Lostlander

by Dean F. Wilson

  18 – BEFORE THEY WERE LOST

  The strange copter chugged through the skies. It looked kind of like a patchwork submarine. It moved kind of like an injured bird, rising and falling suddenly. It sounded like a broken train. Yeah, that was Porridge's vessel, no doubt about it. He called it the Dandyman.

   “Are you sure he came this way?” Nox asked, resting one hand on the glass of one of the globular windows. He kept the other hand grasped around a handle nearby. Muscle memory, and good old-fashioned normal memory, made him hold on all the tighter.

   “Well, no, blueberry,” Porridge replied, “but as old Rommond would say: There's nothing certain in this world, but there's one thing certain in war.”

   “Casualties,” the Coilhunter quipped, finishing the general's saying. He always did have a saying, just like he always did have a gun. Some folk said a man with a mouth needed a gun, because sooner or later he'd say something someone didn't like. Nox'd met a lot of those men. Many of them were saying nothing now.

   “Right you are, hun,” Porridge said.

   “So you think he's dead?” Nox asked, peering out further to see if he could see Chance Oakley's body in the sand. He wasn't entirely sure why he looked. As if the sand would show him. No, he'd have to dig first. The sand wanted you to know it was a grave.

   Even Porridge's sigh was shrill. “Oh, I don't know what to think.” He seemed like he might faint at the wheel, so Nox gave him a look that'd wake him up real quick. It was that same look he gave when they first met, when Porridge was looting the Coilhunter's monowheel. They'd grown close since then, as close as a lawman and someone who skirted the edge of the law could become. It turned out it was pretty close.

   Nox pulled himself up, hearing the glass groan beneath him. It always groaned. The whole copter groaned. Even the spirits of the machines couldn't explain how it was held together. Willpower was one hell of a glue.

   “I still don't understand why he came out here,” Nox said. He grasped a hold of Porridge's seat as it swung down a track to another window. The entire vessel rotated with it as old engines conked out and new ones kicked in. Propellers died and came alive outside. Why, it was the story of life in one big, old hunk of junk.

   “To find myself,” Porridge mused. “That's all he said.”

   “I thought he already did.”

   “Well, plum, he's a drifter.”

   “So are we,” Nox rasped.

   “And here we are,” Porridge said, “flying over the Lostlands.”

   “Findin' him, not ourselves.”

   “But aren't we always looking?”

   “I ain't no philosopher,” Nox said.

   “No, peach, you're not.”

   “Are we any closer to the location of the distress signal?”

   “Closer, yes. Oh, I just hope no one else heard!”

   Nox scoffed. “There's no point hopin' that. You can damn well bet they heard.”

   He thought of who might be listening. The bigger gangs would, of course, if they'd stolen the technology. The Regime certainly would. Maybe even the Resistance. The question wasn't: who had heard? It was: who would act?

   “Wait,” Nox said. “Somethin' doesn't feel right.”

   “Oh, don't say that, sweetie. You're giving me the willies. Oh, if only!”

   “Park her.”

   “It's a he.”

   “Park her!” Nox shouted.

   But it was too late. Something struck the vessel like lightning. Except it wasn't lightning. It was a blast from a very big electrical gun.

  19 – WHEN THEY WERE TAKEN

  The Dandyman went down, less like an airship careening across the sky, and more like a copper ball plummeting to the earth. Porridge did everything he could to slow the fall. He knew the vessel's weaknesses, and he built around and on top of them. He built it expecting it to fall. So he had wind traps, automated schutes, tilting sails, and more. The more kept growing after every scavenge.

   But it didn't matter how much Porridge had prepared the vessel. It was still one hell of a hard landing.

   The Coilhunter'd banged his head off the rails at the moment of the impact. It wasn't a lot of blood, but it was one mighty concussion. When the robed figures entered, he wasn't just at sixes and sevens. He was at every number and none all at once.

   “Is that … the Sandsweeper?” one of the figures asked.

