by Ben Stevens
Can I blame her for being so angry all the time?
He watched her struggle with her lack of extra limbs and the caravan’s frame for a few seconds longer, then threw all caution to the wind. Screw it.
He let go of his half of the canopy that he and Jon were stretching—much to Jon’s chagrin—and strode over to her with confidence in his step.
“Lucy. Please, let me help.”
Her cybernetic eyes flashed with white-hot rage, then narrowed as she snapped her head around to glare at him. Her nostrils flared, revealing the amazing workmanship put into her artificial body.
“Walk away. Walk away now or face my wrath.” Lucy’s voice trembled.
“I just want to—”
“I will cut your balls off,” she hissed.
“Doesn’t it get old? Ya know? Don’t you get tired of acting like a bitch all the time?” Carbine’s pulse quickened when her eyes opened wide in shock and rage.
She released her arms and hands from their designated task and turned on him. He ducked, then caught the two blows intended for his face and head.
“I. AM. NOT. YOUR. ENEMY!” Carbine managed to get out through the sheer exhaustion of keeping Lucy from killing him. She stared at him, her face a wicked mix of pure loathing and sheer bewilderment. At this point, everyone else in the camp watched, while doing their best impressions of marble statues. You could hear a mouse cough.
Carbine stared back into that painted face, his steely resolve unwavering.
“I just want to be your friend and help you, okay?” And with that, he released her wrists and placed his hands up in the universal gesture of surrender.
The strike never came. Lucy wavered. Her lips parted, and she made like she might say something, but closed her mouth again after a moment. She blinked twice, her eyes softening. She inhaled deeply, then let it out slowly.
“You military guys are thick in the head,” she said matter-of-factly, with no hint of defeat or humor in her voice. “Lash these two together while I hold them in place.”
Carbine did as bid, and soon, much to everyone’s surprise, they had finished the task.
“Carbine,” she said flatly. “Thanks.”
At this, Carbine almost smiled, but knew better than to push it. “Don’t mention it. We’re battle-buddies. That’s what we do—help each other.” And with that, he’d nodded to her and gone back to work, helping Jon with Maya’s palanquin.
Now he watched Lucy from afar.
One click forward on the scope, and he saw her long raven hair tied tightly into a knot. He moved the gun slightly to Ratt and saw the kid’s lips moving. Three clicks backward and he could take in the whole front gate area, his trio of friends in and on their machines, the guards atop the carefully piled rubble wall, no longer pacing but training their primitive firearms on the newcomers below.
He moved the reticle of the scope to somewhere near the middle of the spread-out sentries. Clicked out as far as he was, he could see all who could see his friends as well as the gate itself. He would have to click forward again to improve his aim if and when the time came, but for now, he needed to see the big picture.
“Just try it, assholes.”
“Woooooow,” Maya said, drawing the word out long and slow. “This wall sure looks bigger up close.” She projected her voice as if speaking in a town hall and tucked her tiny chin down toward her breastbone when she spoke, trying to make sure the necklace she wore picked up her voice loud and clear. Jon, a good klick and a half away, flinched a little, as Maya’s voice came over extremely loud and garbled.
“Umm, hey, Maya,” Ratt meeked out. “I assure you, you don’t have to do that. The mic will pick up your voice fine. In fact, it’s probably picking up mine fine too.”
“Not to mention, you’ll give us away and blow our cover. Please, my lady, behave as you would normally. Act casual,” Lucy added.
“Oh! Of course!” Maya tittered, blushing slightly.
“With all due respect, my lady, it would seem that the graver a situation is, the more amused you become. I don’t care for putting you in danger any more than Jon. The only difference between him and me is that I am somewhat used to it. I see it as nothing more than the changing of one season, one I like, into another, which I loathe. I’m not sure if it’s because you are immortal, or what…”
“Let’s just call it high wisdom.” Maya grinned back at her guardian.
