She’s going to spend hours cosseting that blade. If they win. He drags a paper bag towards him, and another covered with velvet.

“Cannot Alexander do whatever it is?”

“Little Brother is somewhat busy.” She glares up at him, one hand buried in the coins lining the chest, and he raises his left hand to show her the antique watch dangling from his fist. The last box had been full of cogs—toothed and faintly threatening. Except that they cannot have been, because things that are inert cannot also be intimidating, save that they are, really, because, well, any picture of a factory will tell you they are, perhaps it has to do with the fact that they register as fortresses of a kind? Perhaps, the basic structure is often…

Cadmus growls, turns completely around. “In case you had not noticed, Harmonia…”

“Cadmus!” The sword swoops in to one side of him, a breath away. Cadmus swears and moves to block the next swing, steel clashing like cymbals, and fails to block the third, cutting in low, falls hard and scrambles away, rising again with a bloodied face and a grim smile. Comes on, again and again, parrying what blows he can, getting in a few that ring harmlessly off chain mail. Bull with horns wrapped in hay, but how will you demolish him, Cadmus, Cadmus, stop. Surrender. Submit.

“Fuck this.” Harmonia clears her conveyor belt, boxes falling to the floor, smashing—toys, guns, a rubber duck—and ducks under his. Cadmus behind them has fallen to his knees, arms trembling with the effort, still locking swords with the knight. Slowly failing, arms buckling at the elbow, jaw set, eyes glaring. He stumbles forward, boxes forgotten, key forgotten. Cadmus. Cadmus, don’t. Surrender, give up, come away. We’ll find another way, we’ll do something. Don’t die. Cadmus, no. Don’t die, don’t, not you. Not you for him, not you like him. Cadmus, Cadmus, Cadmus. Jason. Harmonia catches him roughly and pushes him back to his boxes—all the little boxes “Move, Little Brother, and you’ll live to regret it.” It’s easy to believe her, blood up, swords out, eyes gleaming.

“But Cadmus…” But he’s already obeying, already moving back to his boxes, picking up a porcelain one and smashing it against the edge of the conveyor belt, letting the jewellery roll into the grooves, and Harmonia is already gone.

The clash of blades grows fainter, and he can hear Cadmus panting and see, in his mind and the folds of the clothes he unpacks and the vases he unwraps and lets shatter, the small sharp daggers he pockets—they will need them, once they win, and they will win, they must, he will not think otherwise—the polished surface of the mirror that shows him his own face—Cadmus’ defiant face, blood dripping into his eyes, scalp torn, curls matted with blood, shoulders heaving with the effort of holding his blade up, locked in place—always the image of defiance, of defence, I should not have agreed to come, I should not have brought you here, perhaps it was truly Jason’s time to go. I should never have done this, and he tears opens a box, casts aside the pressed flowers, pulls the knife from his left arm, and hacks open the lid of another. A scream cuts across the room. He starts and looks around—not Harmonia, not her too.

Not Harmonia. The little Muslim girl, her headscarf dragged off, her hair falling wildly over her shoulders, her face a stark white. And Harmonia's face behind her, obscured by brown hair and red, nothing like threatened—nothing like the face of the girl she’s holding in front of her. “Alexander?”

“Harmonia?” Not an unknown Harmonia, this, but an unfamiliar one, still, always. Eris had looked just so, face blank, almost pleasant, tone light, and all the while she was twisting his arm nearly off. Like breeds like, or raises it, at least. Nature versus nurture, and neither conducive to lack of bloodshed.

“How do you say ‘Hullo’ in whatever tongue she speaks in?” The girl is holding abnormally still. Having a garrotte wrapped round your throat will do that to you. Spanish word, garrotte, also spelled garotte, and garrote, but the word refers to a part of the weapon often not present at all, which is odd, in a way, though not really.

“Assalaam vaalekum.” He reaches out, gently, to brush the surfaces of Harmonia’s mind, finds himself pulled in by the girl—Elias, Ammi, Ammi, what, no, no, not like this, can’t move, can’t move, the wire’s cutting into my throat, Elias, help me.

“Assalam vaalekum, Adilah.” She smiles, slow and sharp, knives in her smile, all things soft and seductive long-gone.

