by O. J. Lowe
“David!”
“I know, I know. Run. Save myself. Figure of speech.”
“I figured Reeves’d be the one who would fight me on this, you know. Not you.”
He didn’t know whether to be hurt or not. Wondered what Brendan meant by the words. They didn’t sound complimentary, although maybe he’d meant them to be anything but insulting. Their weight had struck him though. What did Reeves have, that he didn’t, other than Vedo skills and the ability to manipulate the Kjarn? Wilsin knew he had a lot of years of experience behind him. He was as fit as he’d ever been, maybe a little rusty but this was the mission to smoothen that out.
Brendan must have seen the look on his face, he raised both hands as a sign of deference immediately. “My apologies. I didn’t mean it like that. I wasn’t questioning your character.”
He didn’t sound convincing. Like he was trying to tell himself that rather than he was Wilsin.
Up ahead, Reeves and the rapidly-reddening Bryce were chatting animatedly as if they’d known each other all their lives. Reeves, damn him, Wilsin thought, didn’t look like the heat was bothering him in the slightest.
Sometimes, he thought, they’d all been a lot better off when the Vedo had been a footnote in a myth that none of them had ever heard. He knew things had been a lot less complicated before Baxter came back out of the woodwork. Nobody could dispute that.
Probably not even Baxter himself, given what he had to deal with these days.
Brendan coughed. “Just so you know. Not even Fazarn knows this. Should something go wrong in that jungle, there’s an emergency beacon in my pack. If things move beyond recovery, push it. An emergency Unisco recovery vehicle will move out for you.”
Wilsin whistled. Up ahead, Bryce and Reeves paused, the older man glanced back at him, shook his head in a painfully condescending manner. Wilsin considered going over and punching him for the look. Decided against it. Too damn sapping. He didn’t want to expend the effort. Not with the bombshell Brendan had just dropped on him.
“That’s incredible,” he said. “They do know that they run the risk of being shot down if they come here, don’t they?”
“That’s why it’s only to be used in a major emergency. Only if things are so bad that pushing it can’t possibly make them worse.” He saw the look on Wilsin’s face and laughed. “I don’t expect them to get that bad. I can’t imagine what would precipitate needing to push it. But remember. Preparation. Good not to need it, better to have it.”
Their numbers were few, even when they’d joined up. They’d set their rendezvous point at an old storage yard just on the outskirts of town, their wagons would be stored there while they made their trek into the jungle. “Can’t take them into the jungle,” Bryce had explained as they’d approached. “It’s unchartered wilderness. No paths. We rise above the treeline, we run twice as much fuel. Those wagons aren’t good with heights, not with the weighs we’re talking.”
“I didn’t know you were an expert on jungle navigation,” Wilsin said to the botanist. It felt petty letting the words slip his mouth. He couldn’t bring himself to care.
“You learn new things wherever you must, David,” Bryce said. Now he knew what to look for, he could see the limp. It wasn’t noticeable at first, but now he could see the slightest misstep every time he walked. He never quite looked like he’d topple over, but the threat was there. “That’s the way the species survives. Dogs and tricks. Learn them.”
Yeah, I want to learn how to take a beating in the shadow fighting ring, I’ll come talk to you, Wilsin thought. A smirk played across his lips. He’d loved to throw that at him, see what he had to say in retort. Decided against it. It wasn’t worth the argument that would follow. Plus, he might not be here as an agent of Unisco but still there was a professional demeanour to follow.
“I suppose,” he said instead. “I don’t know, I’ve never gone trekking through the jungles. Couldn’t tell you the first thing about it.”
“Not as easy as it sounds, David,” Brendan said.
“Really, because I thought the whole process sounded like it would be horrific,” Wilsin smiled. Brendan had to turn his face away, he thought he saw the older man’s shoulders shake.
“Anyway,” Bryce said. “We leave the wagons here, all bar one. This jungle might be swallowing up everything it touches but there’s one thing that it hasn’t touched so far. At least, not in a bad way. We’ve got a boat. We’re loading everything into that and we’re heading upriver.”
