The Loyal Ones

Chapter 8: Real Politics

Gita sniffed. "Will you meet those Anvil men again today?" she asked Lyle.

Shit, that was not something she should know. Dally kept his eyes down, chewing.

Lyle's cheeks was slowly going red. "Who says I've met with them at all?"

"Oh, you know," she said, "ladies talk."

"Ladies." Lyle sniffed. "Well, you need not worry yourself."

"I just think you could do better, with this Farham business-"

The governor's chair squealed as he stood. "It's none off your concern."

As they left Dally shot a blank look over his shoulder at Gita. She glared back, like this was somehow his fault.

His heart pounded, as he trailed after Lyle toward the cars. Gita shouldn't have known any of that. There weren't many people in on these meetings they'd been having, and sure as hell no 'ladies'. Dally was in all of them, though. Every single one. Was Lyle thinking that, too?

Lyle chewed his lip, not even looking at him. "Do your females nag so much?"

Dally blinked, struggled to switch gears. "No, Master," he guessed, at random.

That must have been what Lyle wanted, because he gave Dally a bitter smirk. "I thought not," he said. "Much more simple, your kind."

They were going to Parliament. Outside the snow was blinding, but the sky was dee blue. Lyle had Dally ride on the flank, so the whole campaign team could fit in the cab. Pretty soon they were skittering through the fresh snow, down the slope from the manor. The car's legs clawed at the buried road, kicking up white clouds. From his perch Dally could see the escort car, with Red and a few others hanging off the sides.

Okay? she gestured at him.

He returned it. Okay.

The others tried yelling something at him, but he couldn't hear anything under the roaring wind. After a while he could tell they were singing, but he couldn't hear that either.

Dally turned to the homunculus, clinging to the other side of the cabin. "You sing?" he yelled.

It stared, for a long time. Then it raised one thick hand to point.

"Me?" Dally asked. "You want me to?"

Silence.

"I'm not much to listen to."

The stare continued.

"Well," Dally said, "you just say when you want me to stop. "

Singing alone felt strange but good, even though the wind shredded the sound right out of his mouth. The damn clay man didn't tell him to stop at all, not before they were galloping between city tower blocks. Dally's throat hurt by then, anyway. His arms ached from clinging and it felt like he breathed more air in the last two hours than all of the three months before. He was smiling.

His grin lasted until they reached the crowd. It was just a couple of humans, at first, blocking the road as they stared. Then there were fifty, a hundred, hundreds, getting closer and packed and loud. The snow under the car's claws was already stamped to grey slush, and their wild gallop slowed to a crawl.

As they pushed into the crowd Dally flattened himself to the armored flank, cringing to avoid bumping any humans. The whole crowd was staring at the car's fogged windows. A few pointed at Dally, and he picked out dirty tones; 'Anvil corporation' and something about Seth Greenlees. Mostly they yelled, though, and chanted; 'Human hands built this city'.