Baptism

One

1876, OPTILOCUS.

Two years ago, if you had asked me where I thought I would spend my eighteenth birthday, I would have told you that I would be at the cottage in Geata Dearg, where my mother and I used to live. 

I would have told you I’d be visiting her on holiday from university, and I would spend this cold wintery, day sitting across from her at our kitchen table, helping her grind down tough roots to powder for medicines that I’d never learn about in lectures. 

The house would smell of cinnamon and vanilla rock cakes, and my mother would be telling me off for smoking in the house.

I would definitely not have told you that I’d be standing alone in a neglected warehouse basement, ankle-deep in fucking saltwater and rotting seaweed. 

I flicked my cigarette into the water and watched the butt float there with the ten others that drifted in a lazy cloud at my feet, one for every six minutes that the supplier was late. I immediately lit another one.

This is why I never dealt with new guys. Nothing was reliable here in Optilocus.

“I swear, Roland,” I muttered to myself, “if you gave me the wrong bloody address…”

But there was a sudden thud on the main floor above me followed by the sound of heavy footsteps. My cigarette was only half-finished as I dropped it into the water.

There was a draft of hot air as the door opened, and someone peered down. I pressed myself into the shadows, making sure not to disturb the still water in the light of the stairs.

“Classy joint,” a man muttered, he followed it up with a disgusted scoff and slammed the door shut again. There was a scraping noise above me, as though something heavy was being dragged across the cement floor.

I took advantage of the noise and moved quickly up the rotting wooden steps to the door, careful to not put too much weight in one spot, lest the stairs give out beneath me. One step close to the top groaned loudly and I froze, straining to hear if those above had noticed.

“Got this off a freight ship docked in Kwazulite. Medical shipments. Meant for Argenstrath, I reckon. High-risk, an’ I expect a high reward,” explains a gruff voice. His accent was thick and unfamiliar to me. I inched up another step, pressing my ear close to the door.

“Don’t worry, my Boss is willing to pay,” said another voice. 

This one I recognized as belonging to Howard Sully, a man in the inner circle of Niall McPherson - the kingpin of Argenstrath’s drug manufacturing operation. 

McPherson was not a man to mess with, but I could handle Sully, and I needed what was in those crates.

“How do I know you and this boss o’ yours is good for it? Can’t take nobody’s word these days.”

Sully said something that was unintelligible over the rumble of something heavy being dragged across the floor.

“Let’s speak outside,” Sully said louder, “This place looks like it’ll cave in any second.” And I heard their footsteps fade away as they left the building. 

After a few beats of silence, I cracked open the door, and peered into the warehouse. Two wooden pallets, each carrying two smaller, unmarked wooden crates stood at the center of the otherwise empty room, guarded by a single man, one of the ship’s crew by the looks of his dingy shirt and sun-bleached suspenders.

Why hadn’t Sully left his own security? The son-of-a-bitch was probably too arrogant to think anyone would tamper with a supply meant for McPherson. It’s a stupid assumption to make when you don’t know your supplier.

Or when you haven’t properly cased a joint.

I let the door open just an inch more and slipped out silently and unnoticed. There was a small collection of rusting scrap metal piled in the corner a few feet away, and I grabbed a long, heavy piece of metal tubing from it before ducking behind the crates. 

  The poor guy didn’t even turn around when I was a foot from him, and had no chance to shout before the pipe collided with a muffled crack! On the back of his head.

I caught the dead weight of the unconscious body as it fell back, feeling the heat spread over my chest as the blood spilled from the wound. I laid him out, along with the pipe, both without so much as a noise or suspicious glance from outside. Somewhere a few yards away, Sully was yelling something unintelligible. The other man shouted back.

Wiping the blood from my hand, I checked my watch: twenty-past four. Not much time left.

As quick as I could, I heaved one of the boxes onto my shoulder and carried it carefully back toward the back of the warehouse. The back door, often ignored because it did not have a wide enough door for shipping vehicles, had remained unguarded by Sully. Had the arrogant fuck brought any men with him?

The small dirt road behind the warehouse was a narrow one, meant for workers rather than shipments, and directly adjacent to a sharp, rocky drop-off into the river below. This was no problem, though, for the wagon these crates were to be loaded on.

The problem was that there wasn’t any wagon. The lot was completely deserted when I brought out the first crate.

Roland was always fucking late. I left the crate just outside the door, unwilling to waste more time, and followed with the second, third, and final crate.

Still no Roland…

Starting to sweat a bit, I close the door and lean against it, trying to listen through my heartbeat for any sign of trouble.

Finally, I hear the sound of a motor, and a carriage appears around the corner. I recognize Roland’s white-blond hair, and I see my brother’s stupid grin as he pokes his head out the window.

“Where the fuck’ve you been?”

A gunshot fired inside the building.

“Let’s just get outta here,” said Roland, throwing the boxes with a frustrating level of ease. He’d just climbed back onto the back of the wagon when the door slammed open and Howard Sully pointed the barrel of his revolver at the back of my head. I don’t need to see it, I can hear the click, too close for my liking.