   “By God, it is!”

   “His Eminence will want to see him.”

   “Bundle 'im up!”

   The last thing Nox heard was the voice of Porridge: “Unhand me, you fiends! Oh! Oh!”

  * * *

  When Nox awoke, he found himself strapped to a table. They hadn't taken his gadgets. They hadn't taken his guns. Even now, with his head still groggy, he made a promise that they'd regret that.

   “You're awake,” a man said. His voice was deep and old, with more gravel in it than even Nox could muster. That was saying something. Nox could muster a lot.

   The Coilhunter said nothing. He was watching. Observing. Studying. You learned to watch your enemy before you slung your gun. That way you knew if they would dive, and where. That way you knew if they would die, and when. You didn't just observe. You captured them in your mind. When you decided to let them go, they'd go with a bullet in their head.

   “You resisted the collar,” the man said. Nox noted the shimmer around the figure's face. The light caught his long, silver waves of hair and made them sparkle, as if they were only half there, fading in from another realm. Nox was enraptured for a moment, but his own desert training kicked in and told him it was just a mirage. The man shifted, and the light shifted, and it was just grey hair after all.

   “I—”

   “Don't speak,” the man said. “You spent a lot of energy fighting. And without a collar, no less!”

   That last part seemed to aggravate his captor more than anything. It didn't seem he minded the struggle. He minded the fact that Nox wasn't yet a slave.

   Nox was surprised that he complied. He didn't speak. Something about this place, or that man, or this collar, made him soft, made him weak. He could barely find the energy to move. No, that wasn't it. He could feel the energy. It was there. He didn't want to move.

   “You'll make a fine specimen,” the man said. It seemed he wasn't quite talking to him, but documenting his experiments out loud. He didn't have to worry that anyone heard. It didn't matter if they heard. He knew they couldn't act.

   “W—”

   “Even now you struggle. It's that determination that makes you valuable. It is will that works like magic here. It is will that works like Glass.”

   Glass. Even in his daze, Nox knew that. Glass with a capital G. It was the crystal the Resistance had unearthed in the mines and employed the Magi to enchant. One faction of the Resistance, known simply as the Order, was in charge of production. With it, they made the amulets that supposedly stopped women from giving birth to demon children. The demons were the Regime, of course, but then you couldn't help but paint your enemy with horns.

   “I will make a portal yet,” the man said. “I am getting close now. Just a few more people like you. Just a dash more willpower. I will harness your minds. Minds are the magicians here.”

   Someone came in, addressed the man as Your Eminence, and sedated Nox. Things didn't quite go black then, but a kind of grey. No. A kind of silver. He could still see faint silhouettes moving back and forth. He could still hear faint mumbles far off.

   Then he heard another sound, but it was louder. “Nox!” the voice called.

   It was Chance Oakley.

  20 – HOW HE ESCAPED

  The voice was like a fishing line, reeling Nox back from the brink. His vision grew crisper, and he could see the silhouettes stronger now. He could hear the voices stronger too. Yes, that was Chance Oakley alright. That warm timbre was familiar. But it was also frantic. There
was a lot of fear in that voice.

   Nox feigned sleep, and he didn't have to feign much, because he was halfway there. When the silhouettes moved away, he stirred. They didn't even chain him to the bed. They didn't have to. They were so confident that he would comply, that he would be just another slave. But the Coilhunter hadn't just honed his body. He'd honed his mind. To do real good, you needed both. Now he needed both to just get out of there alive.

   He had a sense for presence, which helped when he needed to turn quickly and get his shot in before the gunslinger behind him. Here, it helped him know when the folk in the room left. He knew the silver-haired man was gone, because his presence was stronger. His presence was like that of ten men. Nox made a mental note of it, because he knew he'd have to come back for him.

   Nox got to his feet, but his legs wobbled. The drugs they'd given him were potent, enough to dull and weaken him. But there was something they should've known. He was the Coilhunter. They should've given him more.

