Beating Heart Cadavers (2 page)

Ch. 3

Caine sat in the small waiting area of the Spöken headquarters, his head sitting rigidly over his neck and his eyes fixed forward on the window on the opposite wall. As Ratsel observed him from the doorway of his office, he concluded that though he bore some resemblance to his father, it was a rather watered down version. Ambassador Caine had been tall and broad-shouldered, with iron-gray hair and a dark, steady gaze. His son, however, was fairer, with dark blond hair and bluer eyes, and though he was taller than Ratsel was, he somehow seemed shorter. Perhaps it was simply that Ratsel had known him since he was a child who barely reached his waist – or perhaps it was because the younger Matthew Caine simply seemed quite a waste compared to the late ambassador.

Ratsel raised an eyebrow, trying to formulate an image of the future where the young man in front of him was the ambassador to the Mare-folk, but drew up a blank. There was something about Caine that simply asked observers to feel sorry for him – some undecided look in his eye or tone in his voice – and yet there was something rather off-putting about him, as well. He was like looking at badly painted portrait of the late ambassador: the viewer felt sorry that the artist had put so much time and effort into the piece, but not sorry enough to want it hanging on their wall.

Ratsel took a step forward and opened his arms.

“Matthew – so good of you to come.”

Caine seemed to shake himself from his thoughts and finally wrenched his gaze from the window, though there was an odd look on his face as though he had been debating whether or not to cross the room and fling himself through the glass. Ratsel glanced at the window uncertainly, wondering if – in the event that he had not come out of his office when he did and had instead left Caine to his own devices – the body would have plummeted onto the east-hand side of Spöken headquarters where Ratsel had parked his car. He considered the building's layout for a moment. No, his office faced west. He wouldn't have had to walk by it on his way out, after all.

Caine stood up and extended his hand to Ratsel in his usual polite, people-pleasing sort of way. He had grown a beard since the last time that Ratsel had seen him that the Spöke found he didn't like at all. Ratsel didn't think that there was anything wrong with having a beard, of course: he just thought that there was something wrong with having one if the man was too lazy to shave.

“The uniform suits you,” Ratsel told him, looking over the black trousers and jacket that had always looked sleeker when the former ambassador had worn it. It was badly covered in lint, and the trousers were wrinkled terribly as though they had been slept in. Ratsel's eyes twitched as he looked at them. “Are you finding it so?”

He led Caine into the office and offered him a chair. The younger man sank down into it.

“The color seems appropriate,” Caine replied.

Ratsel bowed his head accordingly.

“It's been a terrible time for us all,” he said. “Ambassador Caine was … a great man.”

Caine didn't reply. He was staring at the arm of his jacket, a frown appearing as he looked down at the white lining of fuzz that spread over the smooth black. Ratsel clicked his teeth.

“What did you do before this, again?” he asked. “Something with mathematics, correct?”

“I'm an accountant.”

“An accountant, of course,” Ratsel said. He should have known, he thought, watching as the younger man began to pick at the linted uniform. Caine certainly seemed more capable of dealing with numbers than with people.

“There's a cleaner down on fourth,” the Spöke said. “You could send it out. No need to do them yourself anymore.”

“What?” Caine looked up, seeming not to make the connection.

“Your uniform.”

“Oh.” Caine straightened and shook his head. “No, I … I'm used to my wife doing them.”

Ratsel hummed to himself.

“Yes, well … things change, Matthew.” He folded his hands together and placed them on the desk, still trying to peel Caine's indifference to the situation away enough to make any progress. “I think you'll find that being ambassador will bring many alterations to your life. Alterations which I would be happy to work with you through.”

“I don't know if that will be necessary,” Caine said. He paused, taking in Ratsel's bated breath and frowning as he did so before continuing. “I'm going to pass on the position, Mr. Ratsel.”

Ratsel's brow pulled further together.

“You're going to pass on being ambassador?” he repeated. “And why might that be?”

