John Ringo - Council Wars 02 - Emerald Sea

by Emerald Sea(lit)

  He walked down a street lined with pawnshops, bars and barbershops, watching the small groups that moved on it. There were a remarkable number of barbershops and they seemed to do a brisk business. As he passed one he noticed that the "barber" was a scantily clad young woman and had to make a rapid reassessment of the situation.

  It was the middle of the day, though, and there weren't many crowds. He considered stopping in one of the bars, or one of the barbershops for that matter, and seeing what he could pick up. But that wasn't part of his mission so he continued down the road to where a small complex of buildings was set off to the side of the town. There was a corral with about a dozen horses, most of them in decent condition, a small barn and an even smaller building with a porch out front. He walked to the latter and slipped inside.

  The interior was dim; there were only two unglazed windows in the front area and the afternoon was overcast. So he was startled to hear a female voice from the rear of the room.

  "Help you?" she said.

  The woman wasn't young, wasn't old, probably somewhere in her first century. She was seated behind a counter looking at him over the top of a piece of paper.

  "I need to catch the stage down towards Newfell," he said, stepping up to the counter.

  "Next stage isn't for three hours," the woman replied, setting down the paper. "Stage goes all the way to Newfell Base."

  Reaching the base on the stagecoach was not part of his plans. He glanced at the wall, where a map was mounted, and then down. "Well, I'm only going to Tenerie, not Newfell. I'm actually headed for the coast; I just found out I've got friends over there who made it through the Fall."

  "Tenerie's thirty credits," the woman said, pulling out a ledger book. "Can you afford it?"

  "I think so," Joel said, pulling out the silver he had gotten in Chian and one of the bronze coins. "I've got a twenty piece and some silver."

  The woman sighed at the latter but pulled out a scale and measured out the silver to make thirty credits. "You need to get this changed, you know. Hardly anybody out here uses chunk metal anymore and I can't give you what you'd get at an assayer's office for it."

  "Okay," Joel said. "I'm from up the road towards Raven's Mill. Plenty of people still use it up there."

  "Yeah, well, welcome to the big city," the woman grinned. "Nobody around Washan, or Newfell for that matter, uses that stuff anymore. You might over on the coast, I don't know about those hicks."

  She wrote him out a chit for the stage and picked up the paper in apparent dismissal.

  "Thanks so much for your help," Joel said, turning and going back out into the street.

  Three hours. Assuming it was on time. That might mean two hours. Or four. Or nine for that matter.

  Beyond the corral was an inn, clearly for the use of overnight customers from the stage. Across the street from it was a bar with two barbershops closely adjacent. But on the other side of the barbershops was a building with a large, freshly painted, sign that said "Sundries."

  Joel wasn't sure what "Sundries" meant in this case; it might be a larger and more complicated version of one of the "barbershops." But he suspected it might mean such lost luxuries as, oh, a razor, soap, maybe even new clothes.

  He walked over to the shop and was pleasantly surprised. It was well stocked with shelves of clothing, toiletry items and even premade shoes.

  "Can I help you?" the clerk said, coming from around the counter at the rear.

  "I need a new set of clothes," Joel said, fingering a folded pair of pants made of some heavy material. "And some toiletry items. And a bag to carry it in."

  "Of course," the clerk replied. "We sell a lot of such things to soldiers and sailors who are being moved other places. That's a material called 'denim.' It's just starting to come off the lines, quite the new fad. Heavy, double-woven cosilk with double stitching. A pair of those will last you for years and years, just getting more comfortable with each wearing."

  "I need a pair of those, a shirt, some underthings, not made out of that..."

  "Of course, sir," the clerk smiled. "Might as well be leather, like the dwarves."

  "Or hair shirts like the Blood Lords," Joel said.

  They found clothes in his size and Joel picked up a selection of toiletries. He had never had his beard growth permanently stopped before the Fall. It made more sense to intermittently stop it; growing a beard always looked more natural than even the best implant. But that meant he had to either grow one permanently or shave, and of the two he preferred a clean chin.

  He bought everything that he needed, including some travel food and a water bottle for the trip, and still had plenty of time before the coach was supposed to arrive. On his trip across the country he had discovered the unreliability of the service. Some people had discussed building railroads. But the explosive protocols prohibited all but low-power steam. And a low-power steam engine could only pull a couple of loaded cars, making the plan economically unviable. Canals were being built but they could only reach certain areas.

  He had a plate of not particularly good food and a cup of worse ale and sincerely considered visiting one of the "barbershops." He had not been celibate since the Fall. Before the Fall he and Dedra had maintained an open relationship and he was sure she would not begrudge him the release under the conditions. But for some reason, despite the fact that most of his relationships post-Fall had been... economic, he chose against it. Finally, he walked back to the stage office and took a seat on the porch, closing his eyes and thinking.

