Ruin's Wake

by Patrick Edwards

  The minutes stretched, every tick of the chrono another moment when he could walk in and find her here. She began to feel sweat pooling, dripping.

  She thought of the way he’d looked at her lately, with something like hope. Rigid affection, maybe? She realised she’d seen it only once before, but it had been buried deep under angry words and furrowed brows. Once, six years ago, when her veil had been lifted at the altar and he’d seen her for the first time. He’d been hopeful then, too.

  She flicked the dials to the day and month they’d been married and with a dull click the clasps pranged open. She let out a little gasp of surprise, then froze. The apartment was still.

  She flipped open the lid.

  Inside were papers and a pistol. She pushed the weapon out of the way and pulled out the sheaf. The light was bad and what little she could make out made no sense to her. Columns of numbers in neat rows, names of places she’d never heard of.

  Kelbee put the papers on the table and pulled from the waistband of her underwear the device Tani had given her. A small box the size of two fingers pressed together, a lens on one side and a viewfinder on the other. She brought it to her eye and pointed it at the papers, then pressed the little button on top. There was a click, then a faint whirr. She could barely see the markings on the pages but Tani had assured her the device would cope with that.

  She continued leafing through the pages, clicking the little device at each one in turn, then put them back. There was a shuffling from the bedroom, and she froze.

  Her heart pounding, she pressed the two clasps shut, each click as loud as an artillery battery in her ears. More shuffling – she had to think fast. She spun the dials to their original positions and placed the case where she’d found it, then scooted into the kitchen, keeping low. She filled a mug from the sink and, hands clammy, stepped into the corridor.

  He was standing there, half in shadow by the bathroom door. His eyes were groggy from sleep and drink and he was staring at the trickling tap, confused. She caught the alcohol on his breath, her heart pounding. Perhaps he’d not heard anything.

  He glanced over. ‘What… are you doing?’

  ‘Getting some water. I was thirsty.’

  He looked over at the still-running bathroom tap, then back at her and the mug she was carrying. He pointed over his shoulder. ‘Tap’s on.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I forgot.’

  ‘Why not go to the ba—’

  ‘I like the water from the kitchen,’ she said. ‘It tastes better.’

  His eyes narrowed a fraction at being interrupted, but he was still only half awake and let it pass. He shook his head, then shuffled into the bathroom and turned off the tap. ‘Don’t waste water,’ she heard him say before the door clicked shut and the light turned on.

  In the bedroom, Kelbee placed the cup down on the side-table, her quaking hand spilling some water. She rubbed her knuckles into her eye sockets, wishing she could scream. She inhaled deep, then let the breath out.

  It had been too close.

  Sanatorium

  The small skimmer truck was carrying low-priority supplies – syringes, beakers, stationery. The driver and his loader rode in the high cab. A weekly run: boring, usual, slightly ahead of schedule. Neither bothered to make conversation.

  They headed out from the depot, bound for the sanatorium and making good time when they reached an underpass on the outskirts of Debrayn, just where the ring road marked the limits of the city. If you looked hard enough you could see where the shanties had begun to creep beyond the boundary, though the inhabitants kept a low profile. The men in the truck didn’t look too hard.

  The driver slowed the vehicle and pulled up, swearing through the windshield at a beggar who’d wandered into the road and fallen asleep. Drunk, most likely. The loader – big, with red splotches on his bare arms – swung down from the cab. The driver watched him stomp over and shout at the old fool.

  Too many of these recently, thought the driver, running his fingers over the tiny brass bust of the Seeker on the dashboard. There was sure to be another purge soon, if the authorities had enough to go on, if more of these poor desperate fools spilled out of their hovels and onto the streets. The Factors wouldn’t have it. He shuddered, remembering the last one: huddling behind bolted shutters in his tiny apartment, waiting out the night and trying to keep the children distracted. Just fireworks, he’d told them, hiding his hands so they wouldn’t see them shaking.

  The loader was leaning over the beggar, prodding him with the toe of his boot and yelling at him to move out of the road. A groggy hand batted at the offending foot. The loader wound up for a hefty kick, then jerked backwards. He slapped at his neck as if swatting an insect, looked back at the skimmer, then crumpled to the ground.