Wilsin remembered that story. That was how this whole thing had been reported, back at the start, if his memory served him. The first thing people had noticed in Vazara was that the rivers were filling up. A good chunk of the kingdom had been scar-mined over recent years, chunks of the desert sands heated up and solidified into glass, melted down into liquid to be transported to a site where the valuable minerals within could be reconstituted. Easier than traditional mining, very much cheaper as well.
Claudia Coppinger had laid claim to be the main culprit, most of the materials to build the resort and the stadiums on Carcaradis Island had come from here. Then the Green had appeared, and the cracks left on the landscape had started to fill with water. She’d claimed to have done it deliberately as her gift to the people of Vazara, a country that had so much and yet received so little of it. “At least,” she had said in a broadcasted interview, “they can at least have some fresh water. Courtesy of me.”
No wonder she was so popular here. They’d seen pictures of her plastered up across several of the towns they’d been through. She was more popular than their Premier. He wondered if they only tolerated Mazoud because he had been put in place by Coppinger. More than once, he’d seen a shrine to her. Offerings. These people didn’t have much but what they did, they were willing to give up in supplication to her. They believed in her.
Brendan had shaken his head at the sight of the last one. “Disgusting.”
The yard was about what he’d expected from a town like this, the sort of place where old speeders went to have parts recycled into slightly newer vehicles. He thought he’d seen junk before, none of it had anything on some of the stuff piled up here. On second glance, not all of it was old. Some of it could have passed for new. Calling it junk was an unfair assessment. He could have sworn a few of the items looked newer than the ones on the wagons they’d rode down in. None of the stuff however looked as old as the Vazaran with one hand stood leaning on a stick, chatting to Fazarn and his assistant. Fazarn spoke, the girl to his right translated. Out here in the outback of Vazara, every other village had their own variation of the same dialect. It was, putting it mildly, a real pain in the arse.
They’d not had much to do with the rest of the team so far, beyond introductions. Fazarn’s assistant, Tiana Aubemaya continued to translate away into arguments with the old man, his face not giving anything away. Living in this part of the world probably did wonders for recognising when someone wanted something and being willing to negotiate hard. Wilsin smiled, broke open a bottle of water. The heat had died away, still stifled but at least they were out of the full force of it for now. The entrance to the yard had shade, enough for one or two but seven was pushing it. Two more of the team, Suniro Suchiga and Ballard Brown were already there, crammed up against the back, the latter mopping his head from perspiration. Brown grinned as he saw them.
“Look who showed up,” he said, pale teeth flashing against mud-coloured skin. At some point, someone had told him that dying hair green and blonde was a good thing to do and he’d believed them. “Told you, Sunny. They’d be here sooner or later.”
Suchiga looked at him, chose not to respond. The sun shone off the polished skin of his hairless head, the lack of hair in conjunction with the slant of his eyes granting him an aura of wisdom. People from Burykia didn’t come to Vazara often. Historically, they didn’t trust each other. The former thought the latter were subhuman, the former thought the latter were thieves and cheats. Suchiga had the
air of someone who’d rather be somewhere else but that the opportunities were many here and he was willing to swallow the indignity of suffering the sands.
“Doctor Suchiga. Doctor Brown,” Brendan said, inclining his head as they returned the greetings. Wilsin returned them, wandered past the one-eyed doctor who glanced up at him from where he was sat on the sand and smiled. If they found themselves in need of medical attention, Nordin Nmecha was going to patch them up. He reached down, shook his hand. The doctor was going through his pack, checking their medical supplies. He might only have one eye, Wilsin had noticed that immediately, seen the bright white patch covering it, but he looked competent enough. He’d rather his doctor had two hands, unlike the yard owner.
That was where he’d found himself heading. Towards Fazarn, Aubemaya and the one-handed man, curiosity filling him up. He couldn’t speak the tongue, he fancied he might be able to get a glimpse into what was going on. They weren’t exactly going to great lengths to conceal their body language. Nobody did unless they realised what it said about them. Teaching it at Unisco was a subject that nobody enjoyed learning, yet when they got out into the field, they realised how valuable it was. It was the sort of skill that saved your life.