  Sheida had as much as said that she suspected a high leak in the Council. His immediate suspicion was her aide, Harry. But just because he was peculating, that didn't make him a traitor. Still worth checking out. Frankly, if he ever was put in a position where he could effect a change, counterintelligence would be a very high priority. That led him to wonder why so many of the agents in Ropasa had been rolled up. Some of that might have been from leaks, but he suspected that if the counterintelligence people on Sheida's side were as oblivious to trade-craft as they seemed, the intel people were probably as bad.

  Face it, he did not like this minor mission that he had been assigned. If he had his way, just about every ship and unit would have at least one covert agent in it. But that would mean a host of agents. Which meant a training program. Well, you'd need one of those for actual intel gathering, might as well combine the two to an extent.

  Working out the details of the proposed plan carried the sun down and it was just before sunset when the stage pulled to a stop. There were only two passengers, both of whom got out to stretch their legs as the horses were changed.

  He gave the driver his receipt and put his new bag on the back of the coach, climbing in and settling himself while the other passengers were still outside. He'd taken the front, less comfortable, seat in deference to the two people who had preceded him on the trip. When they got in he nodded his head. One was a young man in a Navy officer's uniform and the other was older dressed in nondescript civilian clothing.

  "Ensign Jonah Weilis," the officer said, offering his hand.

  "Joel Annibale," Joel said, shaking the officer's hand. He hoped like hell the ensign wasn't assigned to Newfell Base and that, if he was, they wouldn't run into each other.

  "Rupert Popadiuk," the other man said, nodding his head.

  "Going to Newfell?" Jonah asked. It was clear that the two continuing passengers had used up any small talk they might have had. "I'm being assigned to headquarters there. I was at the base in Balmoran."

  "I'm on my way to live with some friends on the coast," Joel shrugged. "Getting off at Tenerie and hiking overland. They've got a fishing boat over there; I've got some experience at fishing boats."

  "You ought to join the Navy, then," the officer said, smiling. "It's a hard life but a good one and very important. If you're really experienced with small boats, you could probably buck for almost instant petty officer rank. Where were you before?"

  "Flora last," Joel said, lying gli
bly. "I sailed with a packet up to Washan. I looked at the base here, but... Anyway, I've got these friends. It's not much of a life, but I get by. What do you do in the Navy, Ensign?"

  "I'm in counterintelligence," Jonah said as the coach started into motion.

  "That's interesting," Joel said. "But what's it mean?"

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  "Celine," Chansa's avatar said with a nod.

  Most of the business of the council members was managed through avatars. The fully sentient projections had been prohibited pre-Fall, since they tended to have some bad side effects. But the council members, with myriad duties and no experience of delegation, used them to keep an eye on the various activities of their regions.

  Chansa had gotten a request from Celine to attend a "demonstration" and, with reluctance, he had agreed. He admitted that the New Destiny faction had benefited by her "creations" but he often found them personally uncomfortable. The basic Changed that made up the bulk of his legions were bad enough. He had given what he thought were understandable modifications, but in Celine's hands what had been delivered were monsters. He had considered simply overriding her; the Changed of the legions were his responsibility after all. But Celine could be particularly nasty when balked. So he tolerated hordes of half-wild beasts. He had to admit that very few groups had been able to stand up to them and, in general, simply the threat of having the hordes sent against them tended to make most resistance falter.

  But some of her "specials" were simply ungodly. Abominations that turned his stomach. And while most of them required too much power, or time, to have truly become common, she had been promising a "new breakthrough" soon.

  He had therefore met one of her avatars at a refugee camp in the southern Briton isles. The south had been relatively easy to overrun, but the north still held out stubbornly, holding onto small glens and highlands that were monstrously difficult to maneuver in. The ancient fortresses that dotted the landscape, many of which had been rebuilt by reenactors prior to the Fall, were an additional challenge. Then there was the stubborn nature of the defenders. They seemed to positively relish fighting all the forces he had sent against them. If he was to use Celine's "specials" anywhere, it was to be against the damnable Gael.

  The refugee camp was standard, a long curtain palisade with a collection of wooden huts. The refugees were fed and sorted out, most of the men and some of the women ending up going through the Change process. The basic process was designed to produce beings that were more suited to the post-Fall world. They were sturdier and stronger than standard humans with some innate skills. That, at least, had been the basic specifications. He had added, to his continued dismay, a suggestion for "aggression" so they would make better soldiers.

  The humans in the line to be Changed had to be bound and guarded by soldiers. As he watched, a woman darted forward and tried to drag a man out of the line, only to be clubbed to the ground by the guards. One of them picked her up by her hair and dragged her down the line to a farther hut, part of the barracks complex for the guards. The man she had tried to grab slumped to his knees but was clubbed and then dragged forward by more guards.

