The Pieces of My Self

43 - The Art of Flaying

ARTOIS MANGALOTTE

The Presidential Palace, 20 June 2174, Monday Night

I had an exhausting day with the Economic Council, finally overruling them and seizing the budget for my special project. Sometimes you have to knock heads.

I kicked off my shoes and celebrated on the balcony of my suite by mixing a Hurricane—a skill I learned while bartending with my father before the Second Great Flood. God rest his soul.

"Here's to you, Pop," I said, raising my glass, "and to the hurricane."

Yes, the hurricane would surely come, along with other bad things.

I felt the warmth of the drink in my throat. "Blow you winds, blow!"

It was Midsummer, not that I was superstitious. Ignorant folk—people who believe in unfounded conspiracies, flat earth, ghosts, and demons—claim it's a time when the boundaries between different worlds are thin and porous. But I'm an engineer, and a man of science. The fact that this is the one-year anniversary of Henri Knightly's death is a mere coincidence.

I took a swig from the glass, then checked my hand. The alcohol hadn't steadied it. My shakes started two nights ago when I saw the apparition in my digital mirror. I keep telling myself I'm immune to fear. I'm a soldier, courageous in battle, a national hero. Death is not a stranger.

"May the dead stay dead," I said, taking another drink.

The iris roof of the arcology was open to the clear night sky, so I raised my glass to the stars, or God, or the soul-consuming darkness. "The hair of the dog," I said, finishing the glass.

Yes, that's it. The hair of the dog.

I twisted my ring.

When the avatar appeared in my mirror, I said, "Tonight, on the Eve of Saint John, I wish to replay the death of Henri Knightly."

"Yes, Mr. President," it said.

The visage faded to a dateline of 20 June 2173 as the video began to stream.

* * *

I stand next to Knightly, who is strapped to a chair. The prisoner's eyes flit between a large cabinet with glass doors enclosing an array of surgical tools, and a small rolling pallet that holds a few specialty instruments.

I flip a wall switch to start a playlist of soft chamber music, then speak forcefully, emphasizing each word. "Where. Is. She?"

I circle Knightly, moving like a predator around my wary prey, watching him sweat, finally drawing close, breathing my words into his ear. "You know the answer, don't you?"

Knightly's lips twitch upward in the briefest of smiles as he looks directly into the glass orb of a video camera fixed on the wall.

I drop my voice to a guttural pitch. "You know I love her. I need to find her. She is my blood. Help me, Henri, and I'll set you free."

Knightly responds immediately. "You only want to kill her. Get rid of the evidence."

I hold my smile. "You cannot see my heart."

"Even if I knew where she was, I would not tell you." Knightly turns his head toward me. He squints, as if looking beyond the gray walls. "I know your heart like I know the bayou, Mangalotte. Remember? I built the ring. I built the avatars. Give me some credit."

I nod slowly. "Your avatars now listen only to me. LESA has made sure of it. I know you better than you think you know me." I circled my captive, clenching my fists, stopping to put my nose close to his, feeling his sweat. "You will die soon. I will cut you and leave you in pain until you can no longer bear to live."