The Last Murder at the end of the World

SEVENTY-ONE

Crouched by his body, Thea weeps for almost ten minutes.

It’s not until her tears run dry that she finally prises the glowing gem from the memory extractor, touching it to her temple with a trembling hand.

She rushes through his childhood and adolescence, through his playboy life and flight from the fog. For the first time she sees him with Ellie, witnessing the things they never talked about, the traumas that bonded them and the hurts they shared.

So many agonies, piled atop one another. At least now she understands why Hephaestus was so adamant that humanity had to be controlled. Nobody could suffer what he did and willingly set it loose again.

She snatches the gem away, breathing heavily and wiping away her tears. Ellie will be devastated to hear Hephaestus is dead.

She loved him so much.

Thea touches the gem to her temple once more, the memory picking up where she left off. She sees Niema onstage in the exercise yard, tearful and theatrical, as she always was in front of the public.

‘I’m giving the future to you,’ she says to the villagers, spreading her hands. ‘I want you to build a society of your own, without our influence. The humans in Blackheath will stay locked up until you decide to let them out. You’ll be better elders than we ever could be.’

The memory fizzes, glitching. Most of this was wiped, forcing the extractor to grab what it could from the remnants buried in Hephaestus’s subconscious.

The next memory shows the party in full swing. Hephaestus is pacing, his gaze swinging madly from one insult to the next. He sees the band playing, and people dancing. He sees their mouths open, tongues curled, full of laughter.

The only people not celebrating are Clara and Emory. Clara’s carving a bird, trying to hold back tears, while Emory whispers to her reassuringly. They must know about Jack. Niema really did tell everybody everything.

Hui’s holding her violin and talking to Niema, their heads bowed low, their foreheads almost touching. It was a terrible performance, and his mother’s trying to reassure her.

Thea can feel Hephaestus’s pain. He’s outraged by their intimacy. He never had that growing up. Why do the villagers get the best of Niema? Why are they worthy?

They’re just crums. Things. Worthless things. He used to buy them for people as presents. Hui couldn’t even play the violin properly and she’s supposed to be the most talented of them.

And, now, they get the world?

The memory glitches again into the shock of violence. The villagers are piling atop Hephaestus, trying to grab his arms and legs, trying to wrestle him to the ground and hold him down.

He’s tossing them aside, flinging them in every direction.

He snatches a glance through the crush of bodies towards Thea, who’s being held fast by the villagers. She’s screaming his name desperately, as somebody approaches. Is that Hui? What’s she holding?

A knife?

Hephaestus’s rage erupts. He knocks aside the villagers restraining him, then charges through the crowd. In one fluid motion, he snatches Clara’s knife from the table and drives it into the musician’s sternum, causing her to drop the syringe she was holding.

He withdraws the knife, then thrusts again, only for Niema to step in front of him, screaming for him to stop.

He feels the blade slide into his mother’s chest, her warm blood gushing over his hands. Thea appears at Niema’s side, screaming out for her medical bag.

Villagers swarm him, tackling his legs and hanging off his arms. The last thing Hephaestus sees is Johannes raising a rock above his head, before striking him across the temple.

Thea throws the memory gem away in revulsion.

Hephaestus didn’t lose his temper and attack Hui for no reason. Niema attacked him and Thea first. He was trying to protect them.

A great sob builds in her chest, but she stifles it when Emory’s shadow falls across her, her face livid.

‘Why did you kill him?’ she demands, struggling to control her temper. ‘We told you we didn’t want this.’

Thea stands up, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

‘Hephaestus killed himself, and by doing so he saved sixty-one of your friends,’ she says imperiously. ‘You should be grateful, not angry. It was a sacrifice, same as the one your people wanted to make. Thanks to Hephaestus, we still have farms to tend, and, more importantly, we still have access to Blackheath.’

‘Not for much longer we don’t,’ says Seth, charging through the door. ‘It didn’t work. The fog’s still coming.’