“Call it what you like, but please, my lady, try to recognize the danger we are in and behave appropriately.”
At this, Maya stuck her tongue out at Lucy and crossed her arms in mock defiance.
The necklace the goddess wore was the latest gadget created by the ever-resourceful Ratt, who hadn’t slept a wink last night, instead opting to help assuage Jon’s concerns for the goddess’s safety. Digging through the sled of parts they had brought, Ratt had found what he needed to create a one-way radio, a sender and a receiver, but alas, he did not have enough equipment to design it to work both ways. And so, they would have to content themselves with Jon being able to hear what was going on around Maya. Between that and Carbine watching them with his high-powered, see-through-walls scope on the cover-providing railgun, Jon felt somewhat satisfied and at least semi-confident that they could protect Maya, if need be. Plus, Lucy would be there, and Jon had no illusions about her ability to deal death when required to do so.
While Ratt had busied himself with the radio necklace, Jon and the others had cleared the sled and, using the sleeping bags and salvaged tarpaulins, had erected a cover over it. If they wanted to pose as traveling troubadours, it wouldn’t do to approach the city on foot or have Maya riding shotgun on Ratt’s hoverboard or Lucy’s ATV exposed to the elements. The result was more Shanty-chic than Cleopatra, but it would pass.
“Declare su negocio!” a sentry shouted down from the rampart in Spanish. Jon tightened his lips and frowned, wishing he understood what was being said, but trusting his friends below to inform him if things started to go south.
“I speak for my lady, Lily Sapphire. She requests an audience with the rulers of this city,” Lucy announced. Through his binoculars, Jon saw her looking up at the sentry, but he quickly shifted his view, for the mid-day sun reflected off some of the rustic blocks of the wall and flashed in his lenses.
“For what reason?” the haughty guard asked.
“To discuss playing here. Miss Sapphire is a traveling performer of great renown.”
“I have never heard of her,” the guard said as if bragging.
“Nevertheless, every bastion of civilization that we visit, we have left with its citizenry in a much higher spirit than before our arrival. We are sure your leaders would appreciate us performing.” Lucy was on her best behavior.
Jon, who had the earpiece that made the other half of Maya’s necklace, could hear the whole exchange and was impressed with what he heard, impressed and thankful that Lucy had forced the parley to English. It would seem that Lucy could avoid confrontation when she wanted to after all.
The sentry sneered at Lucy’s rebuke and thought for a minute, rubbing his bearded chin.
“Well?” Lucy dared. “What have you?”
“Wait here,” the sentry replied— as if they had anywhere else to go.
For the hundredth time, Jon wished he could reach out, if only with his voice, to talk to Maya, for the silence was deafening. The minutes felt like hours. Nearly half an hour went by with no sign of movement down below, on either side. Jon called out to his companion to keep his eyes peeled for any sign of funny business. His nervous, paranoid imagination played out sequences of horror over and over again. Who was to say that the men who posed as soldiers down there wouldn’t decide to attack, if only to take whatever wealth Lily Sapphire might possess? Or worse, murder… or rape. Not all marauders were nomadic. They knew next to nothing about this city, nor about those who ruled it.
Then Jon heard thuds, clicks, and clanks, and he and Carbine watched as the gate began to
swing open.
“Carbine?” he said.
“I’m on it,” the sniper responded, clicking the scope one click forward and tapping the toggle that allowed him to “see through” the gate’s material.
“What do you got?” Jon demanded coolly.
“I got four bogies. Right behind the gate. They’re armed, but the rifles are slung, Jon. Things look chill.”
Jon’s shoulders dropped, and he breathed a sigh of relief.
Moving his binoculars back to Lucy, who remained out front of the ATV and caravan, he saw she betrayed no expression or movement as the sentry that had spoken to her from the wall now approached on foot from the open gate.
