The Madman's Bridge: FireWall Book 1

by Mark Johnson

  Tummil snapped his fingers, a realization in his eyes. “The local farmers reported howling ghosts. They barricaded their houses.”

  “I don’t know what did that work below, Sergeant, but there are four surviving guards who know more than us.” He read from the papers. “Domnic Dantet, Repaan Lethrien, Zalaran Morgenheth, and Cestin Rortiin. And if they’re all infected, I’m a debutante at her first dance.”

  Reeben stood straighter, and looked his sergeant in the eye. “Tummil, it’s a Seeker’s job to look for chaos infections. So when they find something they don’t understand, they call it chaos energy and cadvers, sent by the Enemy. They just can’t admit there are things they don’t know.”

  He tilted his head to either side, making it crack each time. “I’m assuming those four boys were just unlucky. But now, Sergeant, what do we do?”

  “Right. We track down their families, get witness —”

  “No. We watch the Seekers!”

  “Sir?”

  “Did you get a look at Head Saarg, Tummil?”

  “Bit young for a Head, Sir.”

  “But certainly up to the task.”

  Tummil nodded. “What about her, Sir?”

  “Why was she angry there were survivors?”

  Tummil followed his gaze down to the Swallowing site, an almost perfect circle of mud, delineated by a border of green grass. Like a god’s fingerprint, reached from the heavens to touch the earth.

  Slowly, the sun rose over Polis Armer.

  1

  Terese Saarg, head seeker of Srmer Stone Chapterhouse, loathed Polis Sumad. It was too hot, too dry, and on the other side of the world from her daughter.

  She was waiting in an abandoned stone house, in a forgotten village, somewhere near the middle of nowhere, in the most depressing Polis in the world, where broken roads linked small villages and towns (Walls and Wall clusters, she reminded herself) in sight of the Polis rim wall (RimWall: here, many things had such crammed-together names). Dusty browns and cracked yellows triumphed over any trace of fertile green and, everywhere she looked, Polis Sumad was as broken as the abandoned houses in which her Complement hid. The shelter’s walls had just enough mortar between them to remain upright. Through one sagging window, she could see a thin tower in the distance. The sky was the only colorful thing about the Polis, so much more vivid and bright than in Armer. Its cloudless blue seemed borrowed from a painting.

  There were no lakes or rivers nearby, to quench her thirst. All she had was the stale water from the supplies. Polis Sumad supplied water directly to His people through pipes from somewhere below, though apparently not all people. This small village’s empty fountains had either dried after its people left, or the people had left when the fountains dried. Apparently, closer to Polis Sumad’s Center, ran slender rivers, and the pipes supplied clean water.

  “I just love Polis Sumad,” gushed her deputy, Missionary Jools Teeber. The tall woman crouched against the wall, beside Terese. “Even at night, it’s a different cold from home. And the food has so much more taste.”

  Terese still couldn’t decide whether her deputy was naïve or simply an utter featherhead. She’d often considered telling Teeber the name that family and friends called her: ‘Tressa’, instead of ‘Terese’. But she couldn’t bring herself to give the name over. Any time she found herself on the verge of forging that final bond, Teeber would unleash another palm-to-forehead observation.

  “You can feel the age here,” Teeber continued. “That tower outside isn’t really a tower. It’s an aqueduct support, for transporting water from the pipes and fountains around the area. This place would have been beautiful before the refugees pulled its stones apart for their Walls.”

  Yet, Teeber noticed things Terese didn’t.

  “Head, this capture could be… interesting,” said Missionary Lyrean. He’d recently been raised to ‘missionary’ from ‘assistant’ status. “I’ve never heard of infected screaming at night, but being fine in daylight. Cadvers are supposed to be insane all the time. If those witnesses are right, there’s something unusual about our renegades.” He pushed a hand through his blond hair. “And they’ve been infected a long time to still be comfortable in daylight.”