  The driver was paralysed for just an instant, then the training kicked in – they were being robbed. He dove for the commset mounted on the passenger side; as he did so his door was wrenched open with a pop-squeal of metal and a hand as cold as stone grabbed his ankle. He cried out in shock as he was dragged from the cab. His face hit the road hard and he smelled burning oil, then he felt a sharp prick on the side of his neck and the world went white.

  A few minutes later, the skimmer emerged from the shadows of the underpass and headed out on the road toward the sanatorium, leaving behind two bound, sleeping men dressed like beggars under a pile of discarded stationery.

  * * *

  The sanatorium was built on flat scrubland, several square klicks of ground where building was not allowed. Debrayn would one day surround it if it continued to swell, but for now it bordered it on two sides. A barren strip had been cleared all around it to preserve the sightlines from the tall guard towers, a grey-green scar on the landscape. Irrigation ditches, a few skinny pylons and warning signs were the only features, so that when the skimmer truck came up on it the great dark block loomed like a thundercloud. The skimmer slowed and came to a stop on the bridge to one of the smaller, auxiliary gates.

  The driver lowered the window and handed over both his and his passenger’s ID cards from the breast pocket of his coveralls. The guard’s scanner ticked over, then flashed a green light and chirped. He checked the second card, then handed both back. The two jumped down from the cab and accompanied the guards to the rear of the vehicle where they lowered a single large crate using a grav unit. The lid was removed, the contents given a cursory glance before the guard with the scanner waved at the inside of the compound.

  ‘One of you stays here with the truck,’ he said.

  The scrawny bald driver grunted an affirmative. He set his hands on the crate and pushed it, bobbing on its grav field, towards the entrance to the facility. The guard barked an order and the remaining workman scurried off to the cab of the truck to wait.

  * * *

  The inside of the crate was musty, the light filtering in through cracks in the sides. Cale sat with his knees pulled to his chest, a wooden shelf touching the crown of his head, carrying enough of the crate’s original contents to pass brief scrutiny. All he could make out were footsteps and his own heartbeat thudding in his ears.

  Doors opened, then slammed behind them. They stopped, and Cale heard Syn and the guard exchanging words, their speech muffled. Syn’s voice rose in volume and pitch, the words coming faster, and the guard’s rose to match. Then a grunt, an affirmation, and the crate began to move again.

  The confined space was straining at his nerves. He hated not knowing where they were, or if at any moment the lid would be lifted and he’d find a gun in his face. He fixed his attention on the guard’s steps, listening for any stutter or hesitation or change in pace that might indicate alarm. His stun baton was held ready to thrust upwards. A simple weapon, a flat-ended cylinder with a rubberised handle and a disc-shaped hand guard. A sharp stab would push back the casing and extend a needle carrying a powerful tranquiliser. It was fast-acting; the same they’d used on the delivery men. The stick only carried one charge at a time – if it came
to it, he’d need to make it count.

  Heavy doors slid shut behind them and he felt the unmistakable upwards jolt of an elevator. He wished he could see the floor numbers ticking up but contented himself with the knowledge that at least they were going up into the superstructure, not down into the warren of basements. After a few minutes, the elevator stopped and they were on the move again. They passed other people on the way; he heard other feet go by and some muted conversations. The commset on the guard’s lapel chirped at regular intervals, and once Cale heard the man murmur back, checking in. A final door opened and shut, then the crate was still.

  Cale tensed, ready. He heard Syn’s voice, then the sound of something large hitting the floor. There were three loud raps on the side of the crate, then the lid was removed. Cale emerged blinking into the light.

  Syn was already stripping off his delivery overalls; the guard was lying on his side on the floor, eyes open but glazed. Cale brushed some packing material from his shoulder and stepped out of the crate. They were in a small office, desks arranged in a square, one of them carrying a single terminal with a cracked outer casing. It was harshly lit from strip lights in the ceiling and the sharpness of disinfectant vied with the smell of old dust. Syn pulled the uniform off the guard and began putting it on.

