No Smoking in the Dark

Corridors & Conspiracies

(The FireJack Perimeter, Present Day)

"The truth is rarely pure and never simple."

— Oscar Wilde

* * *

"Behind every courageous Deforester felling skyscraper trees, a Hunter aims to keep the gnashing jaws of nature at bay. And further back still are the Heavy Weather Makers, who rain man-made disaster on the predators mother nature sends to extinguish our shining city's…"

I tear down the ancient recruiting poster—a FireJack boot stomping on a rabid animal face—and snort. Behind it, of course, is a broken air quality gauge.

The poster failed to mention the work of the Weed Eaters (like yours truly). We work day and night to poison, prune, and police the dirt so our city stays free of the invasive species that probe endlessly for a derelict building, abandoned rooftop, or neglected maintenance tunnel to establish a roothold.

Multiple months of hard, dirty, essential work down here. Letters to the chain of command highlighting the injustice. And still—no awards for valor, no meritorious promotions, not even a penny of hazardous duty pay.

These bitter thoughts animate my sweaty hands as I pluck a cluster of Lightning-Spore Mushrooms from their perch atop the insulated electrical pipe.

I ease back down to the floor and examine the bioluminescent mushrooms.

An orange mutation I've never seen before. I pull a small battery from my pocket and hold it to the largest mushroom. It attaches. I drop it in the collection sack at my hip.

The others go in the rapidly-filling 5-gallon bucket.

I'll never get them all. That's okay—so long as I cull their numbers enough to prevent a significant drop in power output.

Grunt work—even by 4th Weed Eater standards. Work I'd intentionally procrastinated, hoping for an opportunity to prove my merit.

But my Fire Sergeant saw through it—the bastard ripped up my hard-lied-for medical slip and sentenced me to 12-hour shifts until I finish clearing 3.6 miles of tunnels.

At least I have the heavy-duty rubber gloves this time. Last time, I did this barehanded as punishment for missing morning formation—which meant that with every uprooted L-shrooms, I got to enjoy a minor electric shock.

I had to give it to him—the Fire Sergeant could be a creative disciplinarian when he wanted to.

The night vision in my FireJack's heads-up display flickers off. The music cuts out.

Annoyed, I bang my free hand against the helmet.

No grace.

I don't need it—the maintenance tunnels are illuminated serviceably enough by the faint glow of overhead mercury vapor bulbs and machinery indicator lights. But it's still frustrating that my gear—which should still have had half a charge left on it after I recharged it a month ago—has failed me so. And this means I won't be able to radio in for status reports either… which is actually a small silver-lining, as I'll have an excuse to avoid reporting in.

Voices radiate from the air vent next to me.

I wouldn't have noticed them if the music was still blasting—but doubting it's anything interesting, I take another step forward.

"Fire Chief, make sure everyone badges in. And make sure all of them have been read onto the required intel compartment while you're at it," commands a voice I recognize despite the muffled air vent and voice modification.

My older brother. The young, up-and-coming commanding officer of the 1st Heavy Weather Makers Battalion.

"Aye, sir—we're good to go, I had Corporal Ado check them all outside already," replies another voice, presumably the Fire Chief's.

I don't have the read-ons required for this. Few Weed Eaters ever do—unless they're in the Research and Development Platoon.

But I've always had a weakness for eavesdropping—a vice I'll get around to overcoming… just not today.

"You all have my gratitude for coming—I hope I can repay you all by keeping this short. I wanted each of you here, specifically, because I know you're all tired of losing our slow war of attrition to the man-eaters and mutant vegetation beyond the perimeter. I know you share my belief that the paradigm must change," says my brother.

…

"What does this have to do with microbially-induced corrosive agents, Captain Ralts?" asks a woman.

"Nothing, Captain. I asked the Fire Chief to have a new compartment made regarding that niche topic—and to have you all added to it—specifically so I could exclude untrustworthy Jacks today."

There are faint mutterings too low for me to make out.

I crush a roach under my boot. The implications of what I'm hearing make me shiver.

My brother is doing something deeply against regulations. As much as I'd love to see him brought down a peg or three, the consequences to our family if he's caught would be… devastating.

"What do you have in mind, Captain?"

"Not many know this, but the Grand Pyre is retiring at the end of the fire season—just over three months from today. He intends to have Pyre Seveness replace him, which would be no improvement. However, Pyre Seveness will reject the honor at the final hour—he's been... unprofessional, let's say, in his management of FireJack funds—a fact I'll bring to his attention the day of the change of command. That leaves Pyre Maine, Pyre Echnay, and Pyre Lejeune as the only members of their rank with enough time in grade to ascend. Pyre Lejeune alone is receptive to the plan. So, we'll ensure he wins the promotion," finishes my brother.

"The Grand Pyre will surely pick Pyre Echnay before he even considers Pyre Lejeune—she and him go way back, and the Deforesters Brigade has far more sway than the Recruit Training Depot," objects the woman.

"True enough, ma'am. But that would mean the Deforester's second in command rising to the top—and the Grand Pyre hates that snake in the Guillotine Grass more than any other officer in the FireJacks. He'll never allow it," replies the Fire Chief.

