by Eyal Kless
“Tarakan sends its regards,” he croaked and with his free hand brought out a coin satchel and laid it gently between us. “You are looking for Emilija—she is the only thing that matters.”
“What about the mother? She featured in the dream command.”
“The daughter is the only one that matters,” the man repeated. “You must find out where she is and bring her safely to the Star Pillar.” He began to cough and it took him a while to stop.
I used the lull in his coughing to ask, “Can I ask you a question?”
He nodded, still unable to speak.
“What the fuck happened?”
The man’s cough turned into a wheezy chuckle. “He told me you’d ask this. It is only reasonable.”
“Who told you?”
He caught himself. “Never mind. It is surprising, given your credentials, that you haven’t figured it out by now.”
He was goading me, trying to figure out what I already knew, but at that moment I really didn’t care. “I can see only part of the picture,” I said. “There was a terrible global war, Tarakan was defeated, and everyone died. Society is broken, hundreds of years of progress were lost, the survivors are fighting among themselves, and some of them have strange mutations. They can heal, see the future, or whatever. How am I doing?”
“Not bad,” he admitted. “Go on.”
“What I do not understand is why was I awakened and why my mission is so vital and to whom.”
“Well, once you complete your mission you will be fully briefed,” he answered. He coughed blood again, then leaned over and whispered, “The only question is whether you are loyal to Tarakan or not, because waking up in this new world can be disorienting, and it can make you think that perhaps there is no reason not to fend for yourself.”
The image of my dying father and brothers came into my mind, and infuriated me. “Don’t question my loyalty again.” I did not bother to conceal the threat in my tone of voice.
He laughed without bitterness. “You think I am afraid of dying or of pain? Look at me.”
“So what are you doing here?”
“Doing one last favour for a man who once saved my life.”
“Why did he send you of all people? You need to be in a hospital, not on a field mission.”
He raised his thin arms up in a gesture of surrender. “I am doing both at the same time. Worry not, Colonel Major. After this meeting I am on my way to a place called the Mender’s. My body has endured more than it can take, but perhaps they can give me a few more weeks of relatively painless dying.” He waved his hand dismissively. “But enough of this friendly socializing. I have information that is important for your mission.” He leaned over towards me. Even his breath stank of death. “There is a Tinker. You know what they are?”
I nodded.
“Good. His name is Puorpan. He makes his trade in Tinker Town, that’s in the western part of this plateau. Vincha, the girl’s mother, goes to him whenever she visits the city, and I know for a fact she brought her daughter to him a few years ago. He would know of her whereabouts or be able to point you in the right direction.”
“Wait, if you know where this Puorpan lives, why not send a team over?”
The man rose slowly to his feet. “Remember, this city is not in the hands of Tarakan anymore, Colonel Major. This is a new world, and this world has new rulers who have tight control over most parts of the city. Hiring some local thugs to do a delicate job is not advisable. That is why you were brought back from the dead. To do this one last mission for your country. Find Puorpan and locate Emilija. She is a Puzzler.”
“A what?”
He sighed. “Too long to explain. She is marked, like the others you mentioned.”
“Why her?” This question was way off protocol. I was accustomed to only knowing what I needed to know. But right then, I needed to know more.
“This Emilija girl”—the man spoke slowly and deliberately—“she has certain . . . talents, and she is easily identified by the tattoos on her hands, arms, and head. There are not many Puzzlers around, believe me. Emilija is not in this city, that’s for sure—I would have known about it—but she must not be too far, either. Her mother hid her in the misguided belief that she is protecting the girl from harm.”
“A mother’s instinct is usually right,” I said.
The man looked at me disapprovingly. “You have your orders, agent. Once you find the girl we will take her to the Star Pillar, to a man named Mannes. Everything will be cleared up for you then.”
For the first time I saw the man hesitate before he made up his mind and added, “And you must hurry. There are other agents looking for the Puzzler.”
“Other agents? Whose?” I said, leaning closer. “Who is still at play here, when the board is so wrecked?”
“The side that caused this whole war is still active,” the man answered carefully. “We do not know who the agents are, but we have a vague description of their vessels. There are two of them, both males, and at least one is a capable warrior.”
“A warrior” was a strange way of describing anyone, even a trained hibernating agent. This man, with his cloak-and-dagger routine, was still not from my time. If by “warrior” he meant I was facing a combat vessel, that was bad news indeed.
“Then I’d better find this Emilija before they do,” I said out loud, “and then I’ll need a way out of the city. The methods I might need to use for hasty resolution usually attract attention.”
The man’s laugh was deep and throaty. “Nobody cares for a dead Tinker these days, but when you need to find me, go to the Broken Blaster tavern in the Pit. Ask for Sergiu the Dying, but don’t take too long, if you get my drift . . .” He winked, then turned and walked away, leaving me with one thought: Who the fuck is Mannes?
Chapter 36
Mannes
“Sir, everything is in place, if you’re sure this is worth the costs and the risks.”
