by Phoenix Ward
Ethan’s brow furrowed as he looked down at the plots of land depicted on the map. Gauge nodded as he listened.
King Hum turned to his adviser, who stood just to the side of the desk. “Orram, my most trusted adviser,” he said. “You will be visiting the Republic of Orange. You’re familiar with their traders, so you’re our best representative. Remember, they are a corporate government. Capitalism is their god. Appeal to their greed and it should be a matter of numbers before they join us.”
“As you command, your grace,” Orram replied, bowing.
The king’s glowing eyes locked onto Gauge’s, who stopped his scribbling to pay attention. “We’ll be sending you to the Ghosts,” he explained. “They may be sympathetic to your cause. Like you, they are I.I.s who loathe the Council, but instead of mounting a resistance, they fled. They can be found living in a large cavern to the south, in the badlands. They aren’t too fond of humans, so you’re the best fit, Gauge.”
“Speaking of humans,” Hum continued, his gaze shifting to Ethan, “I want to send you to the Gearhead Guild.”
“The Gearhead Guild?” Ethan repeated. The words felt ridiculous leaving his lips.
“That’s right,” King Hum replied. “They’re not a nation or tribe like our other neighbors. They are a network composed of hundreds of independent landowners — most of them farmers and ranchers. Don’t let that throw you off, though — they drive battle-ready armor mechs instead of tractors. They keep to themselves, but that doesn’t mean they won’t put up a unified fight in the face of a common enemy. They’ve got a bit of a phobia of I.I.s, however — otherwise, I might go myself.”
King Hum turned to Tera, who waited for her turn patiently. “Ms. Alvarez, I will be sending you to negotiate with Truck’s Raiders to the north.”
Tera recoiled a little at the name. She looked across the desk at the young monarch with resistant eyes. Images of Abenayo and her time trapped in the ruins outside Shell City drifted through her mind.
“Your grace, I’ve already encountered Truck’s people,” she said. “They kidnapped me and tortured me. I don’t think they’ll be inclined to offer us their help — and I’m not so keen on asking for it.”
“It’s true: they are a nomadic band of liars, thieves, and murderers,” King Hum replied. “But they’re also outcasts, just like us. They hate the Council. That hate motivates them more than anything. More than greed, more than survival. I know you’re not fond of them, Miss Alvarez, but I think you’re the only one with the firm temperament to impress them.”
Tera opened her mouth to protest further, but decided against it.
King Hum scanned over all their faces before continuing. “I will meet with the Battalion myself,” he said. “They are a nation of former military personnel who clustered together in the west, near the Rio Grande. I believe I can sway them to our side once I explain our plan of attack.”
“Which is what, exactly?” Gauge asked.
“A work in progress,” King Hum replied. “Once we have our allies, we can worry about that. The next step depends on who we are able to persuade to go to war.”
The room was quiet. King Hum gazed at each of them as they stared down at the map. Gauge jotted something else down in his journal. The air was heavy and somber, like a wake had just begun. The silence went on for a few minutes as they each contemplated the task before them.
“You are dismissed,” King Hum said.
50
Orange
Orram had never seen buildings like those in Orange. Though he was Opes’ liaison between the two nations, he never visited the corporate republic based in the ruins of an old world city. It composed only a few blocks of what had once been Anaheim, the sundered gate of Disneyland visible from the rooftop Orram landed on.
Despite its small size, or rather, because of its concentrated population, the Opesian had never seen a place so opulent. King Hum’s palace seemed like a decrepit hole compared to the sleek metal and plastic of Orange. Neon lights advertised products in holographic displays throughout the city, even on the landing pad. A number of vendors stood by the exit, hoping to catch any potential customers on their way into the building. They seemed to shy away from Orram as he left his autocar.
They can tell I have no money, Orram thought sourly.
A wave caught his attention. He turned to see a young man with a beak-like nose holding a small placard. It read ADVISER ORRAM, OPESIAN ENVOY.
“I am Orram,” the old man said as he approached the sign-bearer.
The young man double-checked his sign, as if unsure of who he was waiting for. Then his face lit up with a professionally-trained smile.
“Orram, sir, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said. “My name is Darius and it’s my job to escort you to your meeting.”
“Very good,” Orram said. With a wave, he instructed Darius to lead the way.
They took a short flight of stairs to a corridor, where they waited for an elevator that took them deeper into the skyscraper’s core. Once they were on the eleventh floor, the elevator opened up and Darius led the way out. A number of strangers in business suits and button-downs shoved their way into the lift, but Darius flowed around them like rain on a duck.
They followed a hallway down the left, then the right, then left again. Every door they passed looked the same; were it not for the brass plaques next to each entrance, anyone could get lost in here. Eventually, they came to the first set of double-doors the Opesian had seen.
“This is the conference room,” Darius said, turning to face the adviser. “Wait until the light above the doorway turns green before going in.” He indicated the little L.E.D. device near the ceiling. “Their meeting should be wrapping up shortly. Feel free to take a seat while you wait.”
