Wixon's Day

by Phil Williams

  “Yes,” Marquos says, “I’ve seen the rails in Afta.”

  “This is something far more serious than railways. He believed that once there were people on this planet so far advanced that they created something that wiped themselves out, and that something was the same thing that caused the sunlight to fade. He convinced himself that the cause was a mighty weapon, though no accounts exist of it. He trawled through ancient history archives before leaving the Metropolis, though, and found references to a special kind of bomb. He tried to explain it to me but it made no sense. All that really mattered, from my perception, was that he said the bombs recorded were powerful enough to destroy a whole country. Apparently, one was developed that was powerful enough to cover the world.

  “The archive he obtained had to have been hundreds of seasons old, maybe even thousands, and he said it wasn’t something that any of the Guards were aware of. He never told me where it had come from himself, but he showed me the book. The pages were falling apart and the print was too faded to read, but he thought he had it figured out. They had started work on recreating a replica in the Metropolis, that’s how the accident occurred. He had been working on it ever since, trying to develop weapons powerful enough to change the world.

  “Somewhere along the way he’d lost his focus. He was able to explain all the research he had done into the darkness of our world, and his conclusion was a simple one. Somehow, possibly due to the power of the blast of these bombs, the world had altered its course around the sun. For hundreds of seasons now, he said, we’ve been slowly drifting further and further away, and the days have been becoming darker without us realising it. We’ve reached a point where the sun can no longer keep us warm. All that keeps us from being engulfed in ice is the sheer scale of our industrial centres. The mines are dug so deep, releasing the planet’s energy, and the gas fields burn so constantly that our nation is keeping one small pocket of warmth alive. It is a profound warmth, enough to keep the seas from icing over, and it comes from the size of our population alone.

  “Rosenbault told me that if you went beyond the perimeters his map showed, you would not survive. We are too far from the sun to be saved. Then, he changed his tone. He explained that there was nothing worth saving anyway. He claimed that below the Aftan Southern Boundaries, there is nothing but darkness. Our small patch is the only one that managed to survive, and by clinging on to our civilisation we are dying a slow, futile death. He told me there was only one chance that we could clean the air of this world and bring back the light, and that was to set off a new bomb.

  “He didn’t even know what he was suggesting. I couldn’t understand if he believed people were responsible for the darkness, and he saw our death as the planet’s only hope, or if he genuinely believed he could make a weapon powerful enough to set this world on a course back towards the sun. It didn’t matter, either way, because the result would be the same. I asked him to reconsider. I tried to engage him with talk about electricity, alternative fuels and ways to warm the world ourselves. He didn’t care. He saw only one solution, and I could see that even if he never found the ingredient he needed for the one big bomb then he was more than capable of producing enough smaller ones to finish us all. What took place was barely an argument; he was not listening to what I had to say. I had plenty of time to think about what I was doing, and my decision was the only real possibility. I shot him dead, whilst he was still talking.”

  Qait hangs his head, his body visibly slumping, and Marquos realises the tracker has told this tale to no one before. The pilot says quietly, “No one knows he’s dead.”

  “The Border Guard do. I told them I found him in Yerth, but the bandits had got him. They don’t want it to be generally known, because the thought of Rosenbault working to save the world is a source of great hope to some people. No one has seriously gone looking for him since me, though. Until now.”

  “So why did you let us get this far?”

  “I couldn’t destroy the weapons that Rosenbault created. I spent about a week sat alone in that bunker, watching Rosenbault rot, whilst I tried to figure out what to do. I came to appreciate something that Rosenbault seemed to have missed. If there really were people here long before us, that much more advanced than us, and something happened that was so devastating that no one had found trace of them before, then humankind must have been beaten to the very point of extinction. Whatever caused that destruction subsided, and even with our limited space, and the darkness setting in, we rebuilt our society. We have survived, and we have flourished. If we can master this wasteland, after being faced with complete destruction, then there is still hope for us. As long as we keep our heads. I realised that no one could know what Rosenbault had been up to. I could not destroy those bombs, but I could burn all his documents, and I could seal the bunker like a tomb, knock down the rocks around it and pray that no one ever finds it. Your Kands are some of the most determined people I have seen, and I wanted to put what I had done to the test. If they find that bunker, I have not done enough. If they don’t, I can rest easily.”

  “They knew the location, though,” Marquos frowns, “Copin knew exactly where we were going. Isn’t that bad enough?”

  “Rosenbault did not create that bunker,” Qait shrugs. “He found out about it from someone, so it’s never been a complete secret. As far as I’m aware its whereabouts is not common knowledge, though. Even if people heard the rumour, why would they look for it in such a place? No, knowing there is a bunker in the Deadland is not the issue here. Knowing what Rosenbault might have been up to is. You must be aware that the Kands were tipped off to Rosenbault by someone that worked with him. Meaning maybe the Kands aren’t after a solution to our world’s problems. Maybe they’re after the weapons.”

  “And if they find them…”

  “Why do you think I’m telling you all this?” Qait responds simply. “You’re not one of them, are you? You don’t want to see the world burn.”

