by Lee Bond
No one knew the reasons, Petros had said, but they had to be pretty serious. Trinity Itself wasn’t fond of shutting entire Stacks down, and with the Bishop calamity still rotten in all their mouths, another such tragedy wouldn’t do anyone in Zanzibar any good.
Chevy knew the reason for the shutting down of Stack 17. It lingered in the back of his mind like a fiery beacon. If he weren’t careful, it’d be all his noggin could focus on, and there was so much more to worry about, hey? Them other lights in his head …
One for Dom for cert, and that were bad enough, hey?
Two for them others as were tough enough to survive the death of their microcosmic world, which didn’t bode well for them as were in the Stack right now, hey?
Chevy moved closer to the edge of the park so he might take a quick look downwards at all that 17 was, pulling thoughtfully on his lip as he did so, trying to reason out who and what might await him there. Like all the Stacks 'round these parts, the bottom were shrouded in mist and wind, as foreboding as anything a Widow's Peak might call home.
“Obviously hain’t the King. King’s dead, else Arcadia’d either still be standing or we’d all be dealing with that arsehole out here in the real world, wouldn’t we just?” Chevy let a little shiver pass through him. Oh aye, an enraged Dark Iron King loosed ‘pon the world would be just the sort of thing to ruin a person’s everything.
Stack 17 loomed, a blackened, rotten tooth. He thought he espied fires flickering here and there, and a few seconds later, he was rewarded with faint streams of terrible black smoke sneaking outwards through any available aperture.
“Hain’t good, no sir, hain’t good at all.” Stirrings of old Gearman pride grabbed hold of his short and curlies. All them people in there, suffering away in the darkness, falling prey to ‘emselves and whatever other monsters as called the place home.
Pointer kept pulling on his lip. “Well, as I said, Dom for cert. The young lad’s down there, and if I’m aright, the quickly moving shiny bauble in me old pate is him, and if he’s poisoned by both the King’s last ill wishes ‘gainst Master Nickels and the world in general as well as by Book itself, I do warrant he hain’t movin’ at a priestly pace, no I do not. Woe betide them as cross his path, hey? And let me see if I can’t properly suss out who the other two might be …” The old man shut his eyes tight and called up the cast of characters as had burned so bright and tall in Arcadia’s last few minutes and the answer popped right into his head as if it’d been waitin’ for him to just settle his nerves down.
Chevy doubted he’d ever go flying again. Put an old man so far off his game he’d been in another state altogether, hey?
“Welladay, if the two I think are them, then we might be in for a mite bit more than a mere passel of trouble with one rapscallion with an ax to grind, hey? For if I’m right, the tinkle in me brain as is movin’ the slowest of all be Mirabelle of the Weeping Eye. Well, that poor dear’s brain were all the way cracked through and right down the middle thanks to Master Nickels. Reckon she’s laying down a slow, bloody track of death and dismemberment every which way, hey? Strange new world and all that? And t’other one, well, she hain’t e’en in Stack 17, now is she? She’s like me, only t'other far side, and if it is dear old Queen Agnethea the Vile … I do warrant it could go either way. Her time with Master Nickels had seen her a world of good.” Chevy quit plucking at his lip.
He were torn, is what. Book were the most important thing in Stack 17. Leastways, that’s how the other three were no doubt thinking, but they were wrong. All them people in there, in the dark, starving, afraid, left alone and ignored were pretty damned important too, weren’t they just?
Which were the most most important, though?
Saving them lives or stopping Dom, Mirabelle and Agnethea from laying hands on Book? With all the ideas fit to burn his poor old squash into charred and unloved veggie puree the Gearmaster knew he could turn the lights back on wi’out too much effort, but …
The old man cursed, spat over the side, and shook his head regretfully. He squared Stack 17 up in his line of sight. “Listen now, I do wish I could help you lot, but there be a bit more to it than swinging over and flipping a switch. You’ve got one, possibly three Arcadians over there, raw and pure in every way and unlike the ones you seen ‘ere now. Got to stop them from getting hold of Book, don’t I just? If I can save some of you on me way down, well, I shall do so, hey?”