Those days felt longer and longer ago with each passing week, yet the lessons had never faded. He looked across at Fazarn, righteously annoyed that the negotiation was taking so long, arms folded, trying to stand taller as to intimidate. He could see the stubborn confidence in the owner of the yard, leaning forward, face set in pride. He wasn’t going to give an inch. Every sinew of his face bore the contours of determination, here was a man not used to quitting.
Aubemaya looked fed up as she translated, rapid-fire dialect into something they could understand. Her voice was like honey poured over biscuits. “He says he knows that we make arrangement already, he say circumstances have changed.”
“Not that bloody much, they haven’t,” Fazarn said. None of them were looking at him on approach, still embroiled in their own little argument. “We had an agreement, he’s been compensated.”
Aubemaya rolled her eyes, stretched out her fingers in front of her and chattered in the dialect, it sounded harsh and alien to Wilsin’s ears. Saying it sounded like conversational chimp might be doing it credit.
“He says again, circumstances have changed. We go upriver, he never sees his boat again. He’s not happy about it.”
“My good man,” Fazarn said. He looked to have found another few inches of height from somewhere. He towered over the one-handed man who didn’t look impressed in the slightest by it. Fazarn was large, that couldn’t be disputed but it was the shape of a man for whom the easy life had started to take a toll. Height and size only intimidated when they looked deadly, not when it gave the impression throwing the first punch would lead to passing out from exertion. “We are not shysters out to con you. We are academics. We seek the answers.”
No response as Aubemaya translated. Her face had only taken on more resignation, her eyes lowering to the ground.
“Why does he think he won’t see his boat again?” Wilsin asked, breaking his silence. The old man jumped, turned with his stick held up high like a sword in the one hand. For the first time, that face lit up in delight and he shuffled forward, the stick dropping. Wilsin saw the hand come up, offer itself to him. He grinned, shook it. It was like gripping old teak, solid but without the threat of crushing. At the same time, you knew that it would outlast you if it came to a show of force.
The words broke from his mouth, two that he recognised amidst them. David and Wilsin. He grinned, wished that he was stood somewhere else right now. Anywhere else would do. He glanced towards Aubemaya. “What did he just say?”
“Big fan,” Aubemaya said. “He said they have an old viewing screen in the hut, he saw you on it during the Quin-C.” At least it had brought some enthusiasm out of her, the smile lit up her face. “There’s always one somewhere, huh, Mister Wilsin?”
“David, please,” he said, giving her a wink. “Tell him it’s nice to meet him. And ask him my question. Why does he think he won’t see his boat again?”
She didn’t hesitate, launched straight into the questions while Fazarn muttered under his breath. They sounded angry, threatening even. Another reason to potentially regret this whole expedition. Bryce was turning out to be difficult to work with, Fazarn wasn’t much better. He found himself wondering why he’d bothered. He wasn’t an academic like Brendan, Reeves had been volunteered for it. He’d had a choice and he’d made the one to come.
“He asks if you’d like wine, though I’d decline before Doctor Bryce hears about it,” Aubemaya said. “Otherwise we’ll never leave.”
Wilsin grinned. “Thanks, but no thanks.” He pointed up in the sky, towards the sun. “Doesn’t agree with me in this.”
“As for your other question, he says he see travellers come through here towards the jungle all the time now. One, maybe two a week.”
“Popular destination, huh?” Wilsin asked. He glanced to Fazarn. “You know anything about this?”
“Thrill seekers and scientific charlatans no doubt, seeking that their name remains immortal whereas we who do it for the contribution will be left seething in the background,” Fazarn said. If he’d sounded any more theatrical, Wilsin would have felt bad about not buying a ticket.
“People come,” Aubemaya said. “They go into the jungle. Six months it’s been advancing. He worried that it’ll swallow everything he has soon.” The old man continued to jabber, the translator nodded and nodded, looked him up and down as he said it. “He says he’s going to throw himself into it if that happen.”