“Oh, just wait until the boss hears it was you," Sully said, his voice rough with twisted, dangerous glee, his eyes locked on Roland, who just grins his arrogant grin at Sully. Then he locks eyes with me, and for a single, fleeting moment I’m certain they’re going to leave me there. 

Unbidden, the image of my dead body strewn across the rocks below, a bullet hole between the eyes flashes through my mind.

But when the gunshot goes off, the bullet hole is in Sully’s shoulder instead, and Roland pockets his own gun as quickly as he had drawn it. 

I feel Roland’s fist clench my shirt and drag me up into the already-moving wagon as Sully’s men open fire.

One of the bullets grazes my leg as the wagon door closes behind me, then there is only the irregular rhythm of bullets colliding with metal.

Roland sat down across from me in the small space next to the crates, his arm leaking blood. The wound had not managed to take away the smirk.

As we rounded the corner, the shouting of Sully’s men faded. We were free.

Roland’s laughter filled the car, and as my heart began to calm down, I couldn’t help but join in.

Two

“So, where are we meeting your contact?” I asked.

I shouldn't have been surprised when we passed the academy, nor when we switched carriages on an empty, unmarked street. The new carriage was empty except for a change of clothes.

My leg was smarting something fierce, but I wasn't about to let it show as I stripped the wet bloody clothes away from the wound. I pulled on the other clothes as quickly as I could, ditching the old ones without ceremony on the cobblestones.

"You going to tell me where we're going?" I asked again. I didn't expect a real answer, and Roland didn't give one as he too threw his old clothes aside and put a cap on.

"Outta range of MacPhearson's men, for sure."

"You mean out of the city? Shouldn't we wait for --"

Roland loaded the boxes in the front of the carriage before jumping into the driver's seat.  I tried not to look too reluctant to get in next to him.

"We don't get a seat at the table by waitin' around for some overweening Agent to take all our credit."

"Overweening?"

"It means--"

"Oh, I know what it means, Roland. I just didn't think you did."

"Watch it, ísealbhe,” he snapped, but the bite was lessened by his smirk.

He punched my leg, inches from where the bullet hit, and I had to spend several minutes blinking back tears to see clearly again. 

We'd only been in the new carriage for what felt like seconds when Roland took a sharp turn and drove into a lot full of abandoned train cars. At first, I thought it was a junkyard but soon realized as the din of the city came through the smog that Roland had taken us the back way into Portobello Station.

"Let's go, keep your head down. I don't think Sully could have followed us, but the Bastard's got eyes all over the city. We’ll grab two boxes and we’ll pay the attendants to get the rest, we don’t want to risk being spotted going back and forth. I already reserved our own carriage.” 

I pulled my cap lower over my eyes and clutched the box close, trying to keep it partially hidden by the ends of my coat.

But the anxiety built in my chest was for naught, as nobody even glanced twice at us as we made it to the front of the station and onto the platform. Roland pulled pre-purchased tickets from his own coat and we boarded without interruption.

It still felt as though every porter gave us a suspicious look, but as we backed into a cart at the back end of the train, I told myself that it was just my own guilty paranoia.

"We did it, Bran," Roland said once the door was closed. "Wait until my father hears what we've got..."

But if he had said anything else, it was drowned out by the rush of blood in my ears as I felt blood drain from my face. 

I had turned to sit and found myself face to face with Ryan Holme. He was sitting closest to the window, his hands placed gently in his lap. His small, glittering eyes looked from me to Roland and then to the box I was carrying.

"Oh, lucky for you, son, there is no need to wait."

I could not look Holme in the eye, it was already damn near impossible when he was in a good mood. Instead, I focused on a single beam of yellow-orange light that bounced off his dark hair, creating a light spot on the wall above him that moved in tandem with the Boss.

"Sit down," Holme said to Roland. I looked to Roland, who looked as sick as I felt. We were twin ghosts, frozen in place by the ice-cold anger before us. Roland sat, but when I went to follow, the Boss stopped me.

"Not you, not yet. I need to speak to my son for a minute. Wait outside, Branwell. Leave the box."

Heart in my throat, I obeyed.

A man stood outside the train car now, where he had come from I couldn’t tell you. He seemed to appear out of nowhere, as Holme's men tend to do. 

He barely looked at me as I leaned against the outer wall of the train, grateful for the cold metal and a chance to take the weight off my foot.

I lost count of how long I sat in that cramped corridor, which was surprisingly unpopulated for a late afternoon train out of the city. To keep track of the time, I tried to occupy myself with memorizing groups of functional chemical substituents, in the rare case that I survived the day and would even be allowed to return to my studies.

But eventually, all I could think about was the silence that lingered on the other side of the train car door, which bothered me more than if I had heard Roland arguing or even screaming in pain.

After an eternity, the door clicked, and Roland stepped out of the car. He appeared unharmed, but the way he avoided my gaze as I pleaded for any hint of what was about to come my way. 

When the car was sealed again, this time I was on the other side. Holme stood at the far end, in front of the window which turned him into a mere silhouette, but even more menacing than if I had been able to see his face. 

“Sit down, Branwell.”

