On the Lost Continent

by Andrew Novak

  Soon a black dot appeared in the sky. It slowly grew, gradually turning into a horseman on a huge black gryphon. The winged beast, having folded its wings, sank to the beach, stones spraying from under its paws in all directions. Ruger jumped down and, before his boots touched the ground, he was speaking:

  “Listen carefully and remember. You will do everything to the letter. Tonight, you’ll be on the bank of the Brooklyn Bike Park. There, where the ruined bridge is. Near the water, there’s a playground where an air ship can land. At two o’clock in the morning, that is, at two — zero — zero, an airship will land. I’ll be on board to meet you and take you to New Atrium. The rest we won’t discuss, I haven’t finished everything. By the time we meet, there will already be a full plan. Got it?”

  “On the shore at the Brooklyn Bike Park. Where the ruined bridge is,” repeated Jack. “Wait a minute! Are you taking me from the ghetto in front of a bunch of defenders? And then you’ll carry me across the Barrier, land inside, and all this where they can see?”

  “The defenders will be in the know. It’ll be those I can trust on guard tonight. And inside, behind the Barrier… Son, it’s none of your business how I solve the problems in New Atrium. Just do exactly what I say, and forget the rest. Think more about the War Hound.”

  “Yes, of course,” Jack nodded. “The dog’ll be yours. But about reality, I ‘ll not be alone. There will also…”

  “Jack, you…” Ruger said slowly, and there was nothing good in his tone. “Who do you think you are? I’m digging around in some petty business, talking to some people unnecessary to me, to ensure that there are defenders at the checkpoint who can be trusted. I arranged all this fuss, and you decided to bring a passenger with you?”

  “He’s alpha, his chip is in perfect order. He promised to set me on my feet very quickly,” Jack hurriedly put in. “That’s why I’m taking him with me. I genuinely need him.”

  “An alpha?” Ruger seemed to have changed his mind about getting angry. He became interested, rather. “What the hell is he doing in the ghetto?”

  “He’s afraid of the Inner Circle,” Jack confessed. “This is the only problem.”

  After uttering the name, Jack glanced at Ruger. How did he take it? With surprise, it seemed. Well, of course, where would an omega from the ghetto learn about the Inner Circle, about whose existence few people knew even in New Atrium.

  “Did he tell you about the Circle?” Ruger asked, narrowing his eyes.

  “Yes. He’s very afraid, so he took refuge from them in the ghetto, among the omegas. He needs protection, but he can bring me into working condition in a matter of days. We’re in a hurry to hunt, the War Hound is waiting. That’s why I decided to invite the old man. He persuaded me, made me promise protection from the Inner Circle. You can protect him, right?”

  “Well,” said the necromancer through his teeth. “Protect him, huh. Interesting, the matter just got more complicated. Yes, perhaps, I could protect him.”

  That’s what Jack was counting on. He remembered, in the Alterra Conqueror server room, how the general spoke with an alpha named Chanber, an important administrator, who hinted that he was acting on behalf of the folks up top. Now, Ruger wasn’t asking Jack any questions, just contemplating something. It was understandable. What could an omega know? But Goodwin… he was another matter. A person who knows about the Inner Circle, this is what Ruger found interesting. Even more interesting was the fact that the Inner Circle knew about Goodwin. Would they remember someone of no consequence? No. Hence, such a person had much to tell, especially since it was easy to press him. After all, if Ruger was going to help, Goodwin would be in his hands and would depend on him.

  What disagreement did our necromancer have with the individuals from the Inner Circle? thought Jack. After all, there was obviously some kind of conflict. And what was he muttering about the war of immortals and machines?

  Nevertheless, this was all in his hands now.

  * * *

  After leaving Alterra, he looked in the Shell to check his mail. Who knew how life would turn out tomorrow night, after two o’clock? If there were any letters, it was better to read them now. Maybe there was someone he ought to say goodbye to, just in case? Leaving is a serious thing. Don’t forget anything before leaving.

  And sure enough, the message waiting in the box was signed with a one-eyed smiley.