Orram turned and noticed the tacky armchairs against the opposite wall. He gave the young man a short nod of thanks before taking his seat and fixing his eyes onto the dim lights above the door.
After an hour, Orram decided he had waited long enough. The light above the door never changed, not even offering a flicker of illumination. He assumed it was malfunctioning, but continued to doubt himself as time dragged on. Finally, with a huff of indignation, he rose and pushed the double doors open.
A voice stopped in the middle of its statement as the Opesian pushed his way into the conference room. The walls were bare and white except for two large glass windows that looked out over the city. A potted plant dominated each corner while the middle of the room was reserved for an enormous table. At least a dozen people sat around the table while a woman stood at the far end of the room in front of a projector screen. Orram couldn’t decipher the charts and graphs on display, but they were his last concern as every eye turned to him.
He froze for a second like he walked in on someone using the bathroom. For a moment, he doubted that Darius led him to the right room.
“Can we help you?” the woman at the front of the room asked. Her hair was auburn, cut to a precise shoulder length with uniform curls at the ends. Her face had some wrinkles, but it was apparent she took measures to reduce them.
“I’m sorry. Yes,” Orram said. His tone quivered with uncertainty. “I’m supposed to be meeting someone.”
“Your name?” the woman asked so quickly that the old man almost felt like he was interrupted.
“Adviser Orram,” he replied. “Of Opes.”
“Orram, yes,” the woman said. Everyone else in the room remained silent as she put on a smile just as fake as Darius’s. “We are just wrapping up our presentation on autocar fuel supplies. If you don’t mind waiting — ”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Orram interrupted, “but this can’t wait.”
A muscle in the woman’s chin pulsed with annoyance. She took a deep breath, however, and moved around the table to approach Orram.
“Orram, my name is President Euring,” she said, extending her hand. He took it and shook it. “I’m currently the leader of the Board of Orange. Normally, I
’d kick you out for interrupting my meeting, but I’ll overlook it as a cultural misunderstanding. You’re here now and you seem to think your issue supersedes all others, so please, say what you came here to say.”
Great first impression, the old man scolded himself.
“I’ve come to ask for aid,” he started. “Aid against a force that threatens us all: the Council. Specifically, it’s stronghold in Shell City.”
“You’ve come to ask us to join a war,” a man with round spectacles commented from the table.
“Jeffers, please,” President Euring snapped at the seated man. She gestured for Orram to continue.
“Last week, the Council launched an attack on my people and our allies,” he carried on. “We lost thousands of lives. In response, my king has declared war on the Council. Understand that this incident doesn’t stand alone — it is just the straw that broke the camel’s back, so to speak. Aside from attacking peaceful people, the Council is guilty of kidnapping, torture, mutilation, and tyranny. They must be stopped.”
“Wars are expensive, Orram,” Euring started. “You’re asking us to risk so much for, what? To stop a few warlords? They don’t bother us from their domain in Shell City. It seems to me that this is not our fight.”
“It won’t seem that way when they march on the Republic of Orange,” Orram replied. “They will certainly come for all you hold dear once they are done with my people. Then, we won’t be around to come to your aid.”
“If it were a costless effort, I’d help you in a heartbeat,” Euring said. “But our people will suffer if we go to war. Why trade in one suffering for another?”
Orram thought for a moment. He wished to the spirit of God that he as quick-witted as those with fewer years under their belt. Calmly, he realized that wasn’t why Hum had chosen him to be his adviser, however. Orram’s strength wasn’t in snappy wit, but calculated appeal. His talent was understanding what a person valued most and how to use it to his advantage. Were I a more scrupulous man, he thought, I could be king.
The Board of Orange didn’t care about stopping evil or protecting people. What they cared about were profits.
“Have you ever heard of a simpod?” he asked, changing the course of his approach.
Everyone in the boardroom raised their brow or furrowed it, including President Euring. She seemed to sense a larger game behind his question, but still took the bait.
“I can’t say I have,” she replied.
“They’re incubation chambers the Council uses to breed meat puppets,” he started to explain. “More specifically, it simulates whatever you want it to in what I’ve been told is painstaking detail. A friend of mine used to live in one. He said it was how they educated him, how they entertained him, how they honed his reflexes. The applications are vast, I’m sure.”
There was a sparkle in Euring’s eyes as she listened. “Vast indeed,” she said, deep in thought.
“That’s technology the Council has been hoarding for years,” Orram said. “Can you imagine, though, how useful such a device would be to you and your people? I can’t imagine anyone who wouldn’t want to buy them, providing you weren’t locking people up in them like the Council does.”
“Hmm,” Euring replied.
“The simpod is only one piece of the tech the Council has kept from the world,” Orram continued. “I can only imagine the treasures you’d find in Shell City — that is, if it were liberated somehow. There’d be no way to get that tech with the Council in charge, though.”
“I suppose not,” Euring replied. The others at the table murmured with each other, discussing the monetary possibilities of such an endeavor.
“This is the best shot we have of getting rid of them,” Orram said. “Join us, and all that lucrative tech can be yours.”
Euring straightened her posture and sized the old man up. “Very well,” she said. “We will draft up a contract and send it to your king.”