  Marquos stalls, trying to let this absurd amount of information sink in. He rubs his temples and says, “This place was supposed to be my way out of affairs like this, I shouldn’t be hearing about it.”

  “You’re in it now. Deal with it.”

  “Look...you tell them all of this when they return. They have to know. If Rosenbault is right, and our population is all that’s keeping this small part of the world alive, then we have to end the war entirely.”

  “That’s a nice thought, but we have more immediate concerns. No one can possess the weapons that are in that bunker. No one can even know about them. If those Kands bring something back, I won’t be able to stop them on my own.”

  “Stop them how?”

  Qait ignores the question, ploughing on, “I don’t expect you to trust me. You don’t even have to believe it’s all true. Just think about what you’re doing out here. I don’t believe in any kind of Estalian Empire anymore, and I don’t know a single Estalian that truly fights for his country, but those Kands are willing to kill and die to create something similar. If they sacrifice enough lives to their cause, there will be nothing left to fight for. Absolutely nothing.”

  Marquos goes quiet, staring back at the tracker, trying to get his head around the implications of this journey. He mutters, barely audible, “I should’ve stayed in Hasseran.”

  16

  In spite of the daylight, it remains freezing cold both outside and on the boat. Qait remarks that he would like to spend more time in the open, but it is too much even for him. His armour is warm and he is used to the chill of being up in the gyrocopter, but the North is something else. With casual misgivings about walking through such hazardous cold, Marquos determines that this tracker is one of the most relaxed men he has ever encountered, though he had seemed apprehensive that first day that he chased the Hypnagogia. After hearing a tale of world-threatening bombs and a history of destruction it is hard to believe that anything could excite any emotion from the man. He speaks in a retiring tone, “There’s nothing like
the stillness of the Deadland. These mountains will fill you with a quiet awe. I could stare at them for days.”

  Marquos said nothing in response.

  “Did you see the stars last night? You have no idea how lucky you were to be here for that. The clouds so rarely part.”

  Eventually, the pilot asks how the tracker managed to follow him after the ambush in the plains. Qait gives a minimal reply, “I caught up to you in the Meth Fields. I understood you had correspondence with a girl there. I found your boat.”

  “You understood I had correspondence?” Marquos repeats the phrase halfway between anger and surprise that such private contacts might have been known. Though she cannot read, he often sends Teri letters, via the speedy land messengers and Message Centres that he sometimes encounters in his travels. Those messengers are personal envoys; he has no notion of the letters ever being touched by anyone beyond the messenger, himself and the people they were meant for. Marquos already has a feeling he knows the man responsible, though. He can picture Wheeler Tan, a slim bony man who speeds over the country on a mechanical device with two wheels and a small engine of chains and cogs. Tan is a skittish man driven by a desire to move as fast as possible, and saw the opportunity to deliver messages as a challenge as much as a job. He once reached the Meth Fields and delivered a letter back to Metropolis in a day, just because he could. With his wonky eyes and wild moods, it was a constant surprise that Tan survived his journeys. Perhaps it makes sense that the Border Guard might have had a hand in it.

  “The world is full of give and take,” Qait explains it for the pilot, though, seeing his mind is ticking. “I help people, they help me, it’s all part of what I do. I had an idea of who you were a long time before you ran into the Kands. Before you worked in the Mines, even. I’m aware of most of the traffic that moves across this country.”

  “You’re…” Marquos shakes his head, not sure what word could describe this man, “…a creep.”

  “A stalker,” Qait shrugs. “And you’re a scavenger. You pick up the material pieces that people leave behind, I pick up the information. My work just requires a little more application than yours.”

  “We’re not alike.”

  “I don’t think you entirely know what you are.”

  The pair are interrupted by a thud on the deck, and Copin’s voice calls out “You got that fire going? Damned need it!”

  Qait calmly stands and lifts his rifle, turning to face the stairs as the Kand descends. Marquos sits motionless, slipping the pistol under his blanket. Copin lumbers into view with a grin on his face, about to blurt out something else, but stops dead when he sees Qait. His smile is gone, and he lets out a breath of annoyance. The Kand steadies himself and spreads his arms, “Go on then. Do it if you must. Hart will have your head, though.”

  “Where is she?” Qait asks.

  “On her way,” Copin says. He looks over to Marquos, his expression giving nothing away, but the pilot knows what he is thinking. To show he is not a traitor, Marquos slips the pistol into view, unseen to the tracker, and turns to Copin.

  “What’d you find out there?” the tracker asks.

  “Not a damned thing,” Copin grumbles back. “You’ve trapped yourself in a box here, Qait. This isn’t like you at all.”

  “No,” Qait answers simply, “But needs must.”

  There are further footsteps on deck and Copin yells, “Hart stay back! We’ve got company!” The deck goes silent. They all wait and listen, but Hart does not make another sound. Copin stares Qait in the eye and says “If you were going to shoot me you’d have done it, so let’s hear what you’ve got to say.”

  “You didn’t find the laboratory?” the tracker asks.

  “What laboratory?”

  “Not even the research tower? The observatory? No sign of Rosenbault himself? Or his men?”

  “Are you playing games, Qait? There’s nothing out here. Rosenbault couldn’t have come further than Yerth.”