“Señor Don Luis Fernando sends his apologies for having made you wait and bids you welcome to New Puebla.” The sentry even bowed. Lucy nodded her head back in a gesture of gratitude. She squeezed the clutch, popped the gear lever down with her toes, and threw a glance over to Ratt. Neither one of them risked a look back at the mountain, nor the watchers they knew were there.
Maya had heard the exchange as well as Jon, and now she whispered aloud, “See, Jon? So far, so good.”
Please be careful. Jon put the binoculars down, for now that Maya and company had passed through the gates, they were useless to him.
9
“I still think this is a bad idea,” Candice said. Miller didn’t miss that she had been picking at her cuticles with her fingernails since he’d arrived.
“Look, Candy, I know you’re nervous, but I’ll be there. I’ll walk you through everything. It’ll all be jus’ fine.” Miller did his best to soothe the former waitress’s nerves, resting a meaty paw of a hand on her shoulder.
“It’s not just that I’m nervous, Milly,” Candice said, biting her lower lip. “It’s that I don’t belong there! I have absolutely zero qualifications for the job!”
Miller frowned and sat across from her in the cafe’s booth. After Miller’s injury in the Battle of Texhoma, he had been lost, struggling with his injury and subsequent re-assignment as a cookie. Lost, until he’d found Maya and the Underground Resistance. He had spent many years slinging hash in the very café they now sat in. He knew her, probably better than she knew herself, having spent all those many years side by side with her. Only now, he had to convince her that what he saw in her was real and good.
“Candy,” Miller began, his voice rich and dark, like the black coffee customers of Candice’s café loved. “That’s jus’ the thing. You have exactly the kind of qualifications the council needs right now. We want equal representation. A voice for everybody. We already had a stratocracy, and you saw how that worked out. What we need now is someone on the council to represent every diverse group that’s in Home.”
“And you want me to what? Represent the food workers of the world?” Candy asked, her mouth twisted to one side.
“C’mon, nah,” Miller scoffed, “I want you to speak for the former Republic citizens that wasn’t in the field. All the people of the Zigg that had support jobs. The ones that never had a voice befo’.”
Candice cast Miller a jaundiced look but held her tongue. Seeing her defenses weaken, Miller moved in for the kill.
“We have members from the Shanty, Human and Displaced. We have military, one from every division.”
“Well, yeah, that makes sense,” Candice said, her voice quiet and full of doubt.
“The point is, not only do you fit that requirement— support— you are one of the most compassionate and caring people I ever met. We could use a touch of that. Please. Don’t make me beg, girl.”
Candice closed her eyes, sighed, and slowly shook her head.
“Okay, okay. Fine. I guess I could use a break from pouring coffee. Wait! You aren’t going to make me pour coffee for the council, are you?”
Miller laughed and stood up. “Perish the thought. You’re a bona fide councilwoman now.”
“Yikes. That’s not helping,” Candice said, grimacing.
“C’mon. Let’s get up there. Everyone’ll be waiting.”
Miller and Candice left the café and strolled through the once idyllic corridors of the Zigg’s residential sections. Much had changed, but just as much had remained the same. It had only been a few weeks since Warbak’s attempted Harvest, the Purge, and his fall, and every day of those few weeks, men and women like Miller had worked without rest, trying to hold back the rising tide of chaos. Miraculously, they had managed, just barely, to prevent everything from spiraling into a complete mess. They had organized patrols, managed to keep the water and power on, begun work on a hierarchy, a chain of command, and gathered the best and brightest of those who remained and were now attempting to flesh out their impromptu council, the acting government body of New Home. Unfortunately, most of the officers had left with the Old Guard, and every day, Miller was feeling the loss of that skill and experience. He had the men but lacked leadership. Boys like Quiteke had stepped up, but they just weren’t quite ready for what lay ahead.
But they gon’ have to be… If only Jon and Maya would return. What’s taking them so damn long?