"Even if that's so, there's still Pyre Maine—" objects another man, his voice absurdly deep through the voice modifier. My battalion's Executive Officer. Not for the first time, I wonder what his true voice must sound like.

"Pyre Maine won't be an issue. A source close to him tells me he's determined to cruise through his last few years into a consulting gig with Restless Industries," answers my brother.

"I'm glad you've given this serious thought, but your communication skills still leave a lot to be desired. You keep mentioning an enigmatic 'plan'—a plan that, apparently, Pyre Lejeune is on board with. So you'll tell him, but not the rest of us—your comrades? You ask too much and give too little," says the woman.

"I know, Captain. I've asked you all to risk everything on nothing more than a vague ambition of a better future for the FireJacks and our city-state. But the mission demands extreme secrecy—at least until we've replaced the Grand Pyre."

…

"Does anyone else have objections? What say you, Chief Flame Stanton?" prompts my brother.

"No sir—I'm on board. It's a clever plan, and the FireJacks need a change of course, as you say," answers a man with a smoker's rasp his voice mod can't fully conceal.

…

"If that's all, we're done for the evening. I'll be sending you each encrypted instructions for preparations over these next few months," announces my brother.

Chair legs scrape on concrete as people stand up.

I'm about to leave when I hear a voice speak again.

"Should I do something about the Captain, sir? She doesn't seem entirely convinced."

…

"No. She's right to ask those questions—it's a sign of honesty and commitment to our mission. It's Chief Flame Stanton who needs to be scheduled for a tragic accident, I'm sorry to say. He used to engage, to push back and demand his concerns be addressed. Now he's just here to gather enough information to make his betrayal maximally profitable. Can you see to him?" says my brother.

I force myself to breathe.

"As you say, sir… Prospera has plenty of dangerous places where a Jack looking to unwind might get himself in trouble," says the Fire Chief.

"Make it believable but not overly shameful—for the sake of the FireJack's good name and the Stanton family, both."

With that murderous order given, my decorated hero of an older brother and his Fire Chief leave me to my ringing silence and dark.

Then the night vision and music snap back on—sight and sound exploding against my unprepared senses.

I drop the bucket.

The still-glowing mushrooms spill across the floor with a terrible clatter.

Music blares in my ears. A stifled curse of surprise echoes through the air vent.

I run.

Foundations & Faultlines

(Prospera, Nine Months Earlier)

"We wear the mask that grins and lies."

— Paul Laurence Dunbar

* * *

"It's true. I walked into the Prospera Patents Office with the schematics for a limitless energy machine. Picture it, Jace—no more blackouts, the city expanding until a man couldn't walk across it in a month. A total game changer!"

I close my eyes and shake my head mournfully—making sure to open one eye in time to catch the mesmerized expression on Jace's face.

"But what happened?? What stopped you, brother?"

I sigh and shrug dramatically.

"It is too horrible to say, little bro…"

"Come oooon—you can tell me!"

"No, I shouldn't… To do so would be a heinous violation of my brotherly duties! The powers that be are already after me. I couldn't risk them turning their wicked sights on you—you're too young for such danger!" I turn away and bang a fist against one of the shabby apartment walls.

"Pleaseeee? I won't tell a soul—even if the bad guys torture me! I'm not a little kid anymore—I'll be 10 in a few weeks you know. Double digit's old!" he protests.

…

"Okay… but come closer so the Security Forces bugs won't pick up on it."

Jace hurries forward and leans his ear toward me, body vibrating with anticipation.

"They stole the schematics—broke into my room while we were all out and made copies. Then they claimed the rights to the patent, just before I arrived. I passed one of their agents on my way into the Patent Office. His mask was darker than a city-wide blackout on a moonless night, but you should have seen the smug way he carried himself, Jace. The hubris!"

"W-Wow… But… how did they get in—how did they find a way around your security measures?"

"Pure treachery, Jace. I believe they tailed our dear oldest brother—you know how he is. Overconfident, complacent... and he's so pointlessly tall it's child's play to follow him even in the biggest crowd. They monitored him and saw how he got past my web of security protocols when he came by for dinner last week." I nod sagely. "But. But... my efforts didn't go completely to waste. They're afraid. Afraid I might go forth with constructing the machine even with the Security Forces Intellectual Property Division on my tail. They offered me a considerable stack of green—in exchange for swearing on our family's name to silence. I didn't want to accept, but... they held a Burner to my throat, and I have you and our parents to look after, so... I signed both their Non-Disclosure Agreement and their Non-Compete agreements."

Jace looks up at me with eyes wide as saucers.

"What will you spend the money on, bro?"

"Well... I can't suddenly have a huge fortune—I'm between jobs at the moment, as you know. So I needed a cover story..." I gesture toward the boxes cluttering the living room. "You know we're moving into a new home today, well..."

"But... isn't Albear buying us the new place with the money from his promotion and officer housing allowance?" Jace asks dubiously, skepticism creeping in for the first time.