Orram released a sigh of relief. He wanted to do somersaults of joy, but he kept his demeanor cool. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a little dirty about his manipulation.
Better not abuse that, he reminded himself with an internal chuckle.
51
Ghosts
To say the cavern Gauge landed outside was huge was an understatement. The mouth that led into it was large enough to fit one of the Union’s gunships through, and the interior only seemed more gargantuan from what he could see.
The Ghosts lived only an hour’s flight from Opes to the south. Gauge parked his autocar in a small clearing in the shadow of the mountain the tribe called their home. When he stepped out, a pair of bodyshells with faded paint jobs and desert shawls greeted him and searched him for any weapons. When they cleared him, he was escorted into the cave. One of the bodyshells introduced himself as Tain.
“We didn’t expect you to arrive so soon,” Tain said as they left the outside world behind.
“Opes isn’t so far away, it turns out,” Gauge replied.
“Our leader is currently preoccupied, but I think she will forgive the intrusion for this matter,” the escort said.
Gauge couldn’t help but open his mouth in amazement as he studied the interior of the cave. The rock walls towered to at least three hundred feet in height, where Gauge could barely make out the ceiling in all the gloom. In fact, the whole place would be enshrouded in darkness if it weren’t for the incredible display of electronic lanterns that lined the entire chamber. Along the walls were makeshift buildings, all supported on giant beams and platforms. It made Gauge think of some of the mining colonies he heard about and he wondered if this used to be one of them. Bodyshells in various outfits and styles roamed the platforms, ascending and descending down the ramps and stairs that connected them all.
“This way,” Tain said, turning toward the cave wall where an open-shaft elevator was embedded. It was made of thick iron beams, and judging by the rust, sometime before the Ghosts had arrived. Tain led the way onto one of the lifts and fiddled with the controls. Gauge balanced himself as the elevator lurched upward.
It wasn’t a fast elevator. Once Gauge managed a steady stance, he realized they were only climbing at about a foot per second. The mechanisms creaked the entire time they were at work.
“How long have your people been here?” Gauge asked once the creaking became too much for him.
“Officially, not too long,” Tain replied. “The first of us, however, came here before the Great War broke out. It’s been a steady trickle ever since — especially since the Council took over.”
“Not a fan, eh?” Gauge said. “Me either.”
“Many believe the Council only oppresses the humans in their cities, but it’s not so, as I’m sure you know,” Tain said.
“Of course,” Gauge replied. “It’s a power issue, not a racial one.”
“Our people come from various cities, but most are refugees of Shell City,” Tain continued. “Like many groups of people, we sought safety from their tyranny. Unfortunately, the Council isn’t the only entity capable of evil. We’re regularly targeted by humans who project their hate for the Council onto us just because we’re I.I.s. At best, we are constantly harassed and targeted by thieves. At worst, we lose people. So we tend to keep to ourselves and away from the organics. That’s why the cave is so perfect for us — we don’t need arable farmland, we don’t need a reliable source of water. So long as we charge our backup batteries in the sun and change them out regularly, there’s nothing we need from the world outside. For this reason, you might find it hard to sell your cause. I wish you luck, though.”
The lift finished its ascent to the top platform in the hive of buildings lining the stone walls.
“This way — it’s not far,” Tain said.
Gauge was led to a small but elegant shack with a cloth door. He could see the flickering of candlelight through the slight openings around the curtain door. Tain gestured to the door and said nothing more before turning back and waiting by the lift
. With a moment of reluctance, Gauge pushed the cloth aside and entered the building.
His sensors detected the aroma of incense smoke, which he could see billowing in calm wisps through the still area of the room. A dozen candles were lit, flickering from every surface they could be set. In the corner of the room, Gauge saw a female bodyshell knelt over a rug, her forehead pressed against the floor. The candle flames reflected off her polished polymer as she rose, her back turned to the rebel. Gauge heard what he thought was a deep breath from her before she stood up and turned to face him.
Her head was bald, unlike most female bodyshells Gauge had seen. Her external panels were painted a stunning white and red, with a few designs painted on like tattoos. She wore a fine scarf around her neck, but nothing else.
“Greetings,” she said. “My name is Nayla. You’re Gauge, I presume?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” Gauge said.
“It’s fine, I was just finishing up prayer,” Nayla replied. She indicated the rug, which Gauge noticed was placed at an odd angle compared to the rest of the decor. Nayla didn’t fail to notice the confusion in his eyes. “Not used to religious I.I.s, I take it?”
“No, I’ve met a few,” Gauge said. “They call themselves the Shedders. Can’t say I’m a fan.”
Nayla nodded her head, humming. “I have met this cult as well,” she said. “Don’t worry, I share your opinion of them. They’ve come around several times to try and convert some of my people. In some instances, they succeeded.”
“Doesn’t that bother you?” Gauge asked. He thought he could see the beginning of his appeal.
“I’d be lying if I said it didn’t,” the Ghost leader replied. “They are free people, however, and so are mine. They can choose whatever messiah they want — but I fear this Nidus.”
