“So you’ll need to find another way out—if you survive.”
“You are here to destroy this place?” An old woman from the back. She was an Archaic, and Matt wondered what value she could have served.
“And find out whatever I can.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s a private matter.”
“Your family.” The leader again. Noticing the shocked expression they seemed to understand more information would be needed. “There’s little about you that is secret. We all know you are looking for your daughter and your woman.” Matt could see that they were not certain how to define China. They weren’t alone; all who knew of this search had struggled with defining her. It was what China Bob had always feared. If only he’d been a bit older back in Dilmun he could have married her and this issue would not now be the embarrassment it was.
“If you can help me I promise to destroy this place.” The group smiled at this. “But why are you here?” He understood the humans but the Metas didn’t quite make sense to him.
“We,” the plump young woman again, “are hiding from R&D. We’ve all been a problem in some way and they want to turn us into a Lilac—or put us in the forest.” On the last her voice went sotto voce and all became uncomfortable.
“The Lilacs were afraid of the forest as well. Tell me, if I drop the security field what will happen in there.”
“Not certain.” The leader. “We’d like to believe they and the Lilacs will die, but there is no way to be sure.”
“I see—well, there are National Guard waiting just outside the barrier and more just down the road.”
“They won’t harm us?” The couple who’d rescued the girl.
“The Guard will want to debrief you, but if you surrender and tell them about me you will be okay.”
“It’s a bit chancy. Archaics tend to shoot first.” An old man, standing beside the old woman, spoke.
“Are you any better off here?” Matt asked.
“No,” the girl spoke up, “we have been nearly caught by R&D several times, and at night we have to be on the watch for the Lilacs and the forest.”
“Don’t,” someone from the back spoke up, “get caught in the valley by the forest at night—things come out.” Uneasiness followed this.
“So, will you help me?” There was an agitation in the group, but there did not seem to be much of a choice—between him, the Lilacs, and the failures in the forest.
***
The girl surrendered her name only after Matt prodded her for 10 minutes or more. It was Cynthia and, for some reason she would not share, this was a source of considerable shame. When she wouldn’t give up why Feargal let it be and they walked in silence for the better part of half an hour. Slowly it was dawning that the valley was considerably longer than it had looked from the side of the mountain. This was odd, because Matt was generally good at judging distances. Once he decided this place was not as it was on Earth it became easier to accept the failure. They were travelling deep enough in the copse as well to avoid being seen from the valley, but this also made it difficult to see it as well.
Eventually Matt set his pack down and trotted over to the eaves to see where they were relative to the lake and town. Cynthia had taken him just beyond the lake but they still weren’t half way to town. Checking the sky it seemed the same time of day when he arrived. “How long until the sun goes down?” Turning over his shoulder to the woman.
“Uh—it doesn’t follow any regular pattern.” He turned full on her. “One of the problems we’ve had with surviving out here. One moment it is high noon and the next the stars are out and it’s, I suppose, something like midnight. One of the reasons we’re careful about being near the forest at all—or up near the glen.”
“What comes out of that forest?”
“Nothing we can determine by shape.”
“That makes no sense.”
“You still expect that of this place?”
“No, but can’t you see their shapes? Is there no moonlight?”
“Plenty of moonlight, most evenings, but they exist in some kind of spacial rift—not quite here and not quite there.”
“There?”
“The Cinn’s dimension.” This stopped him. If that place was a partial gateway to the Cinn there could be all kinds of trouble if they did not close it.
“Is it a gate?”
“You mean can the Cinn come through?” He nodded, face having gone pale. “No—but it’s said elements of what exist over there can come through and infect the failures which are exiled in the forest. So they are not just failed mutations but are infected with the power of the Cinn elementals. This normally drives them mad and the by-product of this has been causing more and more trouble for the southern end of the valley.”
“You mean they are coming out at night—to hunt and kill?”
“Not that simple. Of course they hunt and they do kill, but often some of us, even the Lilacs and others, will just disappear. No blood or body parts—just gone. That suggests they’re being taken for other purposes. What those are no one is willing to speculate about.”
“And you?” There was something about Cynthia and the way she related the fears about the forest which suggested she was willing to project into the wildly speculative.
“Could be slaves; could be whatever is in there wants to infect them with the elementals; could be they want them for breeding.” She stopped with the last and turned back into the copse. Matt watched her go a moment longer and then followed along. Made sense—all of it. He hoped not to be anywhere near the place when night next fell.
“We’re going to need help getting into the town, but I know those that might help us.”
“Where are they?”
“They live a little ways ahead. Normally they do not mix with any others but I think they’ll help us.”
“Because I’m the Deliverer.” Cynthia smiled over a shoulder. They walked a little deeper into the woods by way of small paths—so small it seemed impossible that anyone or thing could use them. Eventually they came to another glen and this one had several small creatures in it that may have had some tenuous connection to the creatures kept as pets by the equines, but they were bipedal and a little taller. Still they had the two heads, but the necks were much shorter and the eyes were in the front of their faces and not on the sides. They were still covered in the same general fur as their cousins. Most stood under 100cm, but they were fast—all vanished as the pair entered the glen.
