Lostlander

by Dean F. Wilson

   He wandered across the desert until he could no longer see the pinnacle of the castle of sand. The last he saw of that place was its far-off silhouette when a bolt of lightning seemed to crackle off its tip. Then he kept going, until exhaustion mixed with the drugs and made their own sleep-inducing cocktail. He faded off then, and the memory of what'd happened started to fade with him. He tried to grasp at it, tried to fire a grapnel at it, but it slipped through his fingers of flesh and those fingers of metal. All that was left was the presence. As things turned black, Nox promised himself that'd be enough.

  21 – FINDING YOUR PLACE

  “So, that's how it happened, pickle,” Porridge said. He gave a series of little bows to an imagined audience, then struck a pose, resting his elbow on his other arm, with hand aloft, fingers dangling.

   “So, that's how it happened,” the Coilhunter mused.

   “You really don't remember?”

   “I remember more of it now, now that you've jolted my memory.” And it was quite the jolt. As Porridge told his tale, Nox recalled chunks of his own adventure, of how he'd been caught, and how he'd escaped. Quite the jolt indeed.

   “Like lightning,” Porridge quipped.

   “Hmm. Like lightnin'.”

   “Of course, for me it wasn't quite so adventurous,” Porridge explained. “I convinced the Lost Tribe to take me in. It didn't take a lot of convincing. I promised them access to powerful machinery, to poor old Bitnickle. And, and, well—”

   “And?”

   “And, well, of course, your machinery too.”

   “Well, colour me surprised.”

   “Oh, that's not a colour that suits you, love.”

   “Well, then colour me angry.”

   “Oh! Now, that's more familiar.”

   Nox smirked.

   “So, what'll we do now, plum?” Porridge asked. He pawed at Nox's shoulder.

   “Well, we won't dress up like tribesmen, that's for sure.”

   “That was genuine top class survival, that was,” Porridge said with a humph.

   Nox smiled, but said nothing. He'd gotten pretty used to smiling beneath the mask, and folk had gotten pretty used to seeing the smile in his eyes instead—if they didn't just see the hurt and the hate. You lived for the little moments, the passing smiles, because you never knew how many of them you'd get. In the Wild North, most never got enough.

   “You never did ask,” Porridge said solemnly after some silent stomping.

   “What's that?”

   “About where I came from, cabbage.”

   “I thought you didn't have a home.”

   “Well, I don't, plum, at least not how you see it.”

   “Tell me then.”

   “Hmm?”

   “Tell me where you came from.”

   “Here, sweetheart.”

   Nox halted. He didn't mean to halt, but sometimes the only way for your mind to move forward was for your feet to stop first. “Here? You mean the Lostlands.”

   “Yes, plum. Oh! It brings back memories.”

   “Does it now? Funny thing, that, the sand.”

   “Well, as you know, honey, you tend to get a feel for the sand the more you live in it. Oh! A feel! Umm. The tribes have many words for it, for the red sands, for the yellow, even for these seemingly coarser grains up here. And oh! It does bring back memories.”

   “Keep talkin' then,” Nox said. He knew Porridge wanted to, but needed a little encouragement, a little acknowledgement that he was being listened to. It reminded him of dearest Emma, Nox' one and only beloved, and one of only three people he truly loved. She needed that encouragement and acknowledgement too. After she passed, he felt he hadn't ever given her enough. They say you always regret what you never did. That was why he became the Coilhunter, the Man with the Thousand Names, because he knew otherwise he'd have a thousand regrets to go with them. Nox sighed. It seemed the sand was bringing back memories too. There was a different one in every grain.

   “My people were always wanderers,” Porridge explained. “Always tinkers and scavengers. Waste not, want not, as the saying goes. Oh, dear old dandy Rommond has a saying too: Use it while you can and speak it while you can. Well, to us, to my family, the discarded spoke things that the people discarding them never ever heard. We accepted the refuse, the unwanted, the unloved. We gave them a place, plum, and a purpose.”