  Good old Peter, that’s who might be useful for illegally obtaining a chip. True, now the plans were somewhat different, but he should still read the letter. The first line was dramatic:

  Jack, this is extremely important! Read it till the end! IMPORTANT!!!

  Wow, caps lock and exclamation marks everywhere. He gathered he would actually have to read to the end.

  …Jack, I know that you conned Brandt Ironfist and gave him a “dummy”, instead of the ordered goods. Brandt is a dangerous man, and you yourself already know this. I can mediate, cover you. I just need to know if you brought goods from the Wasteland or not. If you have the unit, I’ll take care of your beef with Brandt and…

  Jack only blinked and clenched his jaws, reading this. He conned him? He conned Brandt? Why, that bastard himself was the first to break the agreement! And what an agreement! Brandt and Clive used dirty tricks from the very beginning. Threatened, extorted him. And what he did, later, when Jack wasn’t at home! But no, no, you need to pull yourself together and finish reading, he told himself. There must be an explanation.

  …in addition, your payment will be doubled. Listen to me, think about it rationally. I’m your friend. You are in a rage now, I understand, but try to think with a cool head. You’ll receive a thousand panbucks, you know very well that this is a huge sum for the ghetto, and Brandt will never even come near you. Be aware, this won’t be easy to manage since you killed his best friend. But I’ll take care of everything.

  If you don’t have the machine, then I’ll try to resolve the conflict anyway. But I need to know for sure whether you brought the goods or not. I hope for your discretion.

  Don’t rush, look at all the pros and cons. When you’ve thought it over, write me.

  .)

  No kidding, thought Jack, you need to calm down and start thinking soberly. What linked a generally good man, Shifty Peter, to a reptile like Brandt Ironfist? For example, they are both disabled. Alright. What else? The weapon! They’re both hunting for an old weapon. Peter had been particularly insistent about the infragun. Jack remembered Peter telling him that he wanted to fight the Barrier’s defenders. He hinted that there was some organization of insurgents or something like that. In that case, they would need something like the infragun. Even the most ideal armor wouldn’t work against infrasound. Yes, such a device could significantly change the odds. This is a real chance for the conspirators. This is their only real chance.

  Let’s take it one step further. These two, Peter and Brandt, both participated in Insurrection-22, the only serious attempt to rebel against the alphas. It was a big mess. The Barrier defenders burned most of the ghetto from the airships, killed a bunch of people. Both the rebels, and those who just got caught in the line of fire. Ruger commanded the defenders at that time. He himself said that it was the best entertainment of his life. So, what happened to the organizers of the uprising? Some of them might have survived.

  What if Peter and Brandt are part of the organization that is preparing a new uprising against the alphas? And if he remembered that crap Brandt was carrying about justice and a great goal… That’s it. These two were working together. And Peter learned the whole story from Brandt, who, of course, made himself out to be the honest customer. According to him, he hired a Walker, who, instead of bringing the goods and getting the panbucks, tried to pass off a “dummy”, a backpack with trash. And attacked Brandt’s men, killed Clive. Not a pretty picture, huh? If he had to die, he didn’t want Jack the Tramp to be remembered that way.

  The letter came about an hour ago. Better to answer immediately.

  Yo
u don’t know everything about this story. Brandt blackmailed me from the very beginning, stole my woman while I was in Wasteland, and killed her. Everything else you can figure out yourself. And my answer is: I fulfilled my part of the deal, I have the goods. But you and Brandt won’t get it. I thought, why did Brandt come to me? Maybe you suggested it to him? I think that’s how it went.

  Jack decided that he wouldn’t wait long for a reply, because he still had to prepare for his little trip tonight. But Peter wrote right away.

  I didn’t know that. Jack, we need to meet. When and where?

  The infragun, everything was about that. Although he was afraid to mention the name of the device in the letter, but that was all he thought about. Now he’ll beg, persuade, offer different compensation, just to get this weapon from the past. But Jack didn’t need anything else. He couldn’t bring Lisa back. Even Peter couldn’t resurrect the dead in real life. All that was left was to say goodbye, old friend.