If he’d not been looking for the impossible Matt wouldn’t have noticed them scamper, like monkeys, up the smooth, almost bark-less trees to well-disguised flets in these. “It’s Cynthia, come on down—you’re gonna want to meet who I brought.” One head stuck out from behind a tree and blinked large chocolate brown eyes. The fur on their body was almost that of a Persian cat, but shorter and appeared coarse.
“Are they Meta?”
“Of a sort—they were part of an experiment that went wrong when introduced to some mutated genes. This was the outcome. They were to have been sent into the forest as fodder but some escaped and this was what came of that. Be kind—they’re easily shamed by what’s been done to their ancestors.” Ancestors?
“How long has this all been here?”
“The valley?”
“Yes.”
“Time does not move here as it does elsewhere, so I could not say.” Not surprising, everything which Zakara got involved in just didn’t work the way it did for others. “Come on out,” she repeated, “this is Matt Feargal.” The same head poked out from behind the tree and the chocolate eyes blinked more rapidly.
“Him?” Their voice was not as high as he had anticipated. Within the modulated squeak was a husky undertone. The word was clear, articulate, and nervous.
“Him.” Cynthia answered and heads appeared from flets as the first spoke to them in a language Matt did not understand.
The introductions took a short time, and he learn
ed these Metas called themselves Finnerin and spoke a variety of Meta and Archaic languages—even though now removed from their Archaic roots by several generations. Matt did not ask how long a generation was supposed to be—he was aware of their sensitivity, there was no time, and, for the moment, he had little interest. Once the introductions had been made they were sent out with a couple dozen of the more adventurous Finnerin males and females. These were generally younger and hoping to prove themselves to the Council. Interesting the form of government they’d chosen. Matt had spent, over the years, a lot of time considering which types of government the Meta, if they survived Zakara’s plans, would choose.
Autocracy would have seemed the natural choice, but increasingly he’d been discovering varieties of mildly extractive political systems—oligarchy being the most popular. This format was still limited in terms of human rights and rule of law. After all, such government was limited in that there was no genuinely independent judiciary; therefore all forms of economic and intellectual freedom would be constrained by the interests of the few. This was a bright spot for the Archaics when compared to the inclusive economic and political systems, generally, practiced by the more successful human nations. Still, if the Archaics were displaced—politically, economically, and biologically—then the global economy would collapse and all the gains made in the late 20th and 21st centuries would be lost. He preferred not to consider what the world that emerged from this would look like.
And this was assuming that Zakara failed. If he succeeded there was no hope for any kind of world economic system—be it inclusive or extractive. Even on this trip into China’s prompt he’d found time for reading and Acemoglu and Robinson’s Why Nations Fail had been an interesting journey. Whether or not Nations was correct was beside the point for the moment—it did offer a useful interpretive trope for how and why some systems succeed and why others do not.
There was so much to consider on the short trip into town, but he tried to push that to the back of his mind. When they got there, decisions could be weighed and made; now, though, Feargal wanted to take his mind from whatever was next. Cynthia, by this time, had become restrained—anxiety he supposed. The Finnerin, though subdued, were not quiet. Perhaps this was because they were young and in equal measure excited and frightened. Whatever the reasons, the pair were subjected to on-going discussions between the two heads of each Finnerin. It appeared the heads did not share one mind/brain, but possessed two distinct personalities—luckily the same gender...a supposition on Matt’s part. Given that they were speaking in their own language he did not understand what was being said. But that the discussions sank into Stooges slapstick was not lost on him. A couple of times Cynthia had to break up fights between individual Finnerin as they took to smacking each other about the head. Who controlled the nervous system was an issue Feargal never did resolve. With the comic relief, however, it did not matter.
When they arrived at the outskirts of town he discovered how they intended to help him slip in. The place, which had more in common with German 18th century picturesque than post-modern gated community, was not walled, nor were there any barricades or gates. However, there were guards and patrols posted at all roads.
What the Finnerin were arguing about all the way here became apparent when, without warning they charged a small guard post and as these were busy collecting—trying to collect—the Finnerin the post and road were left unprotected. The few Finnerin left on the road, as their friends were being chased, waved the pair in. They, notwithstanding, would not be accompanying Matt and Cynthia—the city was taboo for their culture. This was probably rooted in what had happened there, but whatever the case this would not allow them further than the outskirts.
***
As Cynthia and Matt made their way from one street to the next on foot—there were no vehicles to steal—it became clear that this was not simply an R&D centre but a major munitions source for Meta-weapons. In the space of three, large, blocks they had passed two factories that, according to Cynthia, worked 24/7 producing a variety of Meta-weapons and devices that had been used in Blaine and Toronto. “This is going to have to be destroyed.” Cynthia agreed, but had no idea how to do this.