   “Like Oddcopper and Bitnickle,” Nox said. Those two clockwork constructs were refugees of sorts from the Rust Valley, from the ravenous, human-flaying horde of the Clockwork Commune. They were two little mechanical creatures, more alive and sentient than the ones the Coilhunter made. They escaped the terrors of their scrapyard home and lived with the scrap in Porridge's copter. They helped him salvage, and they found their place in the world.

   They were partners of sorts, in their own unusual way, just like Nox and Porridge were, in their even more unusual way. Yet, after a time, those two little constructs fell apart. Oddcopper wanted to settle down. Bitnickle wanted to have adventures. So Oddcopper went back to Nox and stayed in his workshop, helping him build things, painting a little smile of joy on his face after each successful creation. Bitnickle stayed with Porridge, going on adventures in the sky, in the sea, and just about everywhere else. They saw each other again when Nox and Porridge met. They were shy to show it, but it was a joyful reunion.

   “Oh, don't remind me!” Porridge exclaimed. He was a hopeless romantic and hated seeing those little constructs apart. He kept trying to usher them back together, but Bitnickle always spoke of having a greater purpose. She spoke it with her radio, switching channels to make up her speech. “Poor little plum and peach. Oh!”

   “You were sayin',” Nox rasped.

   “I was, wasn't I? Oh, plonk a colourful hat on my head or I'll lose it! Oh! Where was I? Oh, yes. We were a family, and I say that in a loose way, because we weren't just a family of blood. We welcomed others in. We grew. We saw them as our brothers and sisters, as our uncles and aunts. If they felt at home with us, well, sugar, they didn't need a home.”

   “Your own kind of Lost Tribe,” Nox mused.

   “Yes, I guess so, blueberry. And that's the thing. You had to be lost to find us. We were a family that found our purpose here in the emptiness. That's one of the reasons why others come out here, why Chance came out here. Most never do find their purpose, but I did.”

   “And what's that?” Nox asked. Oh, he'd found his own purpose long ago. His family's death gave him a purpose. The Wild North gave him a mission.

   “To journey,” Porridge said. “To wander and not be lost.”

   “A true drifter.”

   “Yes, but more than just a passing thing, plum. It's about making everything a passing thing. Like the sand. You don't bother making a house there, because you know it'll blow away. So you make yourself tumbleweed. You roll with the wind. You see where it takes you.”

   “And what if it's not anywhere good?”

   “Well, I try not to judge the journey, peach. There are lessons to be learned and experiences to be had in all stops along the way. The good and the bad.”

   “And the ugly?”

   Porridge beamed. “Oh, now, plum, show me someone ugly and let me do my magic on him. Oh, he'll come out all dashing and dandy. Oh! If he ever comes out at all!”

  * * *

  They continued on for a time, following the trail until it grew faint with the fading light, then farther until it grew a little clear again in moonlight. In time, they halted, spotting what looked like the silhouette of an orb on the horizon.

   “Your copter,” Nox assumed, though he wished he'd made the assumption in his head. That way, if you were wrong, you didn't look like a fool. And that way, if you were wrong, the land didn't try to teach you a harsh lesson. Well, you could count on something: it was always learning time.

   “My baby!” Porridge screamed, start
ing into a trot, which quickly led to a bumbling gallop.

   “Wait,” Nox said, but nothing could stop Porridge steamrolling ahead. And boy did he roll. He went head over heels down a dune, but was off again, almost as lithely as the Coilhunter was when he was dodging bullets.

   They got closer, close enough to see the copper plating on the Dandyman glinting in the sunlight. Close enough to see the damaged propellers and the embers of dying engines. Close enough to see members of the Lost Tribe working their repairs—and now grabbing their rifles.

  22 – MAKING IT HOME

  The first hail of bullets sent Porridge into the dirt, screaming. He clutched at his scarves and rolled about in the sand, his arms flailing.

   “I'm hit! Oh, my ripened raspberries, I'm down! Oh!”

   Nox raced over, rolling and sliding through the sand. He lobbed a smoke canister towards the copter, which exploded into a thick, grey haze.

   “Where'd they get you?” Nox asked. He tried to find the wound, but Porridge patted his hands away.