Mannes merely nodded, ignoring the subtle barb. The passing decade had taught him nothing but patience. He concentrated on getting a little more comfortable, but lying on top of a frozen mound was not something he was supposed to do at his age or with the state of his body. From his commander’s point of view, the precious fuel and, presumably, spent ammo and body count were certainly not worth the reward, so Mannes wanted to make sure his orders were followed. He kept reminding himself that his little army, even the so-called officers, were not aware of his true objectives. Most of them had signed up for what they thought was a glorified raiding party. Survival and loot were their goals, a warm meal in the height of freezing winter, a cot to lay their heads on at night, and everything else that came with conquest in battle. From their perspective, his zigzagging across the frozen lands of Siberia was unpredictable and, at times, illogical. Well . . . if they knew who he really was, what he was responsible for and what his plans were, they would have murdered him a long time ago.
Mannes considered briefly getting rid of this captain, even though this one was at least a real military man who had managed to keep his large family alive for years before joining with Mannes. He had helped reorganize Mannes’s forces into something resembling a modern military, but now he was getting too familiar and perhaps gathering too much confidence to the point that he might pose a threat. Mannes decided to put it aside for the moment and think about a replacement at a more appropriate time.
After Kazakhstan he had tried going southwest, thinking it would be easier to travel through old Europe to the shores of Spain, but he soon found out the more populated the land used to be, the worse the damage was. It was uncanny, illogical—what would make Tarakan embark upon the destruction of its enemy with total disregard to the fate of humanity? He was sure his old professor Vitor would have had a good answer for this question. He always knew better, and look what it had done to the world . . .
Mannes gave up at the shores of a new sea that used to be Holland, realising that even if he managed to find a way to the
other side, he still had to cross the Atlantic. That, and the devastation he saw in this part of the globe, made Mannes turn back, and they were now heading towards the Bering Strait. But, like Napoleon and Hitler, he was discovering Russia to be an impossible land to pass through. This time, there was no army to oppose his advance, but fuel was a real problem and the weather was a silent killer. Resources were now so scarce that when not deployed on a mission, a lot of his vehicles had to be pulled by horses.
“Sir?”
Mannes snapped back to reality. “Yes?”
“I think they are starting things.”
Outside the fortified town, the mass of worshippers continued to file forward with their offerings held high over their heads and chants of exultation on their lips. The crowd was growing into a fever of excitement as they surged around the cleansing pits.
Watching one old fool struggling under the weight of a bioscanner, Mannes couldn’t help but think that a sound system or a laptop computer might have been a more manageable sacrifice.
TVs, holoprojectors, smart lenses, house processors, all went into the flames as the crowd of this naturalist cult lost itself in the frenzy. Mannes noticed the cult’s guards did not add their weapons into the pile. He guessed there was a limit to zealousness even for these idiots.
Finally, the bronze gongs rang out, and the crowd fanned out to observe the climactic rites of the High Master. Standing atop the great Ziggurat, which was lovingly crafted from the mixed components of hundreds of cars and shielded under a hundred-foot dome comprised of a network of windshields, he received the adulation of his flock. Thrusting the plasma torch high above his head, the High Master drove them to an ear-splitting roar of ecstasy.
An acolyte appeared at the bottom of the Ziggurat in ceremonial robes. Bowing low to the High Master, she raised a transparent box with crystalline circuitry visible within. The rooftop spotters were not necessary, as Mannes could see her clearly from ground level. The box contained a prisoner, a Sentient Program, who was about to be destroyed. Norma had picked up his distress call almost by accident.
Mannes turned to his Captain. “That’s it. Tell them to go straight for the transparent box near the bottom of the Ziggurat. The carrier has red robes and a red skullcap. Go when ready.”
“The Go Team has heard every word. The laser pointer is already marking the objective,” the Captain informed him. “Engines started, ETA is thirty seconds.”
Mannes suddenly saw something. “Halt, wait for my mark,” he ordered, peering through the binoculars as his captain echoed his words into the Comm. He saw a naked boy, maybe nine or ten years old, being carried by four acolytes. Despite all he saw, despite all he had done, Mannes’s heart skipped a beat. If he had doubts about what he was seeing, the ceremonial dagger the High Master brandished to the cheering crowd made it obvious what the plan was here. The boy was laid on the pile of metal and strapped to a pole as the crowd swayed and chanted.
“Humanity is back to doing this shit now?”
Look what we have done to this world, Professor Vitor.
“Sir, both clearance teams are ready,” the Captain said.
Mannes felt a cold fury rise in him. Sacrificing children for the sake of a bogus god and his power-crazed prophet.
“A slight change in plans.” He kept staring through the binoculars. “First priority is the transparent box, but I want them to try and bring the boy too, alive.”
“That is—” the Captain began.
Mannes said, “Just inform the Go Team that if they bring back the boy alive there will be an extra reward. And Captain . . .”
“Yes?”
“With the exception of their leader, kill everyone else. Guards first, but anyone dancing and chanting down there while a human sacrifice is about to happen is going to die today.”
He heard the Captain repeat his words.
“Proceed on my mark.” Mannes quickly slipped the earmuffs on. “Now!”
