by Eyal Kless
Aside from the awfulness of the world I woke up to, the trek was a long way from the worst situation I’d been through. I remembered having to survive twenty-seven days in a Bangladeshi sewage system while an army of assassins hunted me down. Compared to that, walking in a ruined city, even in the rain, was almost a relaxing affair with the added bonus of casual looting.
Of course, by now, clothes and delicate items were long gone, but I still managed to find neo-flex plastic material, and with the help of my power sword, I cut and wrapped it around the soles of my shoes and made a cover for my head. There was also enough material for a crude sack. Remembering Malk’s debriefing on currency, I filled it with pieces of junk, mostly metal. I even found a cracked porcelain cup, which somehow had survived all this time. I wrapped it carefully in the last remaining piece of neo-flex plastic and walked away, feeling somehow more optimistic than before. The sword belt was too large for me to tie around my waist, so I threw it over my shoulder and under my armpit, bandolier style, making sure the hilt behind my back was within easy reach.
Aside from the great destruction, the second noticeable thing about the place was how empty it was. There were endless rows of buildings and not a single soul. If what I’d heard about the war was true, and the weaponry Tarakan possessed had been used to their full potential, billions had died in a very short amount of time. I found myself contemplating survival rates. Was the entire planet completely destroyed?
Two days later I spotted another looting party treading through the ruins, but this time I kept my distance. There were five of them, all more or less the same make and creed as the three I left behind. Since they were all heading into the city, I followed their tracks in the opposite direction until I eventually found their camp. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have been surprised. There was always a camp, even in the most remote of places. If there was business to be made, merchants came to trade. Bring enough people together and someone would eventually bring a cart and begin trading. Soon enough women would appear, either of their own free will or, more likely, under coercion. In time, the camp grows to a small hamlet, then someone usually takes control of it by force.
Until the moment I saw the camp I hadn’t fully comprehended what had happened to us as a species. The vast city behind me was in ruins, true, and a man had aimed and shot an arrow at me, but I still somehow expected to encounter modern life on the outskirts of the city. Seeing a horse and cart travel the unpaved road towards a camp surrounded by a medieval wooden wall turned my stomach. It was as if I’d stepped out of a time machine.
I sat down amid the tall grass and watched the camp until nightfall, noting the two hanging corpses outside the gate, the smoke coming out of the wooden houses, the water well and the people coming to use it. It could have been a scene from a period virtual flick, but for the large truck parked in the middle of the camp, and even that vehicle was antique, the sort that drove on cooking oil and coal. All but the poorest countries of the world had shied away from the use of such polluting trucks, but right then, to me, that truck was a beacon of modernity. It became my mark. I had to get into that truck.
With the poor zooming ability of my vessel, it was too far off for me to see any details, and parts of the truck were obscured by what looked like poorly erected wooden buildings. After changing position several times, I managed to watch it being loaded with what seemed to be metal junk. The truck owner’s face was hidden inside a grey cowl but he had an obvious limp. The men helping load the truck were armed to the teeth with a mixture of antique twentieth-century weapons and more medieval-looking ones. They were a rough enough bunch, but the man wearing the cowl seemed to control them. They dispersed as night came.
The prudent thing to do was to wait at least another day, gather intelligence and figure out the best way to act. Special hibernating agent Vera Geer, or even Colonel Major Vera Geer, would have strongly suggested such caution, especially when operating in a noncombat vessel. But I was afraid the truck would leave at first light, or even before, and I would be left behind in the Middle Ages. Besides, the night’s darkness provided an opening. It was true darkness, the sort you rarely experienced in the world I used to live in. The cold temperature was another consideration, and it was taking its toll on my vessel, which was shaking and consuming a lot of energy to continue functioning. There was danger I would damage the vessel or even freeze to death. Or perhaps these were just excuses. I was tired, hungry, cold, wet, and still emotionally in shock. I wanted heat, and light, and food, and perhaps even a conversation. I wanted to get away from this place, which looked and felt like a bad hallucination. I also needed a good night’s sleep. I needed to dream. Operational directions might be received via dreams, but I had to find a safe place to fall into a deep sleep, enough to open my mind up to such transmissions. That could not be done in the field.
I unwrapped the neo-flex from my shoes and made sure everything was tied, secured, and as jingle free as possible, although with the coin bag and a sack filled with metal loot that task was bordering on the impossible.
The camp had four crude guard towers, but for some reason only two were manned and their only light sources were torches. Reaching the outer perimeter was an easy enough task and I didn’t even need to crawl, a blessing since after the few days of light drizzle, the ground close to the wall was awfully muddy. There were wooden stakes in the ground, as if the people in the camp were afraid of a cavalry charge. I slipped past them and reached the wall.