"It's all done in his name, obviously. But, well... you're a smart boy—you can connect the dots."

"Whoa… Rea—"

"JACE!"

We both jump and turn as mom comes bustling into the room, the hair of her bun uncharacteristically messy.

"Didn't I tell you to finish packing your clothes, young man? Don't make me get your father involved," she warns.

Jace sprints out without a word of back-talk.

When he's gone, she turns her sharp eyes on me.

"Drake. What wild stories have you been filling his head with this time?"

"Why I never… such baseless allegations are unbecoming of you, moth—"

She smacks me across the back of my head.

"Ow—what was that for?" I massage the impact site.

"You're almost an adult now, Drake. You can't keep telling tall tales to anyone who will listen. Jace looks up to you—you have to set a proper example for him."

"If he needs a 'proper example' he has our dear biggest brother. An arrogant, stuffy, oh-so-perfect proper example, if ever there was one."

"Don't you talk about Albear that way—he does so much for this family, for you… Particularly on a day like this, you should be nothing but grateful!"

Mother turns her back to leave and I'm free to exercise my man-made right to a good eye roll.

* * *

"Oh, Albear… this is beautiful!" cries Mom the second she crosses the threshold into the garishly large house I'll be expected to call 'home', from now on.

Dad places a steadying hand on her lower back—she seems nearly faint with happiness.

"It's a bit… old though, isn't it? Not to mention dusty…" I run a finger along the ornate wood railing that I begrudgingly recognize will probably gleam like warm honey once it's given a little elbow grease.

They ignore me.

"I'm glad you like it, Mother—please, everyone, take off your masks and make yourselves comfortable. This is your home now just as much as it is ours, and we are family here," announces my dear brother—his excessively handsome face alight with relief at how obviously pleased Mom and Dad are.

"Albear, I'm sorry to drop this on you at a time like this, but your father's medical loans are due by the 15th, and Tom says we won't get our deposit back on the apartment if the cracked glass in Jace's bedroom window isn't mended—" begins Mom, her voice heavy with worry.

"No need to worry, Mother—I contacted Mersey Medica this morning and negotiated the loan's transfer to my name and a new payment schedule. And I know an enlisted Jack in my company who owes me a favor... he's agreed to take care of all the apartment repairs by end of week," interjects Albear.

"Abuse of authority, much," I mumble under my breath as Mom smiles and hugs Albear—which earns an amused snort from Jace.

Dasha peeks her head around a corner as we take off our masks, and my heart does an uncomfortable somersault at the sight of her—the heart-shaped face and bright-green eyes I've known since I was a child framed by waves of silky blond hair. She wears a heart-patterned apron wrapped around her slim waist and has a heavy soup ladle in her left hand.

A left hand that is still defiled by a stupidly expensive engagement ring.

Albear shakes Dad's hand and hugs Mom before reaching down to tousle my hair, as if I'm still his kid brother.

"H-Hey!" I slap his freakishly huge hand away.

Dasha glides into the entryway and my annoyance with having my hair messed with is forgotten as she plants a kiss on each of my cheeks.

"Son, why are you still in your uniform? You're not expecting to be recalled at this hour, surely?" asks Dad.

I snort.

Knowing Albear, I'd bet my left ass cheek that he just left his FireJack's officer gear on to show off his promotion to Captain.

"He's on call all week—they work him too hard, as always," says a new voice.

I jump and instinctively reach for the mask I just hung on the wall as a drop-dead gorgeous woman with sapphire-blue hair and eyes enters from a different hallway to the left, muscular arms holding a box with the words "master bedroom" scrawled across the front in elegant, expensively-educated cursive.

She's an Amelior—just like Albear—and I scowl from under my mask as I see a sparkling ring on her left hand, identical to the one Dasha wears except for the color of the stone.

"V-Victorianna, dear—it's so lovely to meet you at last," says Mom as she and Dad hurriedly move to recover their faces with their masks as I had.

Victorianna places the box on a table and steps forward just in time to catch Mom's hand as it's about to bring the mask up to her face.

"Please... there's really no need—we're going to officially be family come April, and this is already all our home as of today."

April…? That's like 10 months away—not even a year from now!

I swear loudly and Dad smacks me across the back of the head with the lightning reflexes of a cage fighter.

"Albear! You didn't tell us you had set a date for the wedding yet!" cries Mom as she and Dad reluctantly relent to Victorianna's request and replace their masks on the wall's hooks.

I do not do the same.

"Ah, well…"

Albear pulls Dasha to his side with one arm as Victorianna grabs his other.

"Us having set a date at last is one of many happy surprises we have in store tonight, Mother. Speaking of which—Father, if you head down the main hall and take a right, I think you'll find a dusty, yet potential-filled workshop... just waiting for an expert handyman's touch..."

Dad steps forward, places a hand on Albear's shoulder, and gives him a solemn nod of approval.

"That's my boy… don't wait up for me to start dinner, eh?"

Albear chuckles and mom huffs as dad marches away to inspect the promised old man's oasis.

My mind races with desperate schemes as I try to think of some way to put a stop to this madness.