  No, old boy. Another detail that Brandt forgot to tell you, he sent me after this piece of iron to a place with a deadly radiation background. So, you could say, he killed both Lisa and me. I’m dying of radiation sickness and regretting only one single thing: I managed to get revenge only on Clive, and Brandt escaped me.

  If I were going to live, then I would say, let me kill Brandt and you’ll get your machine. But we won’t meet, I’m on my way to another world.

  That’s all, discussion is closed. Brandt would still get his, regardless of what Peter thinks. But now his priority was to survive. Once he returned from New Atrium, cured, he could deal with Brandt Ironfist and do it slowly, thoroughly. No rush. The main thing was to definitely do it.

  After sending the letter, Jack resolutely logged off and pulled off the virt-helm. He rubbed his eyes with his fists, yawned… and caught Goodwin’s gaze. Egghead lay in his capsule. All his adventures went on in virt, where his real life was. Even if it’s about who holds a Cluster in the ghetto and hunting him in real life, the fat man would learn it, never leaving the virt-capsule. But the old man never went to Alterra since they’d met. Strange, of course.

  “Get ready, Goodwin. Tonight we’ll be in New Atrium. And then it’s all up to you.”

  He nodded and kicked the backpack next to his chair:

  “I’m ready.”

  “I need to sleep,” Jack felt terrible again.

  It was somehow strange and very unusual to feel an ache in his joints. He’d never thought about his own health before. It was just good, and it seemed like it would last forever. Jack clenched his fist with a pop and stared at it. Fucking Brandt, look what he’s done. The pain settled deep in his bones. His life continued to flow out of his body through an invisible hole. Good thing his body was so big. Life enough for another week.

  His soul was another matter. When Lisa died, a hole formed in that place she occupied inside Jack’s soul, through which he lost… a lot. Almost everything real. He himself hadn’t noticed that Lisa had found her way into it, that without her there was nothing. Fucking Brandt.

  Shaking his head, Jack tried to focus on the coming night.

  “We may have to run tonight. When Egghead rises from his coffin, he’ll probably tell us the news. But I already know Brandt’s people are looking for us. They haven’t stopped from the moment I led you out of the church.”

  “That’s right,” the old man agreed. “Brandt Ironfist doesn’t know how to stop. People seem to love it. A couple of times, his gang entered into such confrontations that it seemed they had no chance. He lost fighters, suffered defeat, but continued the fight, resisted, snarled with his last bit of strength. And in the end, the enemy was simply exhausted. So it went several times, and then no one would join him in a fight. Because he doesn’t give up. Either you destroy him and all his people. Or he’ll kill you. No compromises. Do you understand what a compromise is?”

  Jack nodded.

  “Everyone knows this about Brandt,” Goodwin went on. “So he shows up where he pleases and takes whatever he wants. If he doesn’t take too much, they let him. It’s better to give part, than to risk everything and start a fight to absolute annihilation, you know? Murray Hill has its own mob boss, Romeo. When Brandt took over the church, he didn’t say a word.”

  “Romeo? Well, he’s a pansy. I recently tangled with his people.”

  “But, believe it or not, it doesn’t matter whether he’s a pansy or not. They’ll give Brandt such trifles like a few buildings. Otherwise, war.”

  “Why does Brandt want a church?”

  “It’s just a large empty building, where he can temporarily set up house with the entire gang. He’s been looking for me for a long time. And I kept changing hideouts…”

  “He was following you, because you know alpha technology, like the infragun, and can help with the new uprising.

  The old man hesitated, looked at Jack. Then he continued:

  “I have several hideouts in different Clusters. But Murray Hill is a rather desolate place, and in this way everyone is too visible. When I stopped there, Brandt settled in the same Cluster, led a crowd of his people and arranged a man hunt. They were everywhere, day and night. I hid as much as I could. But in the end I got caught. Brandt doesn’t back down. He could have tracked me in Murray Hill for a month. It’s the same now. You are right, he’s been looking for us from the moment he lost us.”

  “Then we’ll proceed very cautiously.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  The lid of the virtual capsule unlatched with a click, and Egghead rose slowly. He was smiling.