The only problem were … how best to e’en get back inside that monstrosity? For now it were most likely nowt but a giant tomb sealed ‘gainst all intruders, hey? No doubt the calamity as had caused Trinity Itself –here, in Chevy’s mind, an image of gigantic metal spider or some other many legged beastie rose up at the thought of Mankind’s true ruler- to sacrifice such a large percentage of Zanzibar’s residents was meant to play itself out alone and unhindered, which meant security protocols.
If Chevy were the lad as had designed that place, well, he knew he’d litter the place with lasers and rockets and all manner of polite –and not so polite- methods of requesting everyone keep themselves well away.
Chevy ceased pulling on his lip and switched over to his beard, turning to survey the park and the people in it, and a bit of the gloom and doom as had settled in his heart was burnt away by the sight of happy, healthy mums and das playing with their equally happy and healthy babbies. Weren’t a sight you got to see too often as a Gearman, leastways in the last few hundred years of the King’s callous reign, hey?
There was more joyous screaming and shrieking and laughter than Chevy thought he’d ever heard in his entire life and as he was stood there, working out how to get into Stack 17, a few tears did bead up in his eyes.
“Is everything all right, sir?”
Chevy looked to the source of the voice and saw that a young woman in a flowery dress had addressed him. “Oh, aye, miss, I’m fine and right as rain, I am. Just stood here, looking at yon families being happy. Warms an old man’s heart, hey?”
Chastity Crane-Hawthorn titled her head this way and that as she ran through what the man had said; he was definitely FrancoBritish, but his accent wasn’t precisely the thing you heard all that often … “We come here once or twice a week, when business permits. There’s mine, over there, close to cracking his skull open. Our nanny keeps trying to get Gerald –our son- to stop doing things like that, but my husband insists that Gerry needs to find his limits, and if that means falling off and actually cracking things open, then that’s what needs to happen.”
Chevy tilted his head back and laughed. “Aye, it do sound as though your husband does have his own head on straight and proper! Me old da said as much, though in my case, we didn’t have quite the level of medical science as here. I hazard that should young Master Gerald open his soup can on the way down from that climbing monstrosity, he’d be right as rain almost by the time he landed on the grass. Apologies, my lady, my name is Chevril Pointillier, late of Arcadia.”
Chassie blinked quite slowly as the older gentlemen bowed quite deeply and formally. “Chastity Crane-Hawthorn, of the Regilline Crane-Hawthorns.” Her husband had had the right of it, straight from the start. Best to play things cool. Though she rather suspected her love would be spitting nails at her triumph. “Do you mean to tell me you’re from … from there?”
“Aye, my lady, I am indeed. Pulled here to this land by the fine lads and lasses at Tynedale/Fujihara. We, er, had a parting of the ways not too long ago and so I felt it were time I needed to move along.” Chevy jerked a thumb at Stack 17. How many people had already died or started suffering whilst he wagged his chin with this lovely young slip of a girl? A million? Ten million? The numbers seemed imaginary, yet he knew they weren’t. “And now as I stand here, the whole of that place is sealed up tight as a drum.”
“Terrible, isn’t it?” Chastity’d gotten up to date on what was happening over there before approaching the old man calling himself Chevril Pointillier; she had no friends or relations in 17, but it was sti
ll a terrible thing to behold.
“Aye, lass, more’n you can scarce imagine, I feel.” Chevy shook his head. “There’s near on a billion people in there, Chastity Crane-Hawthorn of the Regilline Crane-Hawthorns, and there’s more to the story than you might want to know. Sure, there be folks in there as are this very moment taking advantage of the low power and the scared hearts and minds of all them as hain’t got the stones or the means to protect themselves proper, but them’s just normal folk…”
“There’s more than just normal folk over there, Chevril.” Chassie snorted. “The upper levels are full of fully trained, properly armed security officers, many of whom are implanted with the latest and greatest, and down below? It’s just the same as up above, really, only with criminals instead of the good guys. Everything will fine. Trinity will unlock the Stack sooner or later, most likely when it all calms down.”
