“Okay, Dad,” Erin said, nodding, “I understand.”
Axel hoped she did. Axel hoped she was just being a precocious teenager. If not now, someday she would understand, just as he did.
She closed her eyes and spoke the words to complete the ritual. “Their strength is why I am alive, I honor them when I thrive. In turn, these words I will retain, to teach my kin the names again.”
She said it properly, and with respect. No petty intonations of sarcasm like she sometimes used.
“Okay, off to bed, love,” Axel said, kissing her on the forehead.
Axel watched Erin run off to the stairs. Her failed eye-role replayed itself in his mind.
Pauline was busy cleaning up in the kitchen, watching the ritual with a smile on her face.
Axel meandered over to the island in the kitchen. “Don’t say it.”
“Don’t say what?” Pauline asked.
“That it’s silly. That it’s only a matter of time until they refuse to do it.”
She put down a bowl she’d been drying and took off her apron. She walked over to him and draped her arms over his shoulders.
“It’s who you are,” she said. She gave him a long and sensuous kiss, “and I don’t think anyone can refuse Axel Kelemen.”
He doesn’t deserve her.
And he knew where this kiss was coming from. He was leaving tomorrow on his first official op with Nadar Corporation. He was leaving for Prague, he told her, but Russia in reality. It was his first time in real danger in years, and she knew it.
As the kissing intensified, his baser urges took hold, suppressing his concerns about the op, and freeing him to enjoy the night of passion ahead of him.
THE SPOKE FESTIVAL
Encouraged by a stiff gust of autumn wind, orange, red, and yellow leaves tumbled down on the rows of stalls and show tables along the Seeville pedestrian mall. Trombones and other wind instruments blared jazzy tunes from an active troop on a nearby corner. Huge throngs of people watched the band and lined the rows, inspecting wares and artwork, their eyes and ears watchful and engaged to the sights and sounds of the Spoke Festival.
Owen walked his bike carefully through the crowds, catching the occasional glimpses of this year’s creations. In the decorative section, huge, colorful fans made of tire spokes and rubber tubes adorned the tables. The popular spiraling tire arrangements and gear assembly murals were also there. A helical wind vane of gears and reflectors glinted with a sparkle of light. One stand featured a population of lawn dogs. The dogs had reflectors for eyes, and their limbs and facial structures were outlined by elaborate arrangements of bike chains.
The decorations were interesting, but he always found them to be somewhat superfluous—a form of artistic gluttony. The talent and effort of these artisans could be used for so many other exploits.
He made his way past another bandstand, this one playing old string instruments barely audible over the din of the crowd. Farther down the mall were more practical items like deck chairs made from frames and inner tube, or a suit of chainmail armor made of spokes plied into circlets. These were popular for enforcers and even some mules that frequented the bandit regions.
“Would you like a replica of the Beholder of Montalto?” a young boy tugged at his arm and asked him, holding up a clay figurine. Without being given a chance to answer, the boy pulled Owen over to a stall that had dozens of the statuettes. Owen picked one up and looked at it. The figurine was a remarkable rendition of Monty, the enigmatic giant statue perched on nearby Montalto. It lacked the verdure around its base, but definitely did a good job of characterizing the distinct drooping shoulders and rounded belly.
His sister would often gaze in wonder at the beholders, sometimes asking Owen questions he couldn’t answer about some vague Adherent gospel related to them. She might like the statuette, he thought.
“How much is it?” he asked the boy.
The boy didn’t answer. He had abruptly disappeared into a tent beyond the table. A robed man came out where the boy had entered.
Immediately Owen realized what this was. He had been duped by an Adherent recruiting ploy. Last year they gave away model cars and airplanes, and he had been ensnared just the same. He tried to think of a graceful exit but was too slow.
“My son,” the robed man said. He invaded Owen’s personal space by putting his arm around his shoulder. “I see you have shown interest in our beloved Beholder of Montalto. May I ask, would you like to know the story of Okafor and the beholders?”
“No, sir. I’m not interested, thank you. I really must be going.”
The man assertively pushed him into an uncomfortable stroll. “The people of the Old World weren’t interested either, and so came the Detonation. Enlightenment is key, or we will fall prey to the three fears. We can help you avoid the pitfalls of novation. We must be vigilant so we do not—”
“Sir, yes, yes I know. But the Adherent’s Credo is a bit too extreme for me.”
“Extreme? At the Adherents’ temple, we believe foremost in balance—moderation over obsession, cooperation over competition, and prudence over recklessness. Does this sound like extremism? I think you could benefit from one of our sermons. In fact—”
“No!” Owen said vehemently, and finally the man released his hand from his back, bowed slightly and retreated to the booth.
Looking back, he could see others giving the booth a wide berth. Owen moved away from the area quickly, chiding himself for not recognizing it for what it was. It seemed like every year the Adherents were more and more desperate to attract followers.
In the merchant rows, barriers and towlines were erected in front of the stalls so only a handful of people could view the goods at a given time. The stalls were manned by some of the strongest mules—men with massive thighs, veined arms, aggressive beards, and stark tattoos. In contrast to the stalls he’d seen so far, these vendors were irreverent and at times even impolite to circulating customers.
From his vantage point, Owen could make out some choice fare. There were prized gas powered bike lamps, super-lightweight carbon fiber frames and high-quality cushioned seats. There were even three new bike pumps in a locked glass casing being ogled by many passersby. He tried to make out the price from a distance, but it was too far away, with too many people blocking his view. Nowadays good bike pumps were becoming so scarce that they might cost two months of a mule’s wages.
His favorite section was always at the far end of the mall, by the pavilion. This was where the feats of engineering were displayed. Teams of mules, wrenches, and tradesmen would spend months developing their creations for the festival. Featured prominently were bike hybridizations; four, six, eight, ten and even twelve-seaters. The frames were welded and reinforced with supplementary metals, creating an elaborate system of conjoined bicycle chassis, each attached to its own pedal and gear system. In one corner of the pavilion there was a watermill made mostly of chains, gears, and bike frames. In yet another corner were highly elaborate fanning systems for the hot Seeville summer.
He often wondered if he should join a pit crew so he could apply his inventive talents to one of these projects. It seemed like good, honest work, and they created some useful new inventions for the community. Still, it seemed inconsequential compared to what they could do with Old World tech. If they could just harness electrical power, even from behind Faraday cage enclosures, they could do so much more.
Of course, until the specter of the Detonation dissipated, it seemed his tinkering would go nowhere. The silly warnings of the Adherents continued to cast a long shadow. But maybe the railroad could change things; maybe if they showed people the benefits of Old World tech, the superstitions would eventually go away.