  Little about this mission made sense, she had to admit. “If they’re clean, Missionary, we’ll ask what happened and release them. But their minds are likely gone. It’s more likely the four boys were chaos weavers. Enemy worshippers, just as worthy of death as cadvers.”

  The four renegades likely weren’t weavers, though. Their files stated they’d been tested as children, and couldn’t weave vibrations. That meant they shouldn’t be able to weave chaos energy. They were probably just infected.

  So, the young man had a point, but her orders had been to improvise and ensure the renegades’ bones remained in Polis Sumad. Any knowledge of Armer Stone Chapterhouse’s involvement with the Immersion Chamber back home would die with them. The renegades’ unfinished indenture in the quarter guard back home was none of her business; she was neither bounty hunter nor debt collector.

  That tower, visible from the window, reddened with the sunset. The witnesses they’d found had been adamant the tower was their destination. And about every ten days they would come, climb the tower and scream all night. Bizarre, but she saw their logic in that it kept them safe from prowling lions, if they were somehow incapacitated.

  Slowly, a host of insects began their nightly chorus. Streaking clouds crept in from the east. Soon.

  A whistle came from Missionary Lyrean, peering onto the street through a peephole in the corner.

  “Four males,” he said. “Young. Unarmed.”

  “Stand by,” she said to the waiting Seekers. Twenty Seekers: her Complement. And this would be her first infected capture whilst leading her own Complement.

  Lyrean lifted his arm out to the side, and held it still.

  Stop fretting, Terese. The last, catastrophic half year of her life would be erased in ten minutes. Armer Stone Chapterhouse’s involvement would be forever hidden. In ten minutes, she could start her journey back to Pella. Her breath came faster.

  The first cool gust of evening blew through the ruined room. The ancient tower loomed taller. Jagged and broken buildings cast patched shadows toward the east. The Seekers watched the motionless Lyrean.

  He made a repetitive chopping motion to the side with his left hand.

  Subjects on course for objective.

  He twirled his forefinger, pointing downwards.

  Identity cannot be confirmed from visuals.

  A thumbs-up wavering back and forth, then both hands in the air, ten fingers splayed wide; then he took one finger down.

  Cannot confirm identity, but best to act in ten seconds, nine seconds, eight seconds...

  When Lyrean’s last finger dropped, Terese pressed the vibration pulser’s trigger at her feet, exhaling heavily as she pushed on the metallic pad. Her eyes remained glued to Lyrean’s back.

  All subjects reacting to the charge, still mobile.

  He slowed his waving.

  They resist, but are losing strength.

  Inside her helmet, Terese’s eyebrows rose. This was an unusually fast subjugation. Lyrean made the gesture they had been waiting for. Two fists above his shoulders.

  Inert.

  Terese released the vibration pulser.

  There were no sounds, no electronic hums, or howls of pain. Hidden below ground level, the four vibration projectors had been placed in a wide, square formation. The projectors would incapacitate any infected within that square, from first itches up to full cadverism.

  “Converge!” she shouted.

  Terese was the last squad member out of the sagging window, her Complement keeping their shockpole tips to the ground as they ran ahead, jumping brittle yellow fragments of broken wall and shattered shards of old glass.
Hard, loud slaps echoed off the ground as they ran.

  Four bodies slowly writhed at the tower’s base. Automatically, the Complement took up places around each of the infected, moving in tight, practiced steps. Assistants held their poles tight on the infected’s chests, ready to send more charges into them if they moved before they were securely bound. The apprentices shackled the infecteds’ limbs with negators: metallic boxes, encasing their arms from the elbow down. A second negator bound their legs from the knees down. The negators would cancel any chaos energies the infected might create to help them escape.

  Terese watched to make certain no Seeker’s skin touched the infected. Too much direct skin contact with a chaos infected could drain even a Seeker’s life energy.

