Psychopomp

When Ewain and the Consul retrieved the Krypteian Anaxander Agis from the front of the Mission, he said not a word. His smile seemed genuine, and he only motioned for them to proceed when they came by. They would have gone had he noticed them or not, of course. Yet he saw them as soon as they came into the atrium and with silent smoothness took their lead behind them. Like them both, he quietly donned his hat, a cream white fedora while the Consul put on his trilby and Ewain his bolero. The only words the Krypteian spoke were to ask for a light when the Consul finally pulled his pipe out of his pocket. Since then, only puffs of smoke came from his mouth as he followed them like a shadow.

So quiet, so empty everything seemed. People, many appearing already dead, still walk the streets, yet it is mute and purposeful, from one place to another. No crowds gather to bustle about, no solicitors bleat from their storefronts, no carriages glide from above. Not even the bright-lit and boisterous mechanical displays sing their songs or cast their vibrant lights.

For once, the soft white and yellow lights from the thousands of windows and lamps dominate the districts, and suddenly the dreariness of the Ward truly speaks forth. A crone with no makeup to transform herself and seduce. Accumulating age cracks through the black timbers and graying stone everywhere, the blemished copper tone of the metal lies wanting, and the quiet invites unwelcome thoughts.

“The Warden has the entire ward locked down,” the Consul tells Ewain. “No gatherings or visitations. Anyone upon the street must either be getting goods or returning to or from work.”

Masked men in dark fatigues and ebony armored vests march along the streets and upper walkways, wood and metal bolt-action rifles slung around their shoulders or clutched in hand. In groups of no less than two they go from building to building. All who pass them lower their heads and turn breathless and pallid until the men are far beyond them. Muffled conversations faintly reach the streets.

“NO!” Begs a young man as masked figures drag him from his home. “PLEASE! GODS, PLEASE! I’VE DONE NOTHING WRONG!” The tears whip and splash with his frenzied kicks. A dying animal hopelessly trying to escape the immovable jaws around it by begging it to open, Ewain thinks to himself as he watches.

“Ma’am,” one of the guards stands before a sobbing woman in her night gown, speaking in a surprisingly conciliatory tone, “your husband has been accused of communal neglect. His repeated absences from the factory have only put further strain on others. You understand that by doing this, he could push someone else to cope in possibly harmful ways to themselves and others? Especially now under these circumstances?”

She nods her head with a quivering jaw.

“Do you have any statements or information you’re willing to swear upon to defend against these accusations? They could exonerate your husband.”

After a moment in which her mind clearly agonizes over the answer, the woman shakes her head. No.

“Take him away,” the guard commands and the bawling husband is dragged off to a nearby barred carriage full of others like himself. “We’re in this together, ma’am. Return to your home.”

Further down the street a woman gasps through choking sobs, “Oh, Gods,” she pleads, “Please…. PLEASE!”

No…. Please…. Gods…. They all call and beseech in times beyond count. An old man ahead. A middling woman just behind.

ALL RESIDENTS OF THE HAAS WARD! The words blare through every district, apathetic to the pleas it contends with. YOU ARE TO REMAIN IN YOUR DOMICILES AND COOPERATE WITH THE PEACEKEEPERS UNTIL DIRECTED OTHERWISE. ONLY PERSONS REPORTING FOR WORK OR WITH AUTHORIZED PASSES ARE PERMITTED UPON THE STREETS. DO NOT TRAVEL OUTDOORS ALONE! IF YOU REQUIRE AN ESCORT, YOU MAY REQUEST ONE FROM YOUR LOCAL PEACEKEEPER DETACHMENT! WE WILL GET THROUGH THIS STRONGER. WE ARE IN THIS TOGETHER. LET US REMAIN UNIFIED AND COMPLIANT AND LIFE CAN RETURN TO NORMAL.

“It’s been like this the past four days,” the Consul laments. He does not look at any of the damned, whether through will or conditioning Ewain could not tell. “Not one carriage or train is permitted leave until the killer has been found. For the people’s sake, and admittedly my own…Ichorians, let us pray it is soon.”

Ewain feels the many eyes upon them, glowering with curiosity and dread. The armed guards glare at them from the street sides and bridges that connect the upper quarters above, at his eyes which surely burn nova bright. People gawk at them from their windows, hushed whispers sew a blanket of murmurs between the screams that follows them and grows ever thicker.

A Psychopomp…

Come see.

Can you believe it?

Oh, oh, look at how shiny and pretty his belt and gun are.

It is true, then…. There’s been a murder.

Will he make this stop?

“I am surprised the Warden has not simply found a scapegoat in the meantime, then continue his search in secret.”

The Consul lowers his pipe, having exhausted its contents, and packs it with as much crushed Lydian petals as possible before lighting it and taking a greedy drag, “Klaus advocated for it, but Voigt resisted him. He worried that if they did that and the murderer were to strike again, then it would only compound the issue. Either make it seem the levees were breaking, the Warden lied, or is incompetent.” He takes another puff, the crisp aroma wafting into Ewain’s nose, near strong enough to already give him a buzz. “All were unacceptable perceptions for him.”

“Meanwhile more people will be apprehended,” unlike the Consul, Ewain looks at each person through his peripheries. “All will be executed?”

“Majority, most likely,” the Lydian petals seem to calm the Consul’s fidgeting hand.

“And the Warden’s executioner can keep up with this all?”

“Voigt has twenty-four efficient, tireless executioners that his father never had.”

And the Consul will have to attend every single one. No doubt it could push the man’s body to its limits, Ewain observes. The old man had some residual robustness still in him, yet his fluidity and grace obviously deteriorated with the years and his appearance made no effort to conceal its accumulation of wear. Even then, with the Psychopomps’ newer, more effective stimulant shots a member could only get them through 96 hours…maybe, just maybe if they are young, hearty, and resolute of mind. The old man has been contemplating much over the past four days. Ewain can sense it in his very voice, the way his cords weigh his words, yet to offer any of his own toward encouragement would more than likely be a lie. “Have you made peace with the inevitable?”

The Consul does not answer immediately. His eyes simply glare ahead unmoving, and his lips lie in wait leaving the young Psychopomp to wonder if he would answer at all. After another puff of the pipe, he assuages the notion, “I do not know. I know not how Morrius or Detia will judge me for this case.” He pauses. “Mr. Boden is there.” He points to a building approaching their right.