  “Well, Jack the Tramp, the shit has hit the fan. I hope this helps you. Sango Lettis took the bait that Brandt Ironfist was going to attack him. He, of course, thinks that this is about the way to Gaerthon.. I didn’t try to dissuade him. If you go through Greenpoint, keep this in mind.”

  Egghead began to get out, and Jack thought it would be a long time for such a body to move out of the narrow space of the capsule. So he got up and went to help. With Goodwin’s help, they rolled the fat man over the side of the capsule. During, Egghead puffed, panted and related what he’d managed to find out. Jack was already planning the route from this dungeon to the Williamsburg bridge, which was near Ruger’s appointed meeting spot. They would need to leave soon.

  * * *

  In the evening, Jack and Goodwin left Egghead’s basement and settled in the trailer. Jack cleaned and loaded the revolver, and asked Juan for a knife. He didn’t want to part with the weapon. It took his master’s order for him to give it up. Goodwin didn’t pay as much attention to the preparations.

  His scraggly backpack could hardly hold sharp cutting objects and, at any rate, the old man didn’t look like much of a fighter.

  “I constantly changed hideouts,” he explained, “I even hung out here for a few days. So this backpack has long been waiting its chance. My odds and ends.”

  “Then pack mine in there, too,” Jack said. “I need to have my hands free.”

  “What are you bringing?”

  “Console. Egghead plays in the capsule and a spare console is always useful. I’m going to borrow this one, keep it handy.

  When night fell, Juan turned the light off in the trailer so that it wasn’t visible from the street when the door opened. Jack waited a bit and went out first. He slipped out, crouched down and listened. Then called to Goodwin. Looking around and trying to stay in the shadows, they went toward the distant lights of New Atrium. Three hours left until their rendezvous at the river.

  Groups of trailers alternated with landfills, vacant lots, and destroyed buildings. Jack spotted the occasional passer-by. They moved through the ghetto in the same manner — keeping to dark areas and avoiding encounters. Jack felt awkward without his beloved cloak. He was wearing a threadbare jacket, which probably first belonged to Egghead himself. It should be noted that since the fat man stopped leaving the basement, he had noticeably gained weight. Now, fat chance he’d be able to squeeze into it, but it was al
most perfect for Jack. Roomy and enough places to shove his belonging. The console he’d borrowed from Egghead lay in Goodwin’s backpack, and Jack constantly groped at the unfamiliar pockets for his knife and revolver his hands needed to be able to find them reflexively if it came down to it.

  At first it seemed that everything would go off without a hitch. A creeping chill in his gut initially brought Jack’s thoughts around to his own illness. There was no telling how it would develop. And the longer he waited, the stronger it became. Therefore, he didn’t pay the sensation any attention, especially since they were about to cross Newtown Creek, a long, winding swamp on the site that was formerly the Bay. This was a bad place to be because of the viscous earth mixed with ash, and all that soaked in sea water. And also due to the fact that one could run into the lowest dregs of society, those who long ago abandoned any guise of humanity they once had. Here, he would have to keep his eyes peeled and ignore the cold pit in his stomach.

  During the day, no one hung around here but at night, in the swamp you’d find fiendish addicts, vagrants and petty thieves who were unable to attach themselves to any large gang. They were drawn to the vapor. The nighttime mist over Newtown Creek was thickening, and it had a weak narcotic effect. Apparently there was something rotten, deep down under the layer of silt, ashes of burnt houses, broken bricks and other miscellany, left behind from previous lives.

  “You’re going to have to pick it up here,” Jack cast over his shoulder to Goodwin.

  He nodded, adjusted the straps of his backpack, and quickened his pace. Black, oily filth squelched under their feet. An iridescent film glistened on the water that trickled into their footprints. At night, it shimmered beautifully in the moonlight, but it stank no less than during the day. Ahead stood a wall of haze, vague shadows gliding within it. Visibility was reduced to twenty steps, and, just in case, Jack pulled out the revolver. Here it covered them, damp chill roiled in his stomach and his nape cramped painfully.