“I'm not suited for it,” Caine said shortly. “I'm sure that you won't be disappointed. I know you had hoped that a Spöke would continue my father's work.”

“Admittedly, I had,” Ratsel cautioned, “but only because the Spöken know the greater details of the issues that the Mare-folk cause. I wasn't … disappointed to hear that you'd received the job.”

He watched Caine's face carefully as he spoke, hoping to see a shard of belief in the other man's eyes. If Caine were to pass on the job, the government would be the ones to select the new ambassador, and there was no guarantee whom would be employed. At least with Caine – frightfully inept and poorly-suited for the role that he was – there could be certain assurances.

“You'll do a fine job, Matthew,” Ratsel continued. “Your father wouldn't have picked you if he didn't believe as much.”

“I'm sure,” Caine said, though he sounded anything but. “But the timing … it's just not right.”

“These things never occur according to our schedules, Matthew,” Ratsel told him. “Though I disagree. Changes need to be made with regard to the Mare-folk, and those changes can come in the form of a new ambassador.”

Caine didn't respond. He was still picking at the lint on his sleeve.

“And as for the timing in your own life,” Ratsel continued, his voice growing sharp despite how he tried to keep his annoyance from seeping in, “it might be the best thing that could have happened to you. A fresh start, shall we say. A new way forward.”

“I just don't think I'd be very focused on my responsibilities.”

“That's why you would have mentors. Advisers. People who look after Oneris' well-being as well as your own.”

Ratsel paused and smoothed his hands over the surface of the desk.

“Matthew, I'm sure that I don't need to tell you that the situation with the Mare-folk is getting out of hand,” he said. “The government has been trying to deal with them for decades now, and still we haven't gotten them under control.”

“I thought that was what the Spöken were for,” Caine said blandly.

“The Spöken can only do so much. We have rules and regulations in place that keep us from acting as quickly as we'd like. Only yesterday we found a Mare-folk masquerading as a normal woman. She'd infected several Onerian men before we were allowed to get her, and she's one of many.”

“Well, I suppose you have to be certain before you act,” Caine said. “We can't just go … cutting people open.”

“Of course not, Matthew,” Ratsel said, giving a little chuckle. “That would be barbaric. But there are other ways to … deal with them.”

Caine sat back in his seat. A frown had formed on his brow, and Ratsel leaned forward, seeing that he had finally gotten his attention.

“You're aware that the amount of time and resources that Oneris spends mining for Hilitum has gravely impacted the country over the years, yes?” Ratsel asked. Caine gave an indistinct nod. Ratsel wasn't convinced that he knew much about anything. “What's more, our miners are growing ill from their prolonged contact with the metal – physical and mental disturbances, seizures, deaths. If we continue to cater to the Mare-folks' needs before our own people's, it can only lead to crisis. It would be different if the Mare-folk had any value to us, but considering that they're sluggish and weak, they're normally unemployable. And – of course – the issue with the sterilization only makes them more of a risk –”

“But we can't just get rid of them,” Caine said.

Ratsel gazed at him.

“Oh?” he asked. “Why not?”

“Well –” Caine said, seemingly trying to grasp for a reason. “I mean, just because they're born with metal hearts isn't a reason to … to ...”

“You're coming from a noble place, Matthew,” Ratsel said reassuringly. “And I agree. If it was just an issue with a little thing like that, we wouldn't be concerned. But I'm asking you to look at this from the position of a leader. Think of the bigger picture. People are suffering – real people – because of the time and energy the government feels it needs to expend on people who only harm us in return.”

“So … couldn't we just drive them out? Half of them have fled to Hasenkamp already, haven't they?”

Ratsel gave a quiet laugh and looked down at his hands. The fingers flexed of their own accord as though they sought to grasp the front of Caine's jacket and make him understand the point that was so clear to everyone else.

“You have a son, don't you, Matthew?”

“What?” Caine shook his head as though the question wasn't straight forward. “Yes – I do.”

