Subject Zero: Faceless

The gate guard checked his pass, checked the chit against a reader clipped to her belt, and waved him through without a second look. He stood on the other side of the wall for a moment before he made himself keep walking, because nothing since the vault door had prepared him for a checkpoint that simply let him go.

The road into Halstead ran downhill through a stand of trees holding most of their leaves, and past the treeline the town arrived all at once — low stone buildings, a market square with its stalls half-shaded under canvas, a bell somewhere striking an hour nobody around him seemed to be organizing their day by. He’d seen towns before, from the back of a transport, through glass, at a remove that reduced them to what everything got reduced to. Terrain, or destination, never a place he was actually inside of.

He was inside of this one now, and the difference sat heavier than he’d expected.

Nobody looked at him twice. That was the first thing. A mask wasn’t rare enough here to earn a second glance. He passed two other masked figures within the first several minutes, one clearly a tradesman’s guild mark rather than anything Classified, and understood, slowly, that in a town this close to a garrison, a covered face read as ordinary as a uniform. He’d expected to be a spectacle. He was, instead, simply another person moving through a market on an afternoon, and the anonymity of that landed somewhere he hadn’t braced for.

* * *

The market itself needed no explanation — noise, color, a dozen small transactions happening at once, nobody in charge of any of them, the ordinary chaos of a town Corps hadn’t yet turned into a supply depot. A woman selling dried fruit called out prices without looking up from her scale. Two boys hauled a crate between them, arguing over whose turn it was to carry the heavy end. A vendor near the square’s center held out a sliver of something pale and sweet-smelling on the flat of a knife, offering it to everyone who passed close enough to reach.

He was close enough.

”Fresh this morning,” the vendor said, not really looking at him, turning to the next passerby. ”Go on, no charge for a taste.”

He took it. He held the small pale wedge between two fingers for a moment, felt its faint give, its sweetness arriving the way everything did now, whole and routeless, a quality with no door in him to come through rather than anything he would ever taste — and set it gently back on the vendor’s cart rather than pretend at eating it, the same choice he’d made with every offered thing since a canteen held out to him in the Foundry’s ruins, a war ago. The vendor didn’t notice. She was three customers on.

A gesture I can receive, even when I can’t finish it. He let the thought go without dwelling on it and walked on.

Further along, a stall keeper hawking secondhand tools tried to press a folding knife into his hands, insisting it would fetch triple its price to ”a big fellow with a soldier’s build,” and only laughed, unoffended, when he set it back down and kept moving. A pair of old men playing a board game on an upturned crate argued loudly over a move neither of them seemed willing to concede — a flat carved piece shoved in a straight line clear across the board, the other man insisting it should have turned.

”That’s the whole trick of a rook,” said the one in the wine-colored cap, to nobody, to the square at large. ”Straight and slow, never cuts a corner, and you don’t see it until it’s already through you.”

Neither of them so much as glanced up as he passed within arm’s reach of their table. He’d learned, since the vault door, to read a room for the shape of fear or calculation directed at him. This square offered him neither, over and over.

Stolen from NovelPhoenix, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Past the tools, at the market’s quieter edge, a stall stood under a hand-lettered board reading LETTERS READ & WRITTEN — HONEST RATES. The woman behind it was writing at the speed of someone taking dictation from a person who had stopped to think, and did not look up.

He read the board twice on the way past and did not stop. He had nobody to write to, which was the second thing he thought. The first was that he had never in his life seen a trade whose entire business was other people’s private sentences, conducted in the open, three feet from a fruit scale.

It was past the fruit stalls, near the square’s far edge, that he found the children.

There were five of them, no older than ten, playing some game he didn’t immediately recognize — one child blindfolded with a strip of cloth, arms out, turning slowly while the others darted close and away, close and away, shrieking every time a groping hand nearly closed on someone’s sleeve. A painted wooden token hung from a string around the blindfolded child’s neck, passed, he gathered from the shouted rules, to whoever got tagged next.

”You’re It if she catches you holding the ghost-mark,” one of the boys explained to no one in particular, apparently for his own satisfaction rather than any audience’s benefit. ”That’s the game. Ghosts can’t see, but they can still catch you if you’re not careful.”

Ghosts. He watched a moment longer than he meant to.

The blindfolded girl turned, arms sweeping wide, and her hand caught nothing but air an inch from his coat.

He hadn’t moved. He’d simply been standing there, at the game’s edge, close enough to have been caught by accident, and five children now stared at him, recalculating a rule they hadn’t accounted for.

”That’s not fair,” the blindfolded girl said, pulling her cloth up onto her forehead, indignant rather than afraid. ”You’re already wearing one. That’s cheating.”

I wasn’t playing, he wrote, holding the slate low enough for a child’s height, and found himself waiting, absurdly, on her verdict.

She considered the slate with a child’s frank, unhurried scrutiny. ”Fine. But if you stand there again you’re in the game whether you meant it or not. That’s the rule too.” She said it like a decree, tugged her blindfold back down, and spun off after the others without waiting to see whether he’d accept the terms.

He stood at the game’s edge and watched them scatter and regroup, tag and shriek and argue the rules mid-play. Nobody in the square found it strange that a masked stranger was watching.

* * *

He didn’t decide to sit. He found, some indeterminate time later, that he had — on the low stone rim of a dry fountain at the square’s center, the square reaching him as bread and dust and something faintly like rain not yet arrived, the game’s noise carrying on a few yards away without needing anything from him.

Nothing here required a report. Nothing here would be logged, graded, escalated, or flagged for review. Nobody in this square knew his designation, his Grade, the shape of what a third Calibration use had cost him, or the exact contents of the file that trained new intake techs on what to expect from whoever came after him. For the length of one afternoon, he was not Ashfall-Zero, not a reference case, not a standard the others would be measured against. He was a man sitting at the edge of a children’s game he’d been ruled into without anyone handing him the token, in a town that had let him in without asking what he was for. He tried, briefly, to place the last time an hour had passed with nothing asked of it. Captivity had asked endurance of every hour it gave him. Intake had asked answers, one clipboard at a time. The Ninth Front had asked either violence or the readiness for it, week after week, right up until the transport that brought him here. This dry stone fountain, this game he hadn’t meant to join, was starting to look like the first hour of his life that had simply been permitted to pass without asking anything back.

Somewhere behind him, the girl’s voice rang out again, declaring someone newly caught, newly blind, newly It.

He sat a while longer before he made himself move, the light going long and gold across the square, stallholders starting to fold their canvas for the evening without any of the hurry a garrison would have put into the same task. The walk back uphill took less time than the walk down had. The chit sat warm against his hip the whole way, a small, steady weight he’d stopped noticing until the gate came back into view. And noticing it again, now, he found he couldn’t say whether the warmth was the device itself or simply his own skin holding the day’s sun a little longer than the rest of him.

The guard at the gate checked the reader again, nodded once, and let him through without comment, exactly as she had on the way out. He carried back an hour that had asked nothing of him, and a small, unfamiliar suspicion that an hour like that might turn out to cost more than any of the ones that had.