I oblige, as close to the door as I can manage without making it obvious. I try to keep my back straight and my eyes level, staring ahead at the empty seat opposite me.

For a long time, the Boss didn’t speak. Was he expecting me to say something? Waiting for an explanation? What had Roland told him…

“Sir, I--”

“I heard everything I need to know from my son,” began Holme. I chanced a fraction of a glance: Holme was not looking at me, but focused on his brass pocket watch.

Silence again.

“What did Roland tell you?”

“That you talked him into stealing a shipment from MacPhearson. That he had not realized the contents of the shipment, nor were you willing to divulge to him what your intentions were once he had helped you attain said shipment. Only that you, quote, ‘seemed to have a plan, I could see them gears turning in Bran’s head, you know how he is”.

The informal words in Holme’s perfect diction and deadpan delivery had a chilling effect. Holme put the timepiece back in his vest pocket.

The heat rose to my face in a single white-hot wave. I had to clench my teeth to keep my face neutral. I took a long, deep breath. There was no point in contradicting the story.

Loyalty was the family business, and if I was going to stay, I would have to at least show loyalty to Roland even if the bastard was not willing to pay me mine.

“I suppose you have already established a punishment?” My voice was even; it sounded foreign coming from my lips. My brain had already, in the short moments between dialogue, left the words far behind. Whatever Holme’s answer, I knew it wouldn’t be good. I needed a way out.

“So you agree with my son, do you?”

“You already said you’d heard everything you needed to know, Boss. I’m not here to waste your time with repetition.”

“That tongue is going to get you in trouble one day. Mind your manners, McCalhain.”

“Sorry, Boss.”

“So...it was your idea to steal this from Sullivan?” Holme gestured to one of the crates behind him which had been opened. Rows and rows of deep amber bottles. The raised lettering was barely visible in the bright sunlight: Potassium Permanganate. 

“Yes,” I said. “It was my idea.”

It brought a strange elation to see disappointment etched into Holme’s face. The closest thing to Fatherly sentiment anyone would ever receive from Ryan Holme.

“What possessed you to steal from McPhearson -- do you realize he’s already put a price on your head?”

I shook my head.

“This is a turbulent time, we’re in the middle of negotiations for Argenshire. The heart of the god-damned city. Do you know what this little stunt cost me?”

“I…”

“If my boys are suddenly ready to put themselves in the middle of a war, they better be ready to follow procedure. My men do not lift a finger without my permission. And they do not break code without a perfectly good reason. So...are you going to tell me this amazingly clever plan of yours? Why are we on this train, who’s the buyer? ”

Fuck Roland...who would his buyer be? My brain reeled for answers.

“If one of my men made me wait this long for an answer, he would be dead.”

“No buyer,” I replied quickly.

Holme raised a brow.

“No, I needed the shipment for...a project. A new poison.”

I begged my brain to keep up with his questions.

“New poison? This was for some little science experiment? Why didn’t you just ask--”

“I wanted it to be a surprise.”

Again the silence fell over the cart. This time I forced myself to look at Holme, trying to look as honest as I possibly could. Trying not to let my glance waver.

Eventually, Holme broke into a rare grin, even going so far as to let a quiet laugh escape. It sent a shiver down my spine.

“You want to know what I think?”

“Always, sir.” I meant it in earnest, but I couldn’t get rid of the tinge of sarcasm.

Holme’s dark eyes flashed, but his face betrayed no emotion as he took his seat again. He pulled a small knife from his pocket and unsheathed it, thumbing the blade with great care as he gathered his words.

“I think that this is some stupid little scheme cooked up by my useless lump of a son out of sheer indolence. If you can call it a scheme, it doesn’t seem thought through at all. What I can’t figure out is how he managed to get you to go along with it.”

I’ve watched Ryan Holme pull this stunt on countless men. He has a knack for seeing straight through a situation. He never gives away how much he knows right away, always giving the other man a chance to tell the truth. Always watching them with the same hungry expression, now directed my way, while they chose their fate.

“No, sir. It was my plan, stupid as it was.”

And I am a fucking idiot. The picture became clear the moment Holme had painted it. Of course, this was just some gods-damned game Roland invented for his own amusement. There was no buyer, there was no plan beyond the cheap thrill of stealing a random shipment from a dangerous man. But Roland was my brother. I was not going to throw him to the wolves, even if he didn’t show me the same respect. Family always comes first.

“I convinced Roland to help me because I needed a driver,” I lied.

If I was anyone else, I might as well have been digging my own grave. But I saw Holme look from me to the door, where Roland was doubtless on the other side, trying to listen in. He gave a heavy sigh. He did not believe me, but he was going to accept my story anyway.

I braced myself for my sentence.

“Alright, son. You obviously thought that this poison of yours was worth all this. Our train will arrive in Astam Village at seven o’clock. Once we are home, I will give you until midnight to get that poison in my hands.”

I could feel the or else hanging off the edge of his words. I didn’t need it to be spoken aloud to feel it pierce me like a knife being pressed into my throat.

It was quarter to twelve when I finally placed the vial on Holme’s desk.