Let me go. But Harmonia only grins, only grips her garrotte harder, and the girl—Adilah—stills for a moment and pushes, hard enough that his shields drop and she’s inside, rifling through his thoughts as he scrambles to protect them and she’s in, and she’s seeing Jason, Jason , Jason, how did they do this to you, why would they, I was not here, I should have been, I could have saved you, I could have helped, they were after me, not you, Cadmus why would you do this, why would you tell me this and let me imagine it, why would you tell me this when I cannot leave you or Harmonia, when I cannot step out of the door, oh gods, no not gods, no my Uncles and my Aunts, no, my Father, I am not praying, I will not pray, oh Jason, Jason, what did they do to you, did they burn your fat and femur, did they eviscerate, did they massacre you?

And then he’s alone in his head again, and Adilah lets out a choked-off scream. “Stay out of our heads,” Harmonia snarls. “And you, sir knight, drop your sword.” It clatters down, and Cadmus shudders and drops his arms, and the man—Elias, in Adilah’s head and on her tongue—moves forward. Stops when Harmonia tightens the wire noose—just a little, just enough for a line of blood to break around it—and kicks something forward. Grey. Adilah’s headscarf. “I didn’t ask you to move, sir knight.”

Description
Conveyor belts. Of course. To go with his factory and his pick-up truck. A modern Death. Harmonia moves away from his palm flattened against the small of her back, smiles at him—soft, tender, sweet, a most un-Harmonia smile—then at Cadmus, and even the knight, and turns her back on them all, to stalk over to the boxes and pick one up—a small velvet thing that looks fit to house a pendant, or a ring. Shaken confidence, but recovering. Alright. Eyes to the front, Alexander.

OPEN THE BOX, MISS LOVE. OPEN ALL THE BOXES. OR OPEN AS MANY AS YOU CAN REACH OR SEE OR FIND. KEEP WHAT TRINKETS YOU FIND, IF YOU FIND ANY. AND LOOK FOR THE KEY. YOU MUST HAVE THE KEY TO OPEN THE DOORS, MUST YOU NOT, MISS LOVE?

A key each? A key for either, and no bloodshed?

ONE KEY, and he can hear the faint shivery echoes, now, not one voice but three, and the girl’s face no more filled with surprise than his, the knight’s no more than Cadmus’. HOW ELSE WOULD THIS BE INTERESTING?

“I rather prefer pearls,” Harmonia says, too-bright voice dashing itself to pieces against the silence, “but I suppose these’ll do.” He turns on his heel to see her pocket solitaires. “Alex. Some help?”

He moves to her side, takes the box she hands him—rather bigger, this, and flat—and she takes his hand and lets him into her mind—just a sliver, just a fraction, merely what their blood allows. Think you we can defeat them, Little Brother?

I know not. The box holds shredded paper, and paper chains. The girl has power enough, and knows how to use it, and the knight…

Harmonia puts the blade of her sword into a crack and forces open a crate. And jumps to the side as scorpions come pouring out. Crushes the nearest one under her boot. “To work, then.”

More conveyor belts screech to life. The girl moves to one of them. Harmonia sighs, ducks beneath the one they’re standing before, and goes to another. Hefts a heavy chest off, and starts work on it. Looks briefly away from the splintering wood. “Cadmus.”

He cuts his eyes away from the knight—lions stalking each other, carefully circling—a moment and then looks back. “Harmonia.”

“If you would stop posturing?” The lid of the box creaks open—the lock broken. She’s going to spend hours cosseting that blade. If they win. He drags a paper bag towards him, and another covered with velvet.

“Cannot Alexander do whatever it is?”

“Little Brother is somewhat busy.” She glares up at him, one hand buried in the coins lining the chest, and he raises his left hand to show her the antique watch dangling from his fist. The last box had been full of cogs—toothed and faintly threatening. Except that they cannot have been, because things that are inert cannot also be intimidating, save that they are, really, because, well, any picture of a factory will tell you they are, perhaps it has to do with the fact that they register as fortresses of a kind? Perhaps, the basic structure is often…

Cadmus growls, turns completely around. “In case you had not noticed, Harmonia…”

“Cadmus!” The sword swoops in to one side of him, a breath away. Cadmus swears and moves to block the next swing, steel clashing like cymbals, and fails to block the third, cutting in low, falls hard and scrambles away, rising again with a bloodied face and a grim smile. Comes on, again and again, parrying what blows he can, getting in a few that ring harmlessly off chain mail. Bull with horns wrapped in hay, but how will you demolish him, Cadmus, Cadmus, stop. Surrender. Submit.