  “You’re just saying that.”

  “No,” Copin huffs, “If I had found something, I’d be perfectly happy to share it with you, because I know when it comes to it I’m the one getting out of it alive. And I’d certainly want to rub your Estalian nose in it. We’ve been walking all day, there’s nothing here.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Have a fucking look for yourself. I’d struggle to survive up here, there’s no chance a dribbling scientist could make it. If you ask me the stories about him dying in Yerth were true after all. If he even got that far.”

  Qait finally relaxes, satisfied, and lowers his rifle, “My stories.”

  “That’s why you came up here?” Copin shakes his head, “Because you never found him, and you wanted to see if we were more successful.”

  “It’s not important. How much longer will you look?”

  “You think we can survive another day up here? In this?” Copin snorts disgust at the idea, “This was a stupid idea. We have to get out of this wasteland.”

  “Good,” Qait says, “Come in. Tell Hart to come in. We’ll have to move fast if we want to pass the more treacherous stretches of the river before dark.”

  “What do you mean we?”

  “I’m not walking back.”

  “As simple as that?” the Kand scoffs. “We ought to leave you out here to freeze you Estalian wretch.”

  “Yes, you should,” Qait replies, unfazed.

  The Kand suddenly lets out a loud laugh and turns to the door, shouting up at Hart to join them. He does not wait for her to respond, shoving by Qait to rub his hands in front of the fire. Qait steps aside, watching the stairs as Hart cautiously approaches. She has a large knife in one hand, ready to attack, but sees Copin’s amiable position and sheathes it. Qait offers her a half-hearted smile, and she gives him a nod in return, before also making a dash to the fire.

  “You’ve been sat here all day doing nothing?” Copin calls aside to Marquos, seeing that the pilot has not moved, “Get to getting us out of here already!”

  Marquos stares back at him, unsure of what has happened. The Kands and the tracker show no malice towards one another, or any sign of real conflict. The Kands barely even seem surprised to see Qait. He has no time to dwell on it, however, as Copin barks for him to go.

  17

  The remaining daylight barely helps Marquos as he heads downstream at dangerous speeds. He soon has to light all his lanterns and trust in the strength of his boat to deal with the occasional crashes of heavy waves and rocks. Qait stands by his side, helping with whatever he can, silent in the water’s approach. Hand on the tiller without rest, Marquos directs the vessel from side to side with perfect care, all thought of the odd gathering on his boat leaving his mind to concentrate on the task at hand. Once the boat has slipped into motion, there is no turning back. The cold beats at him as they move and the water splashes up with icy stabs. His Kand passengers occasionally come out onto the deck to offer him extra clothing and hot drinks, but they otherwise disappear below so as not to distract him. Swerving around rocks, riding down waves and pushing on in a straight line, Marquos feels the thrill of the journey and starts yelling to the gods. A wave crashes over him and he cries back to the sky “I’m fighting you, Kail! I’ll fight you with all I’ve got!”

  The river’s swell is far calmer after the light has faded, the worst of it behind them, though they continue downriver at an uncontrollable speed. Feeling the calmer waters, the Kands finally come outside and peer at the dark night that has fallen.

  “Did you see the stars last night, Qait?” Copin asks, resting alongside the tracker. Qait takes a cigar from somewhere under his ragged furs and lights it with a small flint. Copin goes on, “Never seen anything like it. It was worth it even if we didn’t find Rosenbault.”

  Qait puffs on his cigar, then comments, “You were barely looking for a day.”

  “No one’s been up here in generations,” Hart says. “If he lived or researched here, there would’ve been s
ome sign of a structure. Otherwise he came out here with no hope of surviving.”

  “You heard the stories about the bunker though, didn’t you?”

  “No one’s built anything up here in centuries. How could they have? A tree hasn’t grown here in all that time.”

  “You’ve already looked though, haven’t you Qait?” Copin says.

  “Yes,” the tracker nods. “Two seasons ago.” Marquos eyes Qait, waiting to hear the truth about the Rosenbault Project told again. The tracker does not repeat it, though, instead holding Marquos’ gaze with a knowing trust. Qait puffs on his cigar again and tells the Kands, “He was insane, Rosenbault. He’d given up saving the world and wanted to destroy it. He thought he could make a bomb out of bricks and water. It was only a matter of time before he got himself killed. There was nothing left to find but a body.”

  “Which you didn’t find,” Copin chuckles. “But you’d be happy to let us believe you did.”

  “What difference does any of it make. We’re all in the same boat now.”

  “Good one,” the Kand laughs, patting Qait’s arm. “There’s hope for you yet.”

  “Do you know who the spy in our camp was, Qait?” Hart asks out of the blue, and the tracker meets her eyes. He answers, deliberately slow, “He died outside Thesteran. Something kept him from leaving the camp before the raid, and when he tried to escape, the Border Guard did not listen to his pleas. They cut him down, taking him for any other rebel.”

  “His name?”

  Qait hesitates, considering whether he should let it be known. He shrugs, “He’s dead now anyway. Feran, he called himself. He used to be one of the Rulers. He came to us, you know. Kands are always coming to us.”