girls scurry into the bar. One hands me a new bottle of liquor, the second places a mat over the pool of blood, and the last two drag away the sobbing bitch. It was a nice little display.
One of the girls snatches my Reichsmarks back from the bleeding bar-whore’s grasp and places the money firmly into my hands. As the rest leave the room, she gives a gracious bow, apologizes in a regretful tone for the inconvenience, and finally floats out of the room to leave me in peace.
“What was that for?” a voice calmly says at the other end of the bar.
I turn to face its owner. His slim figure is draped in an overcoat that flows down to his knees. On top of an already bulky coat is a shell of metal-armored plates. They are golden, just like his features. Blond hair slicked back, with a short-trimmed beard to match. His youth of twenty years really contrasts with my own aging exterior. Even though we are only ten years apart in age, I can’t help but notice the difference.
“You saw what she did, Ulric,” I say, pointing to the mat which had been laid down to cover the puddle of blood. “Had to protect my money.”
Ulric makes his way across the bar toward me, setting his attention on the still sideways table.
“Problems are settled differently down here,” I explain to him in a collected manner, as we both prop the table back up.
“Quite different than Germania, I guess,” Ulric hesitantly rationalizes, as he joins me at the booth. His voice is laced with nervousness. I expected he’d be a little uneasy, considering this is his first deployment down south. My brother has lived a quiet life in the pristine capital of the Reich. A place of beautiful monuments, tall winding towers, and dense green forests.
“Sometimes I don’t know the strength of this thing,” I say, shifting to display my left arm, or what is now my arm. Drops of the girl’s blood paint the side of my rusted mechanical limb. I probably should wipe that off.
It’s common practice to put artificial skin over such a thing, but I just never bothered. Fake skin never wrinkles: it stays in the same perfect condition forever, unlike the rest of me. I’ve already seen my skin age and wrinkle, even if it was just a bit. At least as the metal rusts, my body degeneration will be a uniform and balanced process.
I take a napkin and begin cleaning the blood off of my limb. I don’t get why this arm is always the dominant one. Even ten years after losing it, it still thinks it’s in charge.
“Don’t you think there could have been another way handling that situation?” Ulric says, while watching the cleaning display. “Could have just stopped her and got the money back. She was just a little thing.”
I nod in aloof agreement while cleaning away the last bits of blood. It was the same dark crimson as Ulric’s uniform—standard for an S.S. Knight. The gold eagle and skull pinned to his chest shines against the lamp hanging above us.
“I wouldn’t get caught up on it, Ulric. It’s not like it was that much of a loss,” I reason. “If you knew how many girls go through every season, you’d know she can be replaced like that.” I snap my fingers, “Don’t get queasy. I know you’re a pacifist and all….”
“I’m not a pacifist,” Ulric defends. “I just have never seen violence like that before.”
“Not a pacifist, sure,” I joke, pointing to his uniform.
“The Knighthood maintains cultural integrity,” Ulric explains, his hands clenched together as his body slouches over. “We aren’t some peace organization.”
“So getting caught up on a bar-whore is maintaining culture?” I laugh, looking around the dim room. Not one of the occupants was looking back at us. The bartender was cleaning one of his glasses, having a quiet conversation with a man in a grey uniform. None pay much mind to my brother and me.
Ulric’s eyes lock on the last drops of blood I am wiping from my limb. It’s as if he has something to say, but instead he simply lets out a deep breath, unclenches his hands, and orders another drink.
“The Knighthood is about protecting the tribe,” he explains.
“The only way to protect the tribe is to make sure we aren’t attacked by another tribe,” I state.
“There are many ways to protect a tribe, Ansel,” Ulric lectures, his eyes narrowing, “such as respecting your fellow Aryans.”
I chuckle to myself, almost spitting up my drink. Ulric wrinkles his brow at me with an expression of annoyance.
“Are you saying that I should have respected that whore just because she’s an Aryan?” I choke out through spats of laughter.
“A tribe that fights amongst itself is bound to collapse,” he concludes.
“We’re not going to fight some great war just because I broke a thief’s arm,” I say. “If anything, you should be lecturing her for stealing.”
Ulric slouches down into his seat. His hand loosely grips the handle of his pint.
“That woman was still an Aryan.”
“That woman was still a thief,” I say, taking a large gulp from my new whiskey.
We sit by a small window that overlooks the sea. A faint rumble permeates the walls as waves splash against the ferry. It always surprises me just how loud the sea is—a thousand little movements working in sync to create that recognizable hum. It’s a rhythm in tune to the slow churn of the ship’s engine.
This ferry isn’t larger than the ships of the Kiln, but it’s still impressive…for a water vessel. I’m surprised at how it can even stay afloat. It doesn’t need wheels, treads, or magnets to grip onto the water. This is, by all means, a chunk of metal floating on top of a liquid surface. Mechanical feet were always something inherently genetic to the European.
For its remarkable size, there is barely a soul on this ferry. The only travelers I see are the standard bunch of sailors on their way south to the Kiln. Whores strut across the bar, but even they are few and far between; granted, that probably is because of me.
The Reich officially outlaws prostitution but down south, they turn a blind eye. Sailors had to be kept happy somehow in this remote edge of civilization.
I figure that if this region were run with the moral code of Germania up north, then no sailors would want to ship cargo. In the summer months when the heat is an issue, hell, I guarantee half of the ships would be abandoned and never leave port.
This time of year, the pay is doubled, eyes are turned away, and the sailors are kept happy with women before they embark on their long journeys ahead. There’s a common saying here: “As long as the cargo ships and the Nests stay fertile, the Reich will always remain Eternal.”
I can still make out, on the horizon, the towers of Maria peeking out from behind a cloud of dust and smoke. Unlike the capital of Germania or the city of London, there was no real organized design to Maria. The streets are narrow and winding; the towers, plopped everywhere…and the people are just as disorganized as the layout.
Yet it had the right location to serve as a port city, and in that regard Maria did its job.
“I don’t want to mess this up,” Ulric says, after a long silence.