  "Chansa," Celine answered, also watching the byplay. She turned to him, her black eyes bright and smiled. "You look so glum, Chansa. It's not as if they're being eaten or something."

  "Where did they take the girl?" Chansa asked, knowing in his heart the answer.

  "How should I know?" Celine smiled. "I don't keep up with every little operational detail."

  "You had something to show me?" Chansa ground out.

  "Over this way," the avatar waved, leading him back behind the Change rooms from which roars of pain could be heard. In most of the huts the humans were being Changed into the forms that were the basic sword-fodder of the legions. But Celine had thoroughly let herself go and there were other huts for "specialties." Armies needed soldiers. But they also needed construction workers, servants, medical personnel and other specialties. In the secondary huts each of the base humans was transformed to a more "suitable" shape. At the same time their original memories were removed, so that they wouldn't be depressed by the conditions of this Fallen time, and replaced with simple operational instructions, training on how to live in this new world.

  There were paddocks behind the huts where the newly made Changed stumbled into the world. They were thin and scrawny and often had to be kept from killing each other, but he knew that with a diet heavy in protein-and he often wondered where some of that protein came from-they would flesh out into tough, if undisciplined, fighters. Two of the new Changed charged each other as he watched and more mature ones that had been posted as guards closed on them, clubbing them with fists and tearing at them with their talons until the two half-dead fighters were separated.

  Back behind the area was a section designated for women and children who had not been subject to the Change. Children were simply too fragile, with insufficient internal reserve of energy, to be Changed and at least some women had to be left to manage them.

  He saw more guards wandering in the area, some of them going in and out of the huts and as he passed behind one he heard a whimpering shriek from the interior. The "refugee" camps were managed by Celine and if he had his way he'd change that. But since it was beyond his power to correct, he tried not to think about it. This extended walk was making that hard. He closed his ears to the sound of cries, some of them from children, as Celine led him to a much larger hut.

  "As you know, we've been unable to find a home for most of the female refugees," Celine said. "They are of limited utility in this world. And the children are nothing but a resource drain. But I think I've finally found a solution."

  Inside the hut there was a ring of guards around a small group of people. One male, a female who might or might not have been his wife, and three children ranging in age from a skinny, feverish-looking toddler to a girl just under puberty. One of Celine's acolytes was in the room as well and as soon as the two avatars appeared he began to mouth nonsense syllables.

  A globe formed around the group and the air around them filled with light, presumably from nannite interaction. Suddenly the air was split by screams of pain which dwindled and changed into pure rage. When the globe cleared, standing in the center was a thing. As large as Chansa and if anything broader. The beast was heavy bellied with a piglike face and long, curved tusks. His arms dangled nearly to its bowed knees and his fingers and toes were tipped by razor sharp talons. He was definitely, even disgustingly, male, with an enormous penis and a large scrotal sack. He looked around the room and lunged at the doorway but was stopped by an energy field. The beast struck at the invisible shield repeatedly with fist and shoulder, bellowing in fury, until the acolyte spoke again and the monster settled into a quiescent state that, nonetheless, radiated rage.

  "Where..." Chansa said and then cleared his throat. He didn't want to ask the question, knowing in his heart the answer, but he found himself unable to stop. "What happened to the people?"

  "The male was used as the nucleus for my newest creation," Celine said with a beatific smile, stepping forward to stroke her hands over the monster; her avatar passed through the field since it had been keyed for flesh and blood alone. "His internal energy was also used. As was that of the other resources. And their material was added to his. Perfect. Flawless," she said, stroking the creature on its arm. "The penis is fully functional, and he can reproduce with human females, assuming they survive the experience. The offspring... well, my models have several potential outcomes. I'm looking forward to empirical data."

  "Celine, even for you..." Chansa said, then pulled himself up. "This is madness."

  "Paul said that he wanted horror," Celine replied, turning to look at him as she stroked the creature's arm. Her eyes were bright and mad. "I can do horror."

  "Yes," Chansa replied. "That you can." He tried to consider the situation objectively but could not. And, strangely enough, it was not the image of the family disappearing that kept coming
back to him, but the woman being dragged away by her hair.

  He wished that he could delude himself, as Paul did, that what they were doing was good, was just, was right. But he could not. He had long ago concluded that it was an evil beyond redemption, a force of ill more powerful than the world had ever known. He knew that he had dug himself into a hellish pit that it might never be possible to dig out of. And he knew what had brought him here: delight in power.

  Each taste of it had been like a drug to him so he had clawed his way up until, with Paul's help, he was a council member. But with each step on the ladder, as an inspector, as a special inspector, as an associate council member, a web of responsibility, checking that power, had woven around him, taking some of the heady drug away. When Paul presented him with the ability to throw off those webs, as if they were truly gossamer, he had taken it, knowing full well with whom he had allied.