   He hobbled across to the doorway. His eyes were adjusting, but they weren't adjusting fast enough. It was lucky he'd previously fought silhouettes when his light bombs went off before he had a chance to put on his goggles. He'd gotten used to fighting shapes of men, and gotten used to feeling for the presence of them to distinguish the good from the bad. In the Wild North, you got used to that quick, or you got used to the grave.

   He ventured out into the hallway, hugging the wall. He passed by a room of many prone silhouettes. He could see other figures attaching collars to them. Part of him wanted to fight them now, but he knew he had to play this tactfully. He had to learn what he could. He had to get out alive and let those drugs wear off. He had to come back stronger.

   There was one figure pacing the hall in front of him. Behind, there were several more approaching. Nox couldn't quite tell if the person ahead had his back turned, but he presumed he did by the fact that he didn't shout or run. Nox stalked up to him as quietly as he could. As he did, he thumbed a butterfly capsule from his belt, unscrewed it, and plucked one of the spring-loaded mechanical butterflies from inside. They normally exploded into action when the timer released, but Nox didn't feel like alerting everyone with a corridor full of butterflies. One would do the job just fine. He swiftly wrapped his arm around the man's mouth, pressing the butterfly against his lips. It released its gas, and the man slumped to the ground. Nox dragged the body behind a table.

   Nox continued on. He slunk around corners, skirted into alcoves, and hid in abandoned rooms. He made himself just another shadow on the wall as guards and scientists passed. Sure, some of them looked over their shoulders. You see, most had heard of the Coilhunter. They knew to be scared of shadows.

   He heard a commotion far behind him and knew that the alarm'd been raised about his disappearance. Now he knew he couldn't just escape quietly. He'd have to fight his way out.

   It was then that he passed a room with an electrical generator. A silhouette with a clipboard stood nearby, assessing the machinery. As Nox creeped in, he smelled something charred. He ran his fingers across the wall, feeling the scorch marks. Electricity was new to the world of Altadas, and more of an experiment than a reliable source of power. Nox'd made his own tests with it, but he hadn't yet managed to generate large enough quantities. Here, they had. But it was unstable. And it was just the kind of thing he could use to escape.

   Nox quietly felt along the floor for wires and pulled up one of the loose ones. He could hear, and feel, the crackle of energy at the end. It was powerful. No wonder the silver-haired man worked with it.

   “I don't understand,” the scientist told himself, tapping a pen off the clipboard in agitation. “It should be stronger than this. It should be—”

   Nox jammed the open wire into the man's back, jolting him. He fell, his hair sizzling. Nox could still see him breathing, but boy would he wake up frazzled.

   “Seems pretty strong enough,” Nox said.

   Two figures raced into the room just as Nox slid behind the door.

   “What in—?”

   “Howdy.” Nox jabbed them with the wire, then dragged their bodies into a pile. No one would've ever accused him of being neat with his work, per se, but there was something about a pile of bodies that spoke wonders to the bad. Especially if there was room for more.

   Nox waited for his eyes to adjust further, but his vision was still strained. He started to see some things clearer, but there were white spots on his vision, and his eyes were extremely sensitive to the light of the electric-powered lanterns nearby. What surprised Nox was how dim they were. They weren't generating this much power for lights. They were saving it for something else. Something bigger.

   He moved back and forth between the generator, where he inspected the wiring and controls, and the door, where he added another body or two to the pile. He was making quite a collection. But there was still space at the top for the mastermind of all this.

   He could've spent hours, or days, analysing the machinery. He would've liked to discover how they generated this much electricity without the entire place being torn apart. Of course, he could see the scorch marks more clearly. He could only imagine that his pile of bodies wasn't the first one in there. Many died for science. Many more died for madness. Sometimes they just exchanged the labels.

   But someone was approaching. Nox initially thought to run to the door, to add another body to the pile, but already he could feel him. Already he could feel the presence. This was the silver-haired man.