I aimed to reach the part of the wall that was closest to the truck, but that part was impossible to climb. Primitive or not, whoever had built the wall had done a fine job. Moving a little farther, I managed to find a part where I could get in at least two handholds. They were impossibly far apart, but that was all I needed.
Before climbing, I stayed still and tried to deepen my hearing. My vessel’s senses were only one notch above biological human level, but it was enough for me to hear the stutter of a small engine, the steps of three people walking away from me, coarse singing, and the snorting of pigs. That last one came with a stench as well. I took a deep breath, entered ESM, feeling adrenaline rush once again through my body, and quickly climbed the wall, my fingers digging into the wood like an alley cat. I found myself on a narrow parapet, from which I quickly jumped down to the other side, landing behind a hut and huddling down. It took me a few minutes to recover from the disorientation and nausea of the ESM.
The stench of livestock mixed with rotting garbage and human excrement was apparent. This place was the graveyard of hygiene. I leaned and peeked around. Apart from four guards standing around a small bonfire behind a gate, the dark streets were deserted. I sneaked away from them, passed the central well, and headed towards the truck. It was parked next to a second gate, effectively blocking it. Years of usage and crude patch jobs were apparent, as well as bullet holes and scorch marks, but the makers of the EverTyre company would have been proud to know that their product, worn and battle scarred, was still functioning even after a nuclear holocaust. I still toyed with the idea of stealing the truck, smashing through the gate, and driving away into the sunset, but the motion sensor lock on the truck’s doors made me change my plans. Actually, the placement of a modern gadget such as the motion sensor was uplifting. It meant there was still hope . . .
With the right tools, I could have bypassed the lock, but the risk of attracting attention and turning this into a massacre was too great. Besides, even if I got into the truck and managed to drive it, I hadn’t a clue where to go. I needed information and, if possible, assistance.
A dog began to bark and I retreated back to the central well. I followed my ears to the back of the biggest wooden shack of this sorry little settlement. The engine noise came from a small generator, which, by the smell of the black smoke it was exhaling, was fuelled by a mixture of cooking oil, fat, and perhaps even manure. As I watched, the back door opened and a middle-aged man, dressed in disgustingly stained clothes, poured a bucket of such
slop into the open tank. I waited for him to go back into the hut and headed towards the front entrance.
Generator or not, the main light source of this small tavern was a central fire under a large iron pot, a serious fire hazard under any modern law anywhere in the old world. The stench almost made me walk back out, but once the door opened, enough people turned their heads at me to make a retreat dangerously noticeable, so I walked into the gloomy shadows of the room and closed the door behind me.
Chapter 7
Twinkle Eyes
Anyone watching the two figures from afar would have thought them a farmer and his wife tottering along on a dirt road, though on closer inspection the watcher would have realised something was certainly amiss. Galinak had torn the bottom of his overalls, from the knees down, and tied the material around his feet. The farmer’s wife was a hefty lass, so the corset fit, just barely, across my ribs. I’d tried Galinak’s trick with the hem of the dress but a miscalculation on my part now meant the dress was indecently short. On the bright side, I had enough material left to tie around my bald head to protect my cranium from the unforgiving sun. Actually, come morning, we discovered hair was beginning to grow on both of our bodies. Mine was a shade between white and golden; Galinak’s was ginger brown.
We had resumed our journey after a relatively comfortable night in front of the hearth, which by another stroke of luck featured an old built-in flint, now safely in Galinak’s pocket. He had suggested we simply stay on the farm and “start our own family” but by midday the stream of jokes died to a mere trickle.
We found some berries on the side of the road that tasted awful but were nourishing enough. Water was a concern, but our bodies proved to be incredibly resilient, taking on way more than what I would guess my previous one could have endured.
A little after midday we passed another abandoned farm, but this one was completely ruined. Worse, there were obvious marks of violence, including the bones of several livestock, fire damage, and enough signs to indicate that, in Galinak’s words “something really big blew up this rusting hut.” He was the first to spot the deep imprints on the ground where the garden must have been—two parallel chain lines, twice a man’s height in distance from each other.
“Some kind of a machine.” I pointed out the obvious but Galinak was not in the mood. He tested the ground with his fingers.
“Deep on dry earth. Means this thing was heavy, huge. It takes a lot of energy clips to move such a vehicle.”
We exchanged glances. “A kind of war machine then,” I said. “Nothing else is worth such energy.”
“A war machine?” Gailnak looked around. “We only had light dusters in the Hive, and that was Tarakan Valley we’re talking about.”
Rafik said that the City of Towers was preoccupied with a conflict, but this area is far from the city. Could there be a connection?
“I know these machines existed before the Catastrophe,” I said, the memory flashing through my mind. “They were called Tanks. I heard they found a field with those things far to the west. The machines were smashed and burned, but the metal was so thick they couldn’t even salvage it, so they just stand there in rows now.”
