Song of the Badlands

by Joshua Guess

  Beck was just fine with that. What irked her was the transient nature of the response. Swat the Pales on the nose, take what could be found, and retreat.

  “We should be clearing this place out and moving people here,” she muttered, this time low enough that no one could hear it but her.

  They were in the middle of reclamation, harvesting copper from old buildings since none of the mines in the Protectorate produced it, when Beck heard something over the common channel that sent chills down her spine.

  Two Sentinels from another Rez were chatting with each other about the round of arrests made several months before. That much was unsurprising; such a large number of citizens being taken at once was unheard of short of abortive revolutions.

  It was the context in which they spoke of it that sent spikes of fear from her belly to her throat.

  “Yeah, word is some of them were handed false charges,” one said. “Heard from my Warden there’s going to be an inquiry. I don’t know for sure how many of them are in prison work units and how many were killed, but if I was one of the Enforcement people who charged them, I’d be sweating my ass off right now.”

  “What? Why?” his companion said.

  The first Sentinel scoffed. “Man, don’t you know anything about Enforcement rules?”

  “Not really,” the second admitted. “I fell asleep during those classes a lot. Barely passed the written. Knew I wanted to be Defense all the way, though you can’t tell from how often they send us out with Reclamation for these runs.”

  “Anyway,” the first man said, steering the conversation back on track. “The point is, anyone who materially participates in falsely charging a citizen resulting in that citizen’s death is in deep shit. Exile is the best option.”

  The second man laughed. “You just read that off your HUD, didn’t you? Trying to sound smart.”

  Beck was pulled from the conversation by a series of private channel requests, which sounded as a series of clicks in her helmet. Everyone else on the team had heard it. She opened a one-way comm link to them and spoke. “Not now.”

  Only two of them were visible to her—they worked in different parts of the building—but the pair nodded their armored heads. Beck felt immediate relief. If Tala and Wojcik understood this was something they couldn’t speak about here, the others would have no problem picking up on it.

  Beck didn’t let herself spiral into a bottomless pit of dread. So far all she had was gossip between two clearly bored men. Not that this made her believe what they were saying any less; far from it. The subtle nature of the rumor lent it more heft than an announcement broadcast on the vid would have. That would have been seen as the overt propaganda it was, a desperation move by the Cabal to discredit the Deathwatch.

  This…this was much more subtle, and exactly the sort of other shoe she expected to drop. Rumors like this would infect the Watch like a disease, spreading from Rez to Rez, from one chapterhouse to another. It would cause those who had participated in the raids to galvanize along exactly the sort of lines the Cabal wanted. Those who believed in the cause would speak up in defense of their actions. The more self-serving among the Deathwatch ranks would make it clear they were only following orders.

  It was a neat trick. In a single move, the Cabal would suss out not only members of the Movement and those who might lean toward joining, they would also get a nice assortment of Watchmen more likely to be bought or convinced to join the winning side. There were already traitors in their midst, and it would only take a little nudging for the Cabal to draw in more once they were done shaking the tree.

  Beck did not allow herself to panic, but she did force herself to think about it. Gaming out the possibilities was simply who she was. Shying away was not in her nature.

  The most obvious consequence would fall first on Bowers, who had ultimately authorized the move. Taking him out of the equation wouldn’t be a fatal blow to the Movement, though it wouldn’t be far off. Much of what they did as a group was directed by him and him alone; compartmentalization of strategy and information was a huge security advantage.

  But it made them fragile when the man at the top was threatened.

  So, first and foremost, finding a way to cover Bowers was the priority. Second would be working out how to shield Eshton. His name was on the top-level warrant that authorized the raid. This was unusual since the Warden of a given Rez would normally do such a thing. Bowers had given Eshton special authority to coordinate a multi-Rez strike, however. Ostensibly this was to avoid pissing contests over jurisdiction and the right to run the operation. In reality it was because less than a third of the wardens running the Rezzes of the Protectorate were part of the Movement, and Bowers hadn’t wanted to risk any of them by implication in the raid.

  Looking back on it now, Beck saw this as a remarkably forward-thinking measure. She had a new respect for his strategic thinking.

  How to stop Eshton from being crushed if this rumor grew into an inquiry, she had no idea. Politics and policy were not her forte. Beck was a tinkerer, a talented fighter, and decent with small-unit tactics. This was above her pay grade.

  She sighed and thrust her gauntlet through the disintegrating gypsum wall and grasped the run of pipes inside. Yanking them free, she tossed the copper on the growing pile of tubes and wires.

  They had time. That was the key thing to remember. If this was the long-awaited counter from the Cabal, it would likely be effective. That didn’t mean she and hers were helpless to blunt its damage. Rumors took time to spread, and investigations were rarely anything but exhaustively thorough when performed by the Deathwatch.

  Even in a worst-case scenario where the Cabal managed to enlist Watchmen not affiliated with them, it would take time for a council of Wardens to render judgment. Beck doubted many—if any—Wardens were under the Cabal’s thumb.

  The problem was that the same dedication to the ideals of the Watch would cause them to judge any of the accused Deathwatch agents just as harshly as the citizens arrested by them.