  Both men froze as the commset chirped. Syn pressed the send stud and mumbled back in a good approximation of the guard’s voice. He turned to Cale, catching his eye.

  ‘The checks are about every ten minutes. I heard him on the way up. I think we can get away with a couple.’

  The terminal was old but still functioned, powering on with a cough-whine of cooling fans. Syn handed him a grey oblong with rounded corners.

  ‘Data cracker. Plug it into that access port.’

  It clicked into place and the screen flashed a password box, froze for a second, then changed to show a series of files, each one bearing a name and a number. Cale scanned for Bowden’s file, found it and opened it.

  A headshot. It was him. His russet hair was clipped short – it looked like a recruitment photo so couldn’t be too recent. Still… he looked older. There were lines there that Cale didn’t recognise.

  How will I know this man, who’s lived a life without me? he thought. For the first time, he was afraid – not for Bowden’s safety, but for the reunion itself. How was he meant to bridge that yawning gap of time?

  Syn touched him on the arm. ‘Come on,’ he murmured. ‘Let’s hurry.’

  Treatment notes took up the rest of the page and Cale skimmed over them. At the very bottom, there it was: Ward Six, eighth floor. Syn snapped his stolen jacket shut and put on the cap, then slung the rifle over his shoulder. He pointed at the guard. ‘Tie that one up, if you would?’ He handed over some cable ties, and Cale secured the unconscious man’s ankles and wrists, then ripped a length of cloth from Syn’s discarded overalls and balled it up, stuffing it into the slack mouth. It wouldn’t stop him being found for ever, but it should buy them some time.

  ‘Let’s be about it, then,’ said Syn. ‘If we come across anyone I’ll have to play to character. There may be harsh language.’

  They took the elevator up. The corridor walls were a sterile, slick white and the rubber floor squeaked underfoot. The smell of chemicals was stronger here, sickly sweet, and it was hushed; most of the doors that led off into rooms that they passed were closed, each one numbered. Offices, storage rooms. Small laboratories.

  Through a set of double doors they passed a pair of orderlies in red tunics, talking in low voices. The pair looked up but Syn kept his eyes forward and his hand on his rifle strap. The orderlies watched them go, then resumed their conversation.

  Cale guessed they’d walked a hundred metres or so when the corridor widened into an atrium. On both sides were more double doors, matte grey plastic inset with smoked glass panes. Ward Six was signposted on their right.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Syn. ‘Now, hopefully…’ He unclipped the ID badge from his breast pocket and held it up to the scanner pad by the doors. A light above the pad shone red, flashed to amber, then flicked off. ‘Hmm, let’s try again.’

  Cale shot a look back down the corridor, feeling the walls getting closer. There were a lot of doors, a lot of places to hide. Who knew how many were waiting behind them, ready to respond to an alarm?

  ‘We need to be quick,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t need to tell me, buck.’ Syn tried the badge again, waving it from side to side. Once more, the light shone red, then amber, then dark. ‘It’s not working.’

  ‘The guards must not have access to the wards.’

  ‘This one didn’t. We’ll have to try someone else. Those two we passed a minute ago.’ His comm unit chirped.

  Cale shook his head. He peered through the frosted glass strip and saw beds. Bowden was so near, just a finger’s breadth of plastic and metal between him and his son. He moved Syn away from the doors.

  ‘What’re you—’

  His heavy workboot bent the doors inwards with a loud bang. They snapped back, quivering but intact.

  Cale took a few steps back, squared his shoulders, charged.

  He put all of his weight behind his shoulder and cannoned into the doors, heard a crunch-snap, then he was through, skidding on the rubber floor, his cheek rubbed raw. The door had sheared away from the frame under the force of the impact, now hanging limp on its hinges.

  Cale picked himself up, then heard a gasp. A young man in a lab coat had risen from his desk, tucked away in a nook by the door, and was staring at this intruder that had come hurtling into the ward. His mouth moved, unsure of whether to scream for help or challenge, then Syn’s pink hand clapped over his mouth while the other arm snaked around his throat. The mercenary squeezed, lifting the medico off his feet. Eyes bulging, face going crimson, the young man tried to wriggle free but Syn had him held fast. All it took was a few seconds before he went limp.