   He entered the room, and Nox already had a pistol on him. The man seemed unfazed, and this was the first time the Coilhunter got a real good look at him. He had a distinct silhouette, partly due to his tall-crowned pilgrim hat, black as death, partly due to his larger, almost artificially pointed nose, and partly due to his long, thick locks of glinting, grey hair. Around him, around his oddly puffed black clothing, around his silhouette, there was a kind of haze. The kind you see in the shimmering heat. If this was a mirage, it was one hell of an illusion. And if it was a mirage, it was one that could talk.

   “Quite a mess you made here.”

   Nox was tired and weak, but that didn't stop his reply. “You should see what I do to you.”

   “Your threats mean nothing to me.”

   “Well, what do my bullets mean?”

   “Living here has dulled me to your words. Even if you killed me now, it would be an escape. Don't you see? That's all I want, Coilhunter. Escape.”

   Nox clicked the hammer. “Well, hows about I open the door then?”

   “What is it you want, Coilhunter?”

   “My escape,” Nox replied. “For now.”

   “But you're a part of the puzzle. A part of the machine.”

   “Well, people lose parts all the time.”

   “I need to complete my work. It is a great work, one that will be remembered.”

   “Oh, I'll remember it alright.”

   “You need to stay and be a part of it.”

   “You need to back down, pilgrim. You need to give this up and let these folk free.”

   Nox felt a sudden jolt of electricity around his neck. He saw the silver-haired man's finger on a button. He heard the screams and moans of others who received that same electric lash.

   “You're not just hurting yourself, Coilhunter. You're hurting them.”

   Nox moved the gun towards the generator. “Well, hows about I put us all out of our misery?”

   “You wouldn't dare.”

   “Oh, you don't know what I'd do.”

   “It'd kill us all.”

   “Well, it'd end this, sure.”

   “You're bluffing.”

   Nox told himself he wasn't. He told himself he believed it. He told himself he'd do it. He didn't just lie to his enemy. For this moment of guile, he had to lie to himself. He had to make them see in his eyes that he meant it. He thought of his family and how
dying would mean he got to join them. His finger dangled on the trigger. “Am I?”

   They stared each other down for a moment, even as more guards and scientists entered. The silver-haired man stopped them from advancing, from sending the Coilhunter over the edge, and all of them into oblivion. He wanted his escape, but not like this. Not after all this work. Not after all this pain. He had his own family to go back to.

   “Wait,” the man said.

   “Oh, I'm waitin'.”

   “You may leave, on one condition.”

   “I'll leave in one condition,” Nox said. “Alive and well.”

   “You must come back.”

   Nox smirked. “Didn't you know that was a given?”

   “In Altadas, there is only one given.”

   “Death,” Nox said. “And that's what I meant.”

   “You will return then.”

   “Oh, I'll return.”

   The silver-haired man paused for a moment, then ushered his men away. “We'll clear a path for you. You can follow the lights out.”

   “How do I know you won't just try to kill or cage me?”

   “Because I'm a man of my word, Coilhunter. It's how I know you'll return. Because you're a man of your word too.”

   “Well, there ain't no bluffin' there.”

   “Until next time, Coilhunter.”

   The man left, and the presence left with him. When it was far enough away, Nox almost collapsed to the ground. He'd been bluffing alright, and he'd been bluffing strength. There was only so long he could keep that poker face up. Sooner or later they'd see that grim determination turn into a grimace.

   He hobbled out into the corridor and followed the lights. They'd doused lanterns along other passages he wasn't to follow, and part of him felt like probing the darkness there. He could feel another presence down one hallway, but he knew he hadn't the strength to face it. He had to regroup, even if it was a group of one.

   He reached a door, which was already open for him. It was dark outside, but they'd lit lanterns along the cracked path down from the fortress. He made a mental note of it, drew an X on the map of his mind. He'd come back, sure enough, just like the silver-haired man said, but he'd come back in force.