  Which probably wouldn’t end well for anyone involved.

  9

  Parker wiped blood from his mouth. The spatter on the wall would have to wait.

  He ducked to one side and brought his fist up in a tight punch, a short strike that couldn’t use the larger momentum of his body that stepping through the blow would impart. That was fine; this was merely an attack meant to buy time. To create distance. Close-up fighting was that way, or so he had been told.

  His form was decent but not spectacular. Had the punch landed, the other man would have felt his ribs creak. But his assailant was too experienced to be there when Parker’s fist moved to connect.

  Instead the other man took a quarter step, just enough out of the way to let the blow graze his side, then snapped his arm down to trap the wrist.

  “Fuck,” Parker said just before he was punched in the face again. This time the enemy didn’t hold back, driving scarred knuckles directly into Parker’s forehead hard enough to send his vision spiraling with phosphenes and their false colors. He dropped to the floor—or rather, he tried to. His wrist was still trapped, and Parker fell with an awkward turn, one arm jutting up as he slipped down onto knees made wobbly by dizziness.

  “You okay?” the other man asked, steadying the scientist. “Take it you haven’t been in too many fights.”

  Parker took several deep breaths, using his free hand to rub his forehead. “Give me a few seconds. Still seeing spots.”

  “No problem. Get some water. We’ll start back up when you’re ready.”

  Parker nodded. “Thanks, Reeves.”

  The reserved Deathwatch trainer shrugged. “Never had anyone thank me for beating them senseless before, but you old world folks were bound to be different.”

  “Less so by the day,” Parker said with a wet chuckle. The blood trickling down his throat tasted of copper and hard work. “I more meant thanks for doing this.”

  Reeves put out a hand to help him up,
and Parker took it gratefully. “That, I’m happy to help with. It’s not your fault you don’t know how to defend yourself.”

  Parker sighed. “I can’t imagine what you must think of me. Of us. We had it so easy. The old world must look so weak to you.”

  Reeves, who had stopped at the edge of the small practice space and picked up a jug of water, turned to Parker with a rare unguarded expression on his face. Surprise. “Weak? Hardly. Everyone in the Protectorate today is descended from people who had no choice but to hide behind the first Rez walls. The Deathwatch only exists because those walls were imperfect. I know our history—and don’t forget, it’s your history too. Tens of thousands of people slowly dying from the Fade gave their lives to ensure the immune could survive long enough to reach sanctuary.”

  Reeves lifted the jug and took a long drink, though Parker didn’t see a single drop of sweat on the man despite his heavy black uniform. When he was done, he passed the jug along to the grateful scientist. “And you specifically? No. Not weak. You chose to put yourself in stasis knowing full well it might kill you. Or that you’d sleep forever. Not being able to fight isn’t a sin, Doctor Novak. The overwhelming majority of people in the Protectorate can’t do it, either.”

  Parker blinked. “Huh. I never thought of it that way.”

  “I know,” Reeves said genially. “That’s because, like most people, you tend to focus on the differences between you and others rather than think about the similarities. Personally? I think you had it worse.”

  Parker barked out a shocked laugh. “Okay, you were doing fine, then you overplayed your hand.”

  This was a turn of phrase that thankfully translated perfectly, as few activities survived through catastrophes like easily played games. Cards, being small and portable, were chief among them.

  Reeves smiled, a small but genuine expression. “No, I’m serious. You lived in the last years of a world in decline. You lost so much. Watched your world die. We on the other hand have had to deal with a lot of shit, but things have been slowly getting better. New Rezzes being built, stability, Pales not murdering and eating anyone in sight. It’s all about perspective.”

  Parker leaned against the wall and took another drink of water. “That’s…surprising. More objective than I’d have expected.”

  “Objective is what we’re trained for,” Reeves explained. “Helps that our kids are taught at a young age to stop and turn their observations over in their heads. From what I understand, the old world didn’t do much in the way of making kids practice critical thinking outside of mathematics.”

  Parker smirked. So the guy could be at least a little judgmental. “I wouldn’t go that far, but you’re not completely wrong. I never took a class on how to objectively measure my views, no.”

  “We do,” Reeves said. “One of the lessons the founders took to heart was the fact that people are mostly shit at deciding to look at their own biases and flaws without being forced to. And they rectified that.”

  He gave Parker a frank look. “If you’re having a hard time seeing us as complex people who can see past the surface layers, I think maybe that says more about you than us. Now, let’s get back to beating the crap out of each other.”

  Remy frowned as she helped dress his wounds an hour later. They were alone in the new lab, a gargantuan space compared to his previous one. Though the actual work space itself was larger, some of the increased volume came from the addition of self-contained facilities in side rooms. A small clinic area, a bathroom, and an office Parker hadn’t bothered to use for that purpose. He liked to keep all his work in one place, so he’d stuffed a spare mattress in there for the odd nap.

  “Did you have fun having your face knocked crooked?” Remy asked more sweetly than her expression implied. “Get your manly bits all worked up?”

  Parker laughed, nearly costing himself an eye in the process as the movement came close to spearing the swab she was using right through it. “God, no. I hated it. Fighting is hard, it takes forever to learn, and it fucking hurts. At least the way Reeves teaches it.”