Even if the golden pillar of mystical light and the hidden fortress it marked lay on the other side of the globe, they all had figured Maya and her guardians would be back Home within a week, two at the most. But days had turned to two weeks, and still no sign or word from them. Concern had turned to worry after the first week, and now a low-grade panic was knocking at the door. Miller had sent out tropiscopic radio signals every night, signals that would bounce off the ionosphere and go over the horizon. The transport that Maya had left in was equipped with a working receiver and transmitter, so although Miller was unable to ring them up, they should have received his nigh-continuous loop-broadcast, if they were monitoring, and gotten back to him by now.
The fact that they hadn’t meant one of three things—that they had gone farther over the globe than anyone anticipated, that their equipment was broken, or that something worse had befallen them. Miller had even gone so far as to question the foreign girl, Wyntr, to try to ascertain just how far away this “Morning Star” was. The child’s story remained consistent, and the girl insisted that she had walked to Home. Which meant, based on all the old maps of Earth-Before-The-Storm that they had in the Vault, that Maya and crew’s destination was in the same hemisphere, if not the same continent, as Home.
Please, be alive. Please hurry back. I can’t do this without you. Miller kept his dark thoughts about the goddess and her inner circle close to his chest, but knew that everyone else would notice Maya’s absence and figure it out eventually. They would soon have to face the reality that they were alone in this. Hence the call to form and make official the ruling council.
After entering and riding one of the elevators that bordered the open core of the Ziggurat, Miller and Candice stepped out into the upper level, formerly occupied by Warbak’s Ministry of Social Purity, now requisitioned as the command center for the Council of New Home.
Ahead of them stood a pair of closed wooden doors, pre-Storm, thick, heavy, and classy. Flanking the doors stood two soldiers, their sex unknown, obscured by full-body armor of the kind worn by the Heavy Infantry. Miller raised a knife-hand in salute and was greeted by brisk salutes back.
“As you were,” Miller said, strolling up to them with Candice in tow. The soldiers both silently executed a left and right face respectively and opened the ancient doors.
“General Miller.” An elderly woman’s voice announced both his arrival and new rank to the room as he and Candice stepped in.
“To-Kan,” Miller responded, nodding in the woman’s direction. Before showing Candice to her seat and taking his own, he stood for a moment and took in the room and the assembly of councilors in it.
There was To-Kan, matron of the Vault. Long had she been with the Resistance, and equally long was her memory. At ninety-three, it was remarkable that she was still alive, having spent the majority of her life in the harsh post-Storm conditions, hiding in Underground
, dodging Warbak’s Scrubbers, Invasive Beasties, and the East Side Lords. Also remarkable, as well as priceless, was her keen memory of what the world had been like prior to the great Storm. Her insights were as sharp as her wit, a trait that many were quick to learn via a good tongue-lashing after misjudging her stooped posture and wrinkled skin.
Sitting next to the wizened woman was a young, skinny black man, darker of skin than Miller, with super-short hair, nearly shaved. Quiteke. Promoted after the battle of the Harvest, and then soon after asked by Miller personally to represent the Easy-Rider division of the New Military. The young soldier had offered Miller the same doubts Candice just had regarding his qualifications, but the truth then, as now, was that Miller lacked skilled officers, nearly all of them having gone with the Old Guard, and he believed that a younger, fresh voice was what New Home needed. He had stood by those convictions minutes ago, when swaying Candice to join the council, but now that he saw the look on the Quiteke’s face, and realized just how overwhelmed the kid actually was, Miller began to wonder if he was making a huge mistake.
What choice do I really have?
Filling out the council on the opposite side of the long, rectangular table sat Elena, long-time resistance member and owner of the now destroyed Underground bar and brothel, representing the dispossessed citizens of the Shanty. The rest of the room held almost half a dozen more council members, representing all aspects of the former Republic’s military infrastructure, as well as one “Hincit,” a Displaced alien who looked quite a bit like a turtle, and had to exist out of water in a self-contained tank of sorts. The tank featured a computer and speakers that both translated the Displaced’s words as well as projected them to all with ears to listen.