Chevy’s eyes went all sorts of calculating as he absorbed the woman’s words. They might not breed all the people in the Outside tough as nails, but this young girl had either seen some brutality in her life or had been raised in a particular way; he already knew her husband was a proper gentleman, if he were willing to let his young son run around getting bruised and banged up and lads were supposed to. “You sound quite informed on the nature of Man and the matter of what Trinity will or won’t get up to, young miss.”
Chassie smiled. “I said I was a member of the Regilline … ah, right.” She shook her head. “You haven’t heard of us.”
“Indeed, my lady, in the purest form of truth, I’ve heard little of a great many things. While I am learned and wise, here in the Outside, I warrant your wee lad Gerald knows more than I, and would no doubt lose his patience wi’ me in the flutter of a heart.”
Chastity extended her hand, which the older man took in a surprisingly firm and strong grip. “The Regilline Crane-Hawthorns, Chevril Pointillier, are, among many other things, a noted purveyor of men for hire, most notably, displaced FrancoBritish men and women from … from your homeland.”
Chevy tilted his head back once more and let out a laugh that was hearty and as lusty as any he’d ever let loose past his teeth. Providence would provide, hey?
In response to Chastity’s confused look, the Gearman hastened, “’tis a bit of a problem I’ve got, milady, as you no doubt sussed on your own as you stood off to one side watching an old man mutter to his own self like some sort of madman. I could well imagine your thoughts. ‘This old graybeard in the odd coat hain’t got no kiddies here, that much I know for cert, yet he stands here looking quite concerned and frightening, I shall take myself hence and see what is what’. Only someone prepared for violence or summat similar to that would approach any person, that much I know, and so, as we stood here, me gauging you and you doing the same, it’s been revealed to me that there is much you and your wise husband might do for me. And mayhap, in return, there’ll be summat I can do for you and yours.”
Chassie took her hand back, a sly smile on her face. This garrulous FrancoBrit was charming as hell, and once you understood the manner of his speech, nearly hypnotic as well. “How do you mean?”
“Well, lass, ‘tis like this.” Chevril Pointillier couldn’t believe his luck. “If, as you say, you’ve met others of my kind 'ere now, then you know well indeed how tough and ready they are for a scrap, and I tell you now, they hain’t got nowt on themselves as they were before falling through the Dome, hey? Before coming Outside, every single lad or lass as you got on the payroll were twice, nay, a dozen times worse –or better, as you like- in the art of war and all as comes wi’ it. Summat in the process of coming out turns a bit of their brains quiet-like, though I warrant not as often as our dear old dead King would’ve liked.” Chevy nodded as some dark thought marred Chastity’s pretty features. “Aye, I see it there. Out of the blue, I bet, they lose their tempers and it takes a whole pack to bring down the bad ‘un.
Now, see, where my hilarity and joy at meeting you comes in is thusly; I am in full possession of my faculties, hey? I recall all that went on ‘neath The Dome and find myself in the mood to exchange all I can do to train some of your lovely little lads and lassies back up in the ways of true and spectacular Arcadians for a quick trip through Stack 17.”
Chastity pointed a finger at the darkened tower. “You want to go there?”
“Aye. I do.” Chevy nodded, then chuckled. “Well, ‘tis as they no doubt say out here, my lady, us proper Arcadians are all mad as hatters. But I tell you true. You or your husband give unto me a score of wardogs and I’ll use ‘em over yon, and in the process, they’ll be returned to you in proper fighting form. From there, any practical businessman will tell you, a horde of ‘em training all the rest and anyone else capable of raising a fist or pointing a gun will benefit in ways you can hardly credit.”
“What’s in it for you?” Chassie demanded bluntly. “Wardogs have a tendency to die quickly, and with The Dome being down, it’s not like there’s a chance to resupply. I give you twelve men, more than likely, I get back half or less.”
“Ahhhh,” Chevy let his eyes glitter, “but a dozen warriors who fight like three apiece hain’t worth considerin’ when you get back three or four who fight like twenty apiece, you see? And … let us just say that for me, there’s unsettled business over yon. I hain’t the only one as come Outside, you see, but I do reckon I be the only one with a more peaceful mind.”