“Nice,” Fazarn said. The disgust was palpable in his voice. For someone who looked like he’d been born not a few miles from a place like this, Fazarn’s attitude bemused Wilsin. Maybe he’d gotten too used to city living and a cushy life. Going from the top of your field, as Brendan had told him, to a backhole like this must have hurt.
It was nice to know he wasn’t the only one having second thoughts about the validity of being here then.
“Six months, he’s seen people going in there. A few at first, one or two in the first months. Then many more. Much more after that. We’re the…” She cocked an eyebrow, said something that might have been a request for clarification. A due response came, she nodded in agreement and smiled her thanks. “Thirteenth party to have asked him for help.”
“Unlucky for some then,” Wilsin said. He glanced around the junkyard again, realising some of the stuff here suddenly made sense. Crafty old bastard. He’d been recycling the parts of the equipment the previous parties had left here. Running a con. The implication of it all made his eyes want to water. How many had been through here and not come back. Thirteen parties. Given there were nine of them in theirs alone, that could be a horrific number of people. What the hells were they getting themselves into?
“How many have come back?” Fazarn asked. “Has he heard from any of them again?” The look in his eyes said he was serious. Wilsin shook his head. Oblivion was nice for some people. Being able to listen between the words wasn’t always the best thing.
“Just one speeder,” Aubemaya said. “With an interesting cargo.” She jabbered some more, he found himself watching the fascinating shapes her mouth made as she spat the dialect. “In the shed, he says. We want to see?”
“I’ll look at it,” Wilsin said, not giving Fazarn the chance to cut in. “Forewarned is forearmed, after all.”
The shed was probably anything but. Where Wilsin came from, they were small huts at the bottom of gardens. Not everyone had one but those that did considered themselves to be a cut above the rest. There’d never been one in his family growing up, if his father wanted to get away from his mother, he went to the local tavern and didn’t come back until the young David Wilsin was asleep.
This was several sizes bigger than any shed he’d ever experienced before, larger and darker. He could smell engine oil in the background, the flo
or sticky beneath his boots and he didn’t want to think about what it might be. Something nasty, no doubt. The relief from the heat outside was instant, his skin cried out with the relief. He licked his lips, tasted the salt on them.
The speeder in the centre of the room had seen better days, he was amazed it had made it out of the jungle. Deep gouges ratcheted the frame, cut the metal almost back to what lay underneath. He could see the engine through the ones touched by the light, it looked about as healthy as the rest of it. The windshield was more cracked than whole, as if something heavy had struck it and come off better in the ensuing confrontation. He’d be amazed if it flew again.
Everything about the speeder was incidental, except the figure sat in the pilot’s seat. Wilsin hadn’t seen one for a while, they were becoming rarer and rarer in common society. Humanoid, but not human. A slave that wasn’t aware it was a slave. The skin that covered it looked flesh-coloured, but if he touched it, he’d find it was harder than steel. The eyes, though they looked real, stared unblinking into the light. Some of their owners programmed them to blink. When they looked like this, it was disconcerting. Some used them as labour. Some as butlers. Others as bodyguards.
“Endroid, huh?” Fazarn said. “One of the parties must have been wealthy.”
Wasn’t that the truth? Endroids were expensive, marketed only to the rich and the important. They cost more to run for a month than most people made in a year. They were effective, efficient, trustworthy, all the things that they’d been marketed to be that human employees weren’t.
The old man jabbered, gestured to the endroid. Aubemaya rolled her eyes. “It’s always about credits with some people. He says he’s going to rebuild him…” Wilsin smirked at that. If the old man was capable of that, there was more to him than met the eye. Nobody in their right mind would buy a second-hand endroid that had been tinkered about with. There were easier ways of committing suicide. Assuming they didn’t blow up, there’d been a rumour about that some months back to avoid illegal modifications, their programming was unnaturally sensitive. Each was made for a specific purpose, they did not respond well to having that purpose subverted.