It all happened at once. The snipers lying next to him took out several armed guards with single shots, while the twin heavy machine guns positioned on a hill on the other side streamed fire and scythed through the ranks of the crowd. Mannes turned right and spotted the old armoured personnel carrier ramming through the gate and making its way towards the centre of town, cutting through the masses.
Oh, Professor, I wonder what you would say if you could see me now, you goddamn son of a bitch.
Mannes turned off his Comm but kept watching. They had the advantage of surprise, but the naturalists were not done yet. From the other side of town, guards were mobilizing. A few bullets zoomed over their heads and hit the mound they were lying on.
Mannes fought the urge to retreat back to better cover. “High Master is down,” he heard his captain report.
“As instructed?” Mannes lowered the binoculars.
“Yes, Master, gut shot. Left alive.”
“Good. Let him try and cure himself the old-fashioned way. Maybe some leeches can help.”
The Go Team reached their objective as their roof-mounted flamethrowers opened up on the crowd. The snatch squad burst out to grab the priceless artifact and the boy, who was slumped in place on top of the pyre.
A little while later the Captain relayed the news. “They’ve got it, and the boy. We have three casualties; returning to the APC.”
His second lieutenant got up on her knees first and extended her hand. “Master, the Go Team’s clear. Let me help you out to your command car and we’ll catch them at the rendezvous point.”
Mannes let himself be helped up and pressed the Comm button once he was standing. “Go Team, what’s the boy’s name?”
“Sir? Could you repeat the question?” There was the noise of crackling fire and a rumbling engine.
“The boy we rescued, what is his name?”
There was a short silence, then the answer came. “He says it’s Sergiu, sir.”
“We extract as soon as they’re out of the square. Start the engines.”
Mannes got up. How much had he spent and risked in order to rescue one Sentient Program from these insane fools who gleefully crushed the few remaining fragments of civilisation? And with only an automatic distress message for help to rely on, there was no guarantee that the SP had even survived. But Mannes could not let these barbarians ruin a work of perfection that their dirty hands were not even fit to touch. There was no shortage of slaughter in this new world, but at least this one served a purpose.
Chapter 37
Twinkle Eyes
A week after the three of us snuck into the City of Towers, I found myself walking down memory lane and into a place I never thought I would visit again. The Green Meadow was one of those Middle Plateau establishments aimed at attracting the upper crust of society who wanted to get just a little bit dirty, but not so much as to lower themselves to the Pit. Richly decorated and with the use of scented candles, gold-encrusted oil lamps, and a permanent harpist in residence, it tried to create an aura of sophistication to back up the prices it extorted from its patrons. A closer look, however, revealed it was basically just another cheap brothel. The scenic paintings and tapestries were fading, the gold crust was peeling, the wine was as overspiced as much as it was overpriced, and the beds creaked and moaned with overuse, just like the prostitutes.
Nevertheless, I cherished a few good memories from the place. After all, it was where I lost my virginity, but more important, it was also where I got many of my best leads. The fact that it was located in a strategic area, within walking distance of three different Tarakan lifts and the plateau’s busiest market, made it ideal for clandestine meetings as well as sealing a good business deal with a party to remember. “A blade will dull, a weapon may jam, but good information is always metal,” so goes the saying. Many of the patrons talked too much here, and there were always those who were smart enough to listen.
I left Galinak at a Salvationist watering hole with enough metal to get drunk but not too drunk, hoping he wo
uldn’t get into any serious trouble. I also left him my peacemaker. For all its air of Upper Towers poshness, they did search for weapons at the doors of the Green Meadow, and I did not want to make the wrong impression. A lone patron looking for a quick lay was too common to remember. Two armed men walking into the establishment would have been a completely different matter. Besides, after months on the road and another week being cooped up in the tiny room that Dorian’s thankful uncle allocated to us, I needed a break from the crusty fella, and I had a suspicion he felt the same.
To a newcomer, the city must still be a place of absolute marvel, but I was feeling the change. It was dwindling, greying, nervous, and perhaps dying, yet this was still my town, and I felt a sort of elation when I stepped through the heavy double oak wood doors into the familiar scenes. It was like going back in time, but this time around I was not a nervous young boy blushing and fumbling my coins as I counted them out. Now I was a man in his prime, who’d come back from the dead. If I get what I came for, I promised myself, I will not leave the place unsated. For old times’ sake.
But business before pleasure, metal before flesh, and the rest of the clichés. I sat down on a cushioned sofa and waited to be served. I did not wait long but I noted the waiter was new, or at least someone I only vaguely recognised. He was dressed in fine attire that had seen better days, torn cuffs, some sweat markings on his collar, and a missing button.
“Good evening, Master. I am Raviel, your waiter. What would be your pleasure?” The fake high-tower mannerisms and accent were laughable. Despite the grooming and the hand gestures, it was obvious that this guy came from the lower plateaus, if not from the Pit, and had picked up whatever he could from the patrons who came in here. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find out his mother used to work in this very establishment.
“Where is Sammarkhand?” I asked.
The waiter blinked, taken aback, but quickly regained his composure. “I am sorry, Master. Mr. Sammarkhand is no longer with us. Since more than six moons ago.”