   “Leave me, Nox. Oh! Oh, just leave me to die, poor old dandy that I am. Oh!”

   Nox finally swatted Porridge's hands away to find a bullet had slightly grazed the man's chest. It'd done more damage to his blouse, and Nox had a feeling that'd hurt more.

   “Nox!” Porridge cried, clinging to the Coilhunter's arm. “I see stars, plum. Stars!”

   Nox glanced up at the night sky, where, indeed, the stars were shining bright.

   “You'll be fine,” he said. He dropped Porridge's arm and stood up to face the tribesfolk. He knew for certain they wouldn't be.

  * * *

  The tribesfolk circled the area slowly, spreading out. All guns pointed in towards the slowly fading smoke. They could've fired in, like Regime soldiers would've, but that would've been a waste of ammunition, which was in short supply out here in the Lostlands, where even the most enterprising traders never went. No. You did what the Coilhunter would've done. You saved your shots.

   Except that's not what the Coilhunter did.

   They saw something emerge from the smoke at a lightning pace, so they turned and fired at it. It banged in response. But it wasn't the Masked Menace. It was just a small metal box: a noisemaker, which rattled out the sounds of gunfire.

   The Masked Menace came after, and he came from the other side. He leaped up and out of the haze, and he came with the swing of a newly-fired grappling gun. The grapple took the tribesmen's feet like a flail, toppling two and injuring another. Then Nox turned sharply and swung the weapon again. The hook caught one of the fallen men who was just standing up and sliced into his leg. Nox yanked hard, pulling him down again before it unhooked back into the launcher.

   Another tribesman fired from the left, but Nox dodged and ducked. He fired the grapple again, straight into the tribesman's face. He heard the crunch of the jaw breaking, and wondered what else he'd have to break before that man learned his lesson. For the law breakers, he'd have no trouble teaching them with bullets. But these were not altogether bad men. Just foolish men. Real foolish for challenging the Coilhunter.

   One more rifle came from the right, but it was close. Nox dashed forward and kicked it up. The bullet fired off into the sky. Then the Coilhunter grabbed the barrel, pulled it from side to side, and then pushed it back suddenly before swiping with the butt of the gun against the attacker's face. Even as he did this, he heard the stirring of leather behind him, and the click of a hammer. He turned sharply, falling to one knee, and fired. His bullet blasted the gun out of the other tribesman's hand, and almost blasted away the hand as well.

   Nox got up and strolled over. He pointed the rifle right between the man's eyes.

   “Now,” Nox said. “Don't you go startin' fights you ain't gonna win.”

   The man started to plead. “This is … we only—”

   Nox brought the gun down until the man was mouthing around the barrel. “Let me finish,” he said. “Don't you go startin' fights at all. Y'hear?”

   “D-d-don't kill me,” the man pleaded, nudging the barrel away with one gentle finger. He had to be gentle, because he wanted the Coilhunter to be gentle too. They say “no sudden movements” for a reason. The most sudden movement for many was the click of a gun.

   “I won't if you tell your friend here to stay down,” Nox said, nodding towards one of the other tribesmen, who was starting to stand up. The tribesmen exchanged nervous glances before the second man laid back down again. The other men, nursing wounds and fear, never even tried to stand. Not when the Sandsweeper was there to sweep you back off your feet.

   “One more request,” Nox said, though they knew damn well that it was an order. “Your leader. Rassa-somethin'.”

   “Rassa-tu—”

   “Let. Me. Finish.”

   The tribesman shivered as the black smoke exploded from Nox's mask.

   “Where can I find 'im? Or, better yet, where can I find his master?”

   The tribesman shivered again, but this time was different. Nox could see the horror of a memory in his eyes.

   “The castle,” the man whispered.

   “The castle?”

   “The castle of sand.”

   “And where's that?”