“Fuck this.” Harmonia clears her conveyor belt, boxes falling to the floor, smashing—toys, guns, a rubber duck—and ducks under his. Cadmus behind them has fallen to his knees, arms trembling with the effort, still locking swords with the knight. Slowly failing, arms buckling at the elbow, jaw set, eyes glaring. He stumbles forward, boxes forgotten, key forgotten. Cadmus. Cadmus, don’t. Surrender, give up, come away. We’ll find another way, we’ll do something. Don’t die. Cadmus, no. Don’t die, don’t, not you. Not you for him, not you like him. Cadmus, Cadmus, Cadmus. Jason. Harmonia catches him roughly and pushes him back to his boxes—all the little boxes “Move, Little Brother, and you’ll live to regret it.” It’s easy to believe her, blood up, swords out, eyes gleaming.

“But Cadmus…” But he’s already obeying, already moving back to his boxes, picking up a porcelain one and smashing it against the edge of the conveyor belt, letting the jewellery roll into the grooves, and Harmonia is already gone.

The clash of blades grows fainter, and he can hear Cadmus panting and see, in his mind and the folds of the clothes he unpacks and the vases he unwraps and lets shatter, the small sharp daggers he pockets—they will need them, once they win, and they will win, they must, he will not think otherwise—the polished surface of the mirror that shows him his own face—Cadmus’ defiant face, blood dripping into his eyes, scalp torn, curls matted with blood, shoulders heaving with the effort of holding his blade up, locked in place—always the image of defiance, of defence, I should not have agreed to come, I should not have brought you here, perhaps it was truly Jason’s time to go. I should never have done this, and he tears opens a box, casts aside the pressed flowers, pulls the knife from his left arm, and hacks open the lid of another. A scream cuts across the room. He starts and looks around—not Harmonia, not her too.

Not Harmonia. The little Muslim girl, her headscarf dragged off, her hair falling wildly over her shoulders, her face a stark white. And Harmonia's face behind her, obscured by brown hair and red, nothing like threatened—nothing like the face of the girl she’s holding in front of her. “Alexander?”

“Harmonia?” Not an unknown Harmonia, this, but an unfamiliar one, still, always. Eris had looked just so, face blank, almost pleasant, tone light, and all the while she was twisting his arm nearly off. Like breeds like, or raises it, at least. Nature versus nurture, and neither conducive to lack of bloodshed.

“How do you say ‘Hullo’ in whatever tongue she speaks in?” The girl is holding abnormally still. Having a garrotte wrapped round your throat will do that to you. Spanish word, garrotte, also spelled garotte, and garrote, but the word refers to a part of the weapon often not present at all, which is odd, in a way, though not really.

“Assalaam vaalekum.” He reaches out, gently, to brush the surfaces of Harmonia’s mind, finds himself pulled in by the girl—Elias, Ammi, Ammi, what, no, no, not like this, can’t move, can’t move, the wire’s cutting into my throat, Elias, help me.

“Assalam vaalekum, Adilah.” She smiles, slow and sharp, knives in her smile, all things soft and seductive long-gone.

Let me go. But Harmonia only grins, only grips her garrotte harder, and the girl—Adilah—stills for a moment and pushes, hard enough that his shields drop and she’s inside, rifling through his thoughts as he scrambles to protect them and she’s in, and she’s seeing Jason, Jason , Jason, how did they do this to you, why would they, I was not here, I should have been, I could have saved you, I could have helped, they were after me, not you, Cadmus why would you do this, why would you tell me this and let me imagine it, why would you tell me this when I cannot leave you or Harmonia, when I cannot step out of the door, oh gods, no not gods, no my Uncles and my Aunts, no, my Father, I am not praying, I will not pray, oh Jason, Jason, what did they do to you, did they burn your fat and femur, did they eviscerate, did they massacre you?

And then he’s alone in his head again, and Adilah lets out a choked-off scream. “Stay out of our heads,” Harmonia snarls. “And you, sir knight, drop your sword.” It clatters down, and Cadmus shudders and drops his arms, and the man—Elias, in Adilah’s head and on her tongue—moves forward. Stops when Harmonia tightens the wire noose—just a little, just enough for a line of blood to break around it—and kicks something forward. Grey. Adilah’s headscarf. “I didn’t ask you to move, sir knight.”