The Book of Transformations by Mark Charan Newton

we can not only trust, but tolerant to the process – we’ll be endowing them with supreme powers, and I’m afraid we’ve lost some early volunteers throughout the process, since not everyone is up to the task. So we will require people who we have some . . . leverage over, as a way of securing trust.’
    ‘Blackmail?’ the investigator added.
    ‘It is merely a security, you understand. They will be the owners of amazing anatomies. Essentially we will be creating a new form of individual to help protect the city, a hero to the people – no, more than that. A superhero if you will, more than someone who can front an army. We need these new-style crime-fighters in order to tackle these anarchists and all the terror plaguing my city.’
    Fulcrom remained wide-eyed. The cultists simply slumped back in their chairs with hubris.
    Urtica continued. ‘And you, Investigator Fulcrom, are to be their liaison with the law. In fact, we will want you to work closely with them so that they have access to all levels of information in the Inquisition, and – according to your superior officers – you have a very deft touch with people. These individuals will require managing, in order to produce steady performances. You are to brief them on troubling cases, and all the necessary leads.’
    ‘Superhero,’ Fulcrom echoed, too scared to question the decision.
    The cultists then explained the projects in a manner riddled with meaningless jargon. They spoke of complex surgeries and talked of specimens. Each of them took it in turns to lecture on various aspects of the process – meta-anatomy, metallic enhancement, organ replacement, rewiring.
    Urtica knew all he needed to, and even Fulcrom could see that he also did not comprehend what was being discussed here.
    ‘So, investigator. Can we guarantee your assistance in the matter?’
    ‘You can indeed. Can I ask who it is that you’ve selected to form this new trio?’
    ‘Of course,’ Urtica declared. ‘We’ve already got one of them incarcerated and we want you to be there tonight to see the next being . . . initiated . This one shouldn’t be too difficult to persuade. In fact, you know him already.’

S EVEN
     
    The best parties are the ones you don’t plan , Fulcrom thought to himself as he meandered about the penthouse apartment situated on the fifth level of the city. That was probably why he could never organize a decent one himself: he was a ruthless planner, so any gatherings he conducted – rare though they were – were too precise, too stale and awkward for anyone to really enjoy themselves.
    But this, Fulcrom thought, was a thoroughly ostentatious affair. Say what you want about the man, but Aide Tane knew something about putting people in a room and creating a good atmosphere. Daughters of landowners were dancing with investigators and sons of councillors and those with connections throughout the city.
    Tane, in his short time spent with the Inquisition, was already a legend for hosting these events – his parties were whispered about long before and long after each night had ended. In his high-ceilinged, modern apartment, with those new-style paintings, white-tiled floors, ornate cressets, and the coloured sculptures made by the hands of Villjamur’s famous glassmakers, men and girls – rumel and human – would convene to forget about the rising levels of crime and the ice age and the far-off war in Villiren.
    They tipped wine down their throats. They brushed their lips casually across those of a stranger. Fulcrom was only too aware that they did this because they wanted to forget. On some nights, in the wealthy quarters, you might have several parties going on simultaneously, and each would contain a board with the evening’s scheduled dances, so couples and groups could plan their entertainment well in advance.
    Little of this appealed to Fulcrom; he could not rid himself of the thought of the refugees outside who were probably perishing in the