  ‘Well, that’s one way of making an entrance,’ said the mercenary, laying the unconscious man on one of the beds. ‘No point pretending now. Let’s go.’

  The two of them ran past rows of empty beds. At the far end were some private rooms. Cale picked the one on the right, found it was unlocked. The door slid open with a whisper.

  Bowden was lying on the bed, thin and drawn and asleep. His head had been shaved and his skin was pale. His closed eyes were sunken, encircled with shadows, but it was unmistakably him.

  Cale’s skin felt cold. The inside of him was a void but on the edge of it was a maelstrom of fear and sadness and confusion that threatened to burst in and drown him. He forced himself to take the few steps to the bedside, to reach out and take a hand in his own. A little older, a little thinner, but it was his boy. The hand was clammy to the touch.

  The last time I saw you in a hospital, you were yellowed and asleep with blood in your hair. It seemed so unlikely as to be absurd, this trick that time had played on him: turning the little scrunch-faced thing with black eyes, which fit in the palm of his hand, into a grown man.

  Syn examined the medical equipment. ‘Looks like most of these wires from his chest are for monitors. No respirator, that’s good. We’ll have to take that drip with us, I reckon.’ Syn pointed to the clear fluid bag suspended by the bed, the tube running down to Bowden’s hand where it disappeared under some bandages. ‘I’ll go get a gurney or something.’

  Cale nodded. When the mercenary was gone he began to remove the restraints from Bowden’s hands and feet. Why was he held down? He noticed how much thicker his fingers had become, the lines more pronounced than he remembered. Age, just age. Two jagged scars marked the heel of his right palm, old ones. Cale didn’t remember those either.

  You don’t know me, he’d said. He’d been so right. Cale should remember every inch of him. He cuffed away the moisture in his eyes and fought to keep the lump from his throat, unhooked the drip bag and laid it on Bowden’s legs, then checked the cabinet on the far side of the room where he found two more
unused bags of clear fluid. The markings were the same.

  ‘Good idea,’ said Syn, reappearing with a metal wheelchair. ‘We don’t know how long it’ll be until we get him help. That’s your part of the plan.’

  He pushed the chair over to the bedside, then opened Bowden’s hospital gown at the chest. Four white pads were attached to the pale skin, wires leading off into the monitors.

  Syn grabbed the wires in a bunch. ‘When I pull these, an alarm will definitely go off.’

  Cale nodded. ‘Do it.’

  Syn yanked downwards and the pads ripped away, leaving behind four red marks as the regular beep of the monitors changed to a high-pitched whine. Cale scooped his son up and found him light as a child. For an instant, he was back there: a moment of home after a long campaign, carrying his little boy to bed after he’d fallen asleep. He placed Bowden in the wheelchair, laid the drip bag on his lap, then made for the door.

  Out in the corridor the comm unit on Syn’s chest burst with static and they both heard a muffled shout on the other end. Syn leaned in and listened, then looked up at Cale. ‘The guard room knows something’s wrong. They’re sending people in.’

  * * *

  Cale pushed the wheelchair as fast as he could, following Syn through the corridors of the hospital, down the elevator and along the harshly lit hallways. The mercenary had memorised the route and after only a few minutes they pushed through some utility doors into the loading dock.

  ‘With any luck they’ll be looking for us back there,’ said Syn. ‘There should only be a couple of them watching the truck.’ He led Cale over to an exterior door. Cracking it open, the mercenary stole a quick glance at the outside. ‘Three. Two of them have Derrin against the wall and it doesn’t look like a friendly chat. You ready?’

  Cale nodded and gripped the handles of Bowden’s wheelchair. Syn flung the door open and daylight flooded in. The truck’s rear was facing them across a few metres of concrete apron. A guard was in the process of climbing down from the bed of the truck as Syn broke from the building at speed. The guard saw him and shouted.