“How old is he now? Four?”

“Next month.”

“And he's been having some … trouble, hasn't he?”

Caine didn't respond. His mouth had thinned into a line.

“What I'm getting at, Matthew, is that your son's needs are suffering because the government can't devote enough time to his care as they should. We spend an exorbitant amount of money each year aiding the Mare-folk, and for what reason? So that they can infect us? So that they can stay unemployed? So that they can continue adding nothing of value to our society?”

Ratsel waited, still watching Caine closely. He had begun to pick at the lint on his sleeve again, and his eyes were clouded as though forming a wall between what he should see and what he simply hoped to.

“Onerian doctors have been trying to find a cure, you know,” Ratsel said. “They think the solution is to find a way to stop the metal from leaching from the hearts and into the bloodstream.”

“But you don't?”

“All that I'm saying is that it's been years, and will undoubtedly be longer, and still the Mare-folk are here. But if the doctors were focused on more … prevalent matters, then maybe Onerians who need medical help would be getting the assistance that they need instead of the Mare-folk.” Ratsel raised his eyebrows, still trying to drive the point home. “We should be using our resources to find a cure for real hearts, not metal ones, don't you think?”

Caine brushed at his sleeve, his brow still knit firmly over his eyebrows.

“What are you suggesting?” he asked.

“We shut off the charging facilities.”

Caine made a face.

“We kill the Mare-folk?”

“We allow them to die out naturally,” Ratsel countered. “It's not so different than what you suggested before by exiling them to Hasenkamp – just a bit more practical.”

“Right, but –” He broke off, suddenly uncertain.

“Do you have a soft spot for the Mare-folk, Matthew?”

“What? Of course not. I just – if it was something that should have been done, I'm sure my father would have done it years ago.”

“Yes. Perhaps.” Ratsel gave a tight smile that couldn't mask his displeasure. “Actually, speaking of the late ambassador, I had wondered if you moved into his estate quite yet?”

“No, not yet.” Caine fidgeted. “I hadn't been planning to accept the job, so there was no point in moving in. Maybe you'd agree with my decision now.”

“Matthew,” Ratsel chided convivially, “I have the utmost confidence in you as ambassador – even more now that we've spoken and I've heard your views. I wouldn't want you to simply jump at my suggestions without giving them the proper time and thought. That's not what leaders do.”

Caine nodded, visibly more relaxed, and Ratsel continued.

“I only asked about the estate because there were some papers and things that Ambassador Caine had in his possession at the time of his death, and I was hoping to send some men over to collect them.”

“If you tell me what they are, I could get them for you.”

“No, no … that's quite alright. Actually, we're afraid that they might be difficult to find, given that he probably had a safe place for them, due to their importance and all. I could have my men do a quick sweep of the place and be out before you even knew.”

Caine shifted.

“You'd search the house, you mean?”

“We could do it while you're there, if that would make you more comfortable,” Ratsel said, chuckling a bit. “I promise that any skeletons we uncover in the closets will remain a secret between just us.”

He smiled widely, but Caine didn't return the sentiment. He was fidgeting with the material of his uniform, his eyes suddenly very far away.

“Why don't you tell me what you're looking for, and I'll see if I can find it for you?” he said. “I know my father. He doesn't hide things.”

“Of course,” Ratsel said. Caine didn't have to guess how irritated he was. “I see.”

He showed Caine from the room a moment later, and the younger man was escorted to the lift by two silver-uniformed officers. Though Caine considered how greatly Ratsel's anger could affect his position, it didn't compare to the uneasiness that the thought of having someone go through the ambassador's estate brought on. And while the Spöke might have thought that Caine was harboring some concern for the well-being of his father's old possessions, Caine couldn't have cared less if they overturned every drawer in the house and left all the objects of sentimental value ruined in the process. Because he didn't care about what skeletons they might uncover in his father's closet, but he did care about the one that they might find in the backyard. And he was quite certain that they would realize who had put it there.