“So let me get this straight,” Chassie winced as Gerry beaned himself on a metal pole but relaxed when he picked himself up and went right back to climbing without missing a beat, “you want to take twelve wardogs into a closed Stack full of starving, desperate people surrounded on the top and bottom by desperate security forces and gangs with enough members to qualify as a city so you can hunt down some of your own people? To probably kill them?”
Chevy ticked off Chastity’s salient points on a hand, muttering softly to himself as he considered aught she may’ve missed. There weren’t no way he were going to mention Book unless it come right down to the wire. “Aye, that do seem to be the long and short of it, my lady. Though I will take wotever you can bring. Twelve would be a treat, but six’ll work in a pinch.”
“My husband’s going to love you.” Chassie turned to the park and started hollering. “Gerry! Nanny Nonesuch! Get your hides in gear. We’ve got someplace to be!”
Gearmaster Chevril Pointillier followed behind the blonde dynamo, wonderin' if perhaps coincidence were the same Outside as Within.
Which were to say … there weren't no such thing as coincidence.
A Rapscallion and his Scallywags
Dominic Breton, lately of Arcadia and even lately-ier of a damned Voss_Uderhell scientific exploration outpost in some dank, dingy corner of Stack 17, did not like the Outside.
Not a bit of it.
There were summat wrong with everyone who lived in the Outside, and he’d seen plenty enough while making his bid for freedom –shooting the place up and generally causing extensive property damage and taking a considerable number of lives in payment for his cruel and unusual treatment in the process- to figure out what it were;
They was all mad. As hatters, as loons, as gearheads and Gearmen and the whole lot of everyone as had ever lived ‘neath The Dome, only … only they didn’t seem to know it, or they couldn’t notice, or summink along those lines.
Only … Dom noticed. It started with the smell. Smells. There were too many of them, and none of them were kind smells, hey? Leastways ‘neath The Dome you could travel for a few hours or a day or what have you and find an unsullied field full of posies and inhale that scent when the crushing malodourous rankness of gearheads or Shaggy Men got to be too much, but –looking at his surroundings with a wrinkled nose and sour look to match his troubled thoughts- Dominic Breton rather doubted you could travel anywhere on this world and be rid of the stink.
'twere vile.
Too many people, aye, that caused a wretched tickling in the back of his throat that had
him wondering if his last meal were going to stay put, true enough. Good Old Master Nickels hadn’t been pulling their legs after all, when he’d gone on about how rich and fertile the human condition was on the Outside, and now that he were looking at it with his own two eyes, Dom reckoned they’d all made a mistake somewhere along The Line.
There shouldn’t be this many people. Not in one place, not breathing in someone else’s exhalations and wind.
His stomach did a flip-flop. Oh aye, too many people by … a few trillion.
But that weren’t all, you see, no it weren’t, not by a fair stretch.
There were the garbage that come from so many people, hey? Mountains o' it. All that food, all that waste, all the things they had or needed or wanted. Dom could barely wrap his head around that last bit, and he’d been the leader of the Book Club Regulars, so he were the sort of lad as could understand damn near everything his eyes fell upon, given time.
He’d caught wind of it –so to speak- on his way out of prison. All them neat little cubicles filled with machinery that undoubtedly assisted them in the execution of their duties, row after row after row. Thinking of each rectangular window and associated bits and bobs as nowt more’n fancy seeming Books had gone a long way to easing Dom’s reticence in even approaching the machinery, and of understanding how terribly intelligent everyone must be to have such things in their lives, but it weren’t those miracles of the Outside Age that’d caught his attention. Those windows of light wi' words in 'em, they were for function, pure an' simple.
No, it were them fripperies lain beside each … monitor, or in the drawers, or in some cases, e’en strewn across every available flat surface. Pictures as moved. Gewgaws as did nowt but make noise to amuse. Images of things the owners of the cubicles wanted –oh, he’d been able to tell easily the difference between things possessed and things dreamed of merely by their positioning 'pon desktop- and of the two –dreamed of versus owned- nearly every perfect little square had been stuffed to a rough lady’s tits with want over need.