  Remy raised her eyebrow as she continued to clean the blood off his with steady hands. “Then why on earth are you still doing it? This is your fourth lesson. Are you even making progress?”

  “Reeves says I am,” Parker said. “I don’t see it, but he’s the expert. You know why I’m doing it.”

  “To protect yourself and me if something goes wrong,” Remy said dismissively. “Despite the fact that I’ve told you I’m more than happy to run if it comes to that. Besides, what do you think you’ll accomplish that a base full of Deathwatch and automated defenses can’t?”

  “Ouch,” Parker said. “Right in the heart.”

  Remy thumped him on the side of the head, but carefully avoiding any injuries. “You know what I mean.”

  Parker shrugged. “Yeah, I know. I just hate feeling so helpless, you know? At least this way I might not freeze or feel like an idiot if I have to try to defend myself.”

  Remy must have recognized the sincerity in his voice, because she didn’t push further. A low flame of affection flared a bit higher in his chest. Remy might have been thrown into this situation without much choice, but she was good people.

  She expertly patched him up, which was especially helpful since there was no Deathwatch medic on site.

  “Where did you learn first aid?” Parker asked, eager to fill the silence.

  “Well, the basics are part of our general education,” Remy said as she spread a thin layer of clear liquid over the shallow cut along his eyebrow. It smelled like death but instead of the caustic burning sensation he expected, a pleasant warmth spread from it. The heat faded quickly, replaced by a slight tightness. Ah. He’d read about that—a kind of polymer smart bandage in fluid form that attached to the edged of cuts and pulled them together.

  Parker tried to poke at it experimentally and Remy pushed his hand aside with a long-suffering sigh. “Quit that. I’m not done yet. What was I saying?”

  “That kids have to learn combat medicine like child soldiers, apparently,” Parker quipped.

  She snorted. “Hardly. Just simple stuff. How to clean cuts and whatnot. Dressing simple wounds, why you should put pressure on bleeds. That kind of thing. I actually did a stint as a medical assistant before I started working at the research lab. They picked me because about half the clinic job was me running lab tests and inputting the results into a couple different networks. I was really fast at it. Not very exciting, I know.”

  “Did you see a lot of trauma, then?” Parker asked.

  Remy glanced at him, pausing her work. “You really want to know?”

  “Sure,” he said. “I’ve never been out there. All I know about your world is pictures and video. And what people tell me. I’m curious.”

  With the barest shrug, she resumed working on another small cut, this one on the side of his head near the temple. “We saw some. Mostly accidents. Kids busting open something when they fell or workers getting a finger or hand caught in a machine. Not much past that.”

  Parker considered that. “Not much violence, then?”

  “No,” Remy said with a shake of her head. “Once in a great while we’d see someone who had been in a fight. Once—only once in the two years I worked in the clinic—we took care of a woman whose husband beat her pretty badly.”

  What was that he heard in her voice? It sounded strangely like the sort of horrified tone people in his time reserved for tragedies like terrorist attacks or even the series of events making up the Collapse itself. “What happened to him?”

  Remy didn’t look him in the eyes. Possibly because she was unsure how the answer would sit with him. “Deathwatch came, took the woman’s statement. They reviewed the footage from the home. Turns out the husband had disabled the cameras. People do that sometimes, you know. It sends out alerts, but the Watch can’t check them immediately, and everyone knows it.”

  Parker frowned. “So, what, they let him go? No evidenc
e?”

  “Hell no,” Remy said. “The guy admitted he took the cameras offline. As far as the Watch was concerned, that was proof of guilt. You don’t try to cover up a crime you’re not guilty of. After they sentenced him, the public record showed the physical evidence. His hands were all tore up from hitting her. She had some of his skin under her nails. The Watch made a big show of it, ran the file on the vid and across the Mesh.”

  “Huh,” Parker grunted. “I guess there are some things about your world that are better than mine. What’d they do to the guy?”

  “Ten years hard labor at the Block, if I remember correctly,” she said. When Parker showed no reaction to this, she explained. “It’s our prison. An old Rez re-purposed after a Fade B bloom took its population. Small by modern standards. Not many people who go there ever come back.”

  Well, some things didn’t change, he supposed. “Conditions are that bad?”

  Remy tilted her head. “Not the way you’re thinking. No one mistreats the prisoners except the prisoners themselves. The only guards at the Block are there to make sure no one escapes. Otherwise, anything goes. No one interferes if they try to kill each other. They have all the stuff they need to live, even medical supplies, but have to treat themselves.”

  Parker was about to ask why the system would work like that when the reasoning of it blazed to life in his head. Inspiration based on what he knew of the Protectorate made the realization almost effortless.

  “Oh, holy shit,” he said. “They’re examples, right? It shows everyone else what happens when people break your Tenets. When order isn’t maintained.”

  Remy nodded, a look on her face wavering between pleased that he understood and mildly disturbed at the very idea Block represented. “Yes. And the place is lined with cameras. I don’t know anyone who watches it for entertainment, but when I was a kid my mother used the feed to scare me into behaving.”