  There was no one else in the clearing: no Sumadans, nor refugee Cenephans, to admire her handiwork. The conclusion to her long mission should have been climactic: such a perfect capture deserved witnesses. But only the crumbling buildings sat, defeated and forgotten as they had been for centuries, watching her, judging her. The insects grew louder.

  “Head!” shouted Teeber. “Four contained. Capture complete.”

  Twenty Seekers watched Terese turn to face the captives. The assistants sheathed their poles and stood back with the missionaries and apprentices. Her job had been to coordinate the capture, not become involved. Part of her role as the Head, the part no one talked of, happened now. Head Seeker Terese Saarg would ascertain whether these infected — these innocents and victims — should die by her hand.

  She slowly approached the men she’d chased for almost a year, now finally contained and laid in a row. Her objective had been achieved. These men were her ticket home to Armer, to Pella.

  Their hair was long, and they’d grown ragged beards, so they were yet to suffer the hair loss brought on by chaos infection. That was why Lyrean had trouble identifying them. Unusual, given the amount of time they’d been exposed. Their Armer-styled dark trousers and white long-sleeved shirts had taken on a gray tinge, showing dirty skin beneath fabric, worn away at the knees and elbows. It was a safe bet that they’d taken these clothes from the Immersion Chamber after they’d awoken. Their Armer-styled boots had held together well.

  Terese stifled a gasp when an infected captive, blond and heavily muscled, sat upright with a grunt and looked her in the eye. Too quick a recovery, quicker than she’d seen before. His eyes were light blue and… completely lucid. She kept her hands from the shockpole at her waist and cleared her throat loudly, ready to ask if he could identify himself and his companions.

  “What took you so long?” the one who sat up asked in the accent of home: the Dancing Bridge Quarter, unless she was mistaken.

  She remained still.

  Everything is fine. You’ve done everything right.

  “We never guessed you’d flee Armer immediately,” Terese said. “That took months to discover. And only allowing two of you at a time to sleep within the way-stations made it harder. But the tent you buried outside Polis Narmarikesh was all we needed. Tracking you to Sumad was easy when we followed your trail to the ship and checked the passenger registers.”

  No, she confessed, pressing her lips together. It was easier. I cheated. Your destination was obvious, given the engraving on the Sumadan generator housing, and the rune on the wall. And the paperwork we left down there.

  The blond infected spoke again. “You’ll forgive us for not fetching the crystal to toast your arrival,” he said, as if discussing the weather, “but my hands are stuck.” He shrugged his large shoulders and held out his bound arms. Though her helmet was on, she couldn’t meet his eyes.

  The man chuckled.

  She gathered her thoughts. “Domnic Dantet, Repaan Lethrien, Zalaran Morgenheth, and Cestin Rortiin.” She began the ritual phrase known as the Solemn Vow. “You are summoned to the House of Rest for purification. I am Terese Saarg, Head Seeker of Armer Stone, and I will be your escort. What say you?” At their names, the other three infected sat up.

  The question itself was not designed for a reply. It was necessary to see how the infected’s minds were holding up: whether they were capable of rational thought and therefore to be taken to the nearest Chapterhouse for testing, or if they were to be killed by the dagger at her hip.

  Another boy, dark-haired, spoke testily. “Yes, yes, we’re all fine in the head. Now, can you please answer the question. How did you find us?”

  Although it had been her first time speaking it, Terese had seen many reactions to the Solemn Vow. Some pretended not to hear, or were indeed incapable of responding coherently. Others burst into tears, despairing and wailing. Many threatened the Seekers with death, spitting and cursing and kicking with all the strength and movement left in them. She’d seen it all.

  Never, had any so nonchalantly shrugged off their deaths.

  This second infected was muscular as well, the definition clear beneath his shirt and at his neck, though his was a slighter frame than his friend’s. That was another strange thing, for their guard captain had said only one was muscular, and the other three were ‘scrawny’.