Matt considered the RPGs but just for a munitions plant? That would leave the power plant intact and that would mean no airstrike and it was plain that a strike would be the only way to destroy the munitions plants and R&D complex. To that end, Matt tried the Satellite phone again. It worked this time. Perhaps there was no dampening field inside the city? Whatever it was, he got through to the Council immediately. Briefing Ambassador Skiff took less time than he’d supposed and was promised they’d forward the Intel on to the DoD—agreeing that once Matt had brought the shielding down they would attack. This took almost no convincing, which both worried and impressed Feargal. Though after the call he began to wonder if they’d Intelligence of the valley already, or a strong suspicion.
“Where’s the power plant?”
“Furthest end from the valley—but that means we’ll have to move through a densely populated part of the town.”
“Can’t be helped—no matter what we have to bring that down. Once that is down they will see the valley and hit the city.” Cynthia nodded. “Remember—no matter what.”
“I understand.” Matt wasn’t certain she did, but had no choice but to hope this were the case.
***
Matt realised early on that she had not been exaggerating just how many were in the town. It were as though this was a hub from which most of the operations in North America were being carried out. He could have been wrong about this but the variety of Metas—both typical and atypical—and their numbers made this all but impossible. Eventually Matt and Cynthia located a covered carriage with a pair of Llamas. Putting his pack, with the RPGs, in the back of this, along with Cynthia’s satchel he left her with this in order to scout out the next few blocks. It was important to take the next few streets quietly so they could put some distance between themselves and the location of the theft.
The town had no real high rises, but did have some buildings, near the core which had at least half a dozen floors. They were mostly wooden structures, but there were some of red brick as well. However, the munitions plants were made of cinderblocks and steel. Where they came by this he’d no idea, unless it was the remainder of whatever Archaic architecture was left behind after they folded this part of Kansas into whatever they were now in. This made scouting out the streets easy enough, but they offered little by way of places to hide—no alleys, crevices, or alcoves to speak of. Where most streets, back in North America, had plenty of alleys and side streets to slip between—remembering the uses he and William made of these in Dilmun—here there were virtually none. Each block was a solid construction of buildings and these were mostly locked—very little trade was occurring.
Slipping the P250 into the back of his waistband, he pulled the cowl of a light coat he’d found in the carriage over his head and walked carefully, but not too obviously, down the streets. He’d gone three blocks and was turning about to return and collect Cynthia when an open carriage with two Thin Men and three typical Meta guards, like those they’d found patrolling the streets on the outskirts of town, turned onto the street. The Thins must have been conceived here—he was virtually certain of this. After all, Feargal had only seen one of these before—Patrick Wilson, but here they were in the valley, in the city, and he assumed everywhere else. This had to be where they’d been conceived.
Feargal was paid no mind until they passed him; then the carriage slowed and halted. Not daring to acknowledge the curiosity he kept walking. When a thin called for him to halt—thin for the reedy voice that marked their transformation—Feargal saw no choice, so he pulled the Sig Sauer and threw a round at the gesticulating thin. This caught them in the head and when it floated backwards it pass out of the world—not having any depth. At that the others scattered. The thin phased in and out so irregularly he’d no idea where it wou
ld be from one moment to the next. The Metas, though, were holding him down so he couldn’t bolt from the cover he’d taken in a recessed door. Matt winged one of these, but the others were well protected behind their carriage.
Then there was a ripple of air and the thin phased into space, just to his right. Matt spun, but the flat of the Thin’s arm, hard and painful, came down upon the side of his neck. For a moment there was a white light; then he was down on his knees. Feargal attempted to struggle up and there was, he later supposed, another blow—after which he knew no more.
***
Voices flickered with consciousness again and the man was aware something was going on; then of the streets moving by in a leisurely blur. The sounds, not human but a rough Meta—typical voice box distortions—rose to either side of him. When Matt cracked his eyes open he was in a different open carriage—larger and wider. His wrists were bound behind his back and his legs were tied at the ankles and again the knees. “New, I’m telling you.”
“So how’d they get through?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then the Yards aren’t the place for them.”
“That’s our orders—any runaways are to be returned to the Yards and the punishment Trans pens.”
“You just said it—he’s new.” The argument continued back and forth as Matt drifted in and out of consciousness. Once woken, though, he never fully fell into unconsciousness again, but drifted in and out of awareness.
Though he tried to focus on the conversation, Feargal found his mind was unable to maintain control of itself, and he wondered if there were more than just the blows he’d taken. After what he thought were several more blocks, but could well have been dozens, the carriage pulled up. “I’m not sure about this.”
“You want to make a mistake and end up in R&D.” There was an uncomfortable pause. “This will only take a few minutes.” There was silence for a moment, and then Feargal was dragged from the carriage and dropped to the sidewalk. “Be careful—they may need to interrogate him.” More grumbling. Matt must have been dragged inside because the natural light disappeared, to be replaced by incandescent and florescent.
End Times, Inc. (A Great & Continuous Malignity) Page 34