“So, a local gang gets its hands on a working war machine with enough energy clips to operate it and runs around destroying small farms?” Galinak shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“An advancing army, then,” I said quietly.
“Makes more sense with the other farm being abandoned,” Galinak agreed. “They knew about the threat. The first family ran away, these ones chose to stay and protect their land.” He shook his head again. “Poor sods, must have been like kicking a puppy.”
“Yes, but whose army?” I asked.
Galinak shrugged. “We can’t connect the wires on this one.”
“We should have tried to go back to the bunker.” I gestured toward the destruction around us. “This would have surely been part of what Rafik would have briefed us about.”
“Well, if I wasn’t sure before, now I know for a fact it’s you, Twinkle Eyes.” Galinak chuckled. “Ready to die just so you could learn something you didn’t know before. We’ll find out soon enough what’s going on, so let’s look around a little more and move out of here.”
Galinak’s remark might just have been a barbed jest, but he was right. I was already feeling the familiar tingling sensation growing in my mind; curiosity. I might have been coerced into this mission by the Tarkanians, but I also wanted to know—hell, I needed to know—what was going on, and it was worth risking my new life to find out.
There was nothing worth looting except a few pieces of wood we collected for a future bonfire and several rusty nails. I tied the nails with the frills from my dress and decided to find a way to add them to my crude club at the first opportunity. Not the greatest upgrade to my fire power, but every little thing helps.
“We should follow the imprints.” Galinak pointed at the deep grooves leading northeast.
“No, we should go northwest,” I said. “Following a war machine and armed troops with a club and a dress may leave the wrong impression.” That one rewarded me with another chuckle from Galinak. “The farmers who ran must have tried to reach some kind of a safe haven. I think there’s a large village a day or two from here.”
Galinak looked skeptical. “You deduced all of that from a set of imprints?”
“No,” I admitted. “Something has been bothering me for a while now. This area is familiar. I think I’ve passed through it.”
“Not surprising.” Galinak dusted himself off. “You chased Vincha all over the place.”
“No. Vincha never went rural on me,” I said. “I think I passed through here when I was younger, with LoreMaster Harim.” The mention of my mentor’s name brought up a rush of emotions. He was the one who took me from my family home to the upper towers of the City of Towers and made me the flawed man I was now.
“Fine, lad.” Galinak walked to me. “We’ll do it your way.”
We kept on walking, finding a wider road and following it till night fell, but we did not stop. My sight made the night as clear as the day, and although we only ate a handful of berries we picked up on the side of the road, our new bodies did not show any sign of fatigue. Even the soles of our feet hardened enough to make walking more comfortable, and we were able to move faster.
By midday the dirt trail merged into what was once a paved road, now with only patches of dark material remaining as a testimony to its former glory. This was where we found another unmistakable track of the war machine, and this time we had to follow it. Since we were now on lower ground, there were many more trees and tall bushes, and they hid the village until we came upon it. For some childish reason I took pride in spotting it first.
It was certainly a place I had visited before. It used to have a protective wall and the houses within climbed up the steep hill. The hill must have kept the villagers in shape while acting as a natural defence from three sides, but that natural defence and the high walls and guard towers did not stand a chance against a war machine.
We waited for what felt like a long time, hidden among the vegetation, noting the enormous gaps in the reinforced wooden wall, the remains of three guard towers, and the lack of what was once an impressive front gate.
“Well, at least they did not burn the place down,” Galinak whispered next to me. “Any ideas why?”
I shrugged. “I have no clue.”
He shrugged back and spat at the ground. “Let’s find out.”
I stopped him with a touch, scanning for heat signatures. “There are no humans that I can see, but there are some animals roaming around in there.”
“You can see all the way inside?”
I nodded. “Just be ready for a fight.”
Galinak’s smile was full of bad intentions. “I’m always ready for a fight.” He waved his cleaver to emphasise his point, then surprised me by ripping a nail from my dress and ramming it halfway into my club. “
Now you’re ready too.”
Chapter 8
Peach
People were still glaring at me when I sat myself down on a wooden stool next to a tiny table that, by the look of it, had not been cleaned for a long time. With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I realised that there were about twenty men around me, and the only females were two tired-looking prostitutes entertaining four uniformed men in the far corner of the room. I was a woman, in perhaps not the most attractive vessel, but this felt like a remote place, the sort in which men hold the bar just a notch above “breathing,” and sometimes not even that high. With those ladies entertaining the guards in full view of the rest of the men, and the alcohol flowing, sooner or later I would get unwanted attention.
I lay the neo-flex plastic sack on the sticky floor and placed the power sword in my lap. There was no music, just the soft murmuring of conversation and the loud and lewd chatter of the drunken guards. The rest of the men kept openly staring at me, some of them with disconcerting approval. I was careful not to make eye contact with any of them, although it dawned on me that soon I would have to choose a companion or have the most aggressive of the men make an approach.