  “Your nights screaming from that tower worried some local homeless,” she said. “One of them mentioned it to a Seeker patrol. It isn’t something infected normally do, so they noted it and forgot you. I asked about arrivals from Armer a week ago, and here we are.”

  The boy snorted in amusement. Another one muttered what sounded like an apology to his friends.

  Terese turned to Teeber. “Jools, fetch the wagons.” Days earlier they’d camouflaged two electric wagons at the other side of the forgotten village. “They’re coherent and don’t show symptoms. They’ll need further testing and purification, back at Sumad Reach.”

  But they would be infected. Otherwise, why would that dark golem, or whatever had been in that ‘generator’ box, have spared them?

  “Yeah, we don’t have enough time,” said a voice. It was the blond infected, speaking like he was replying to a question.

  She turned back to them.

  “It’s simple. Just pulse the energy slow but steady,” he said. He studied his hand restraints as if trying to stare a hole in them. “No, I’ll do it slowly. We keep my two negators working so we can use them on the Head.”

  The other three stared at him, ignoring Terese though they surely talked of her. What they suggested made her skin crawl. They needed reminding who was in charge. She hefted her trigger button, primed to shock all four.

  “No, like this,” said the blond one, by way of explanation.

  None had spoken, save him. He noticed her shadow fall on him and looked up. “Sorry,” he said as though he’d stepped on her foot. “I can’t do two things at once.” He shifted his attention back to his restraints, still talking. “I can’t see inside, project my thoughts, and push the energy at the same time. I need practice.” He bit his lip with not a trace of irony on his face. “But we’ve almost unlocked this one.”

  The flesh on Terese’s arms and neck erupted in goosebumps. No, surely this is the madness emerging.

  She stroked the trigger in her hand. A dilemma she’d never known — whether to look foolish in front of her squad for threatening a group of captives, or shocking infected for attempting the impossible. She looked around. Most of her company watched casually, out of earshot.

  The restraint clicked loudly.

  The boy sighed in satisfaction and looked up at her. And smiled.

  Terese gasped and stepped back, punching the trigger and holding tight. From this close she could hear the charge projectors whine furiously as vibrations jolted the captives. They gritted their teeth, but didn’t convulse like they were supposed to: as they had earlier. Their eyes never leaving hers. Had they faked their incapacitation? She looked around, panicked. What to do when all negators failed? It was impossible. Nearby, her Complement came alert, nudging those who hadn’t been watching.
/>   “Lady, that’s cute, but it’s nothing compared to the Immersion Chamber,” one said.

  Gods, they knew the name for it.

  The other three looked down at their own negators, suddenly whistling black smoke. The blond infected stared at her as a second click echoed through the clearing.

  And then, like shrugging off blankets after waking from sleep, he opened his restraints and stood, a hard smile on his lips and something colder in his eyes. Six quick cracks sounded from his companions, as their negators also broke.

  Oh Gods no.

  The correct command was ‘Subdue’ when facing combat-ready infected. She never said it. Perhaps she shouted something like ‘get them’, or ‘quick’. Maybe she’d lost her composure altogether and begun praying aloud. All she knew was that she led the Seekers forward, sharp blades and shockpoles at the ready. The first, blond infected stood still, waiting for her.

  Night came early.

  2

  “Get up.”

  Terese Saarg jerked fully awake from her doze on the stone floor. Her arm and leg restraints

  clicked open — though the thug in the doorway hadn’t moved. Nor did he hold a remote negator controller. How was that possible?

  It was a problem she’d leave for later, she decided. Right now, there were more pressing concerns. Stiff muscles, trapped for hours, stretched and rejoiced. Her neck popped as she twisted it. She leaned against the storeroom wall for balance as she stood. Light struggled into the small room through cracks that suggested age, and slowly-shifting earth.

  She tried to get a better look at her captor. It was Morgenheth, the largest of the four. His profile had included the words ‘unpredictable’ and ‘likely patricide’. Three motionless silhouettes stood behind him in the slowly brightening main room.