   The man nudged himself up onto his elbows and glanced around. It seemed like he was just about to point a finger when a dart whizzed by, piercing him straight in the forehead. He spasmed for a moment from the poison, then fell limp. There was a flurry among the other tribesfolk as they clambered up and tried to run, but all of them fell to the same darts. It took a moment for the Coilhunter to realise he'd also been pierced by one, but before he fully felt the effects, he pulled an antidote syringe from his belt and jabbed it into his leg. Normally it was the sting of a scorpion or the bite of a desert snake. Of course, normally he wasn't in the Lostlands.

   Nox looked for the attacker, spotting Rassa standing close to the copter with a blowpipe held to his mouth. Three other tribesmen stood nearby with similar weapons aimed. They fired a final volley at the Coilhunter, but he dodged them quick. Not that it mattered. The antivenom would inoculate him for now.

   Nox ran for the blowgunners, and they ran too. One paused to fire another dart at Nox, which struck him square in the shoulder. Nox didn't even try to evade that one. He just yanked it free and flicked it away like it was a mosquito. Then he caught up with his attacker, exchanged blows, and smashed the tribesman's head against the hull of the Dandyman. That vessel was good for all sorts.

   Nox heard Rassa shouting in his broken tribal tongue to men inside the copter. Some of them raced out, but Nox could see through the bubble windows as others worked furiously inside on the repairs. It seemed like the scavenger's vehicle was being scavenged.

   Nox circled the copter, ready for a gunfight or a fistfight, or, well, any kind of fight. He halted, spotting Rassa climbing onto a monowheel. No. Into one. And not just any monowheel. This was the Coilhunter's vehicle, right down to the bounty box at the back. But it was different. Oh, it still had the big outer wheel augmented with landship treads. But it also had glass bubbles on the side. Windows from the Dandyman. They combined on either side to make the vessel into a ball.

   Rassa gave a derisive wave before the glass sealed shut. Then he rolled off, safe inside his bubble, safe from Nox's grapnel and safe from his guns. No wonder he was smug.

   Well, Rassa should've known it wouldn't be that easy.

  23 – COPPER TUMBLEWEED

  When the Coilhunter entered the Dandyman, some of the tribesmen working on the repairs fled at the sight of him. Others tried to fight, but Nox made quick work of them, adding their bodies to the debris and salvage littered across the interior. He dragged the bodies to one of the empty windows, where Rassa's men had removed the glass, and lobbed them outside. Normally he'd be bringing the bodies back with him to the Bounty Booth. But Nox only wanted one bounty now.

   Porridge stood a
t the door, clasping the edge for support. Turned out he'd survived the blouse wound after all. “Oh, they've made such a mess!”

   Nox couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. It was always a mess. What he couldn't help more was the urge to get the copter moving before Rassa got too far away.

   “Get it started,” Nox barked to Porridge. He didn't mean to bark, but boy did those tribesmen bring out the animal in him. Some said there were totem animals for all the folk of the Wild North. If that were true, then the Coilhunter's was something big. And something frightening.

   “Oh, I don't think I can, pumpkin!”

   Nox looked at him intently. “I know you can.”

   The tinker pranced between the debris. He yanked a lever here and there and bashed his fist against a whole lot of buttons. Then he slouched into the driver's seat, flipped his scarf over his shoulder, and prodded the controls.

   “Hmm,” he said, and tried again.

   “I hope that's a hmm, it's workin'.”

   “It's working, dearie, yes, but ...” Porridge pointed at indicator lights on the dashboard, close to a crudely drawn icon of an engine. “Five engines out.” He pointed to another set of lights beside a propeller icon. “And six propellers. Oh!”

   “Ain't that … normal?” Nox asked. He was used to the vessel not so much as flying as rolling across the sky, with one set of engines and propellers conking out, and another set kicking in just in time. The entire vessel would rotate then, and the driver's seat would roll along its track to the next window and set of controls. It was a kind of copper tumbleweed, drifting across the desert sky.

   “It won't fly,” Porridge said, his arms drooping over the armrests in exaggerated resignation. “Oh! What are we to do, peach? Oh!”

   Nox let out a long, deep sigh. The kind of sigh that came with a long trail of black smoke from his mask. The kind of sigh that he'd given far too many times before when criminals narrowly escaped his grasp. He turned and rested an arm on one of the protruding iron beams above.