Chapter 12.
It’s a relief to leave the z-line. We’re still watchful for roamers, but we encounter fewer and fewer. Whenever we do, Starbucks lops off another head. Jarvis is good at setting snares. Food is stored in the wagon, but he’s been supplementing their supplies with small game along the way. The traps aren’t electronic, but it’s another reminder of myself at that age.
It’s a five day walk to Hapsburg.
On the second day, we cross a stream. The water is cool and refreshing. I don’t have to desalinate it either. Echo sits apart on the bank and checks her wounds. Her pants are tight around the ankles, so to examine her calf she has to pull them down instead of up. There’s not even a scar to mark where the mine hit her, though that’s not what catches my attention. She’s got underwear from the Doctor’s medical supplies, so it’s not like she’s showing everything, but the sunlight on her legs takes me by surprise. They seem much longer all of a sudden and altogether stunning.
I’m not the only one who notices. Frozen in the middle of filling his canteen, Jarvis gapes openly with a total loss of self-awareness. He’s been struck dumb, as if he only just realized she was a girl. She’s belting her pants again when she happens to look up and sees us staring. Jarvis blinks and looks away. I fumble deliberately with my boot for lack of anything better to do.
From that point on, Jarvis fawns over Echo. He talks in my direction, but his eyes keep moving to her face, gauging her reactions. If she expresses an opinion, he instantly empathizes. All of her suggestions meet his immediate and enthusiastic support.
“Oh, that’s neat,” she says about one of his snares, and then he’s eager to tell her everything about them. He even teaches her how to make them–and this she does appreciate. She sets snares the next day and, on her third attempt, catches a small rabbit. She’s genuinely pleased.
“You have a fan,” I say quietly to her as Jarvis brings the rabbit to Starbucks for skinning.
“At least somebody appreciates me,” Echo says, fiddling with the snare in her hands.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
She sighs heavily and shakes her head, like I’ve missed something obvious.
“You should say, ‘Hey, let’s go jump over that cliff,’ just to see what he says,” I suggest, smiling; then I imitate Jarvis’ answer: “‘Oh, we should totally do that. Let’s jump. That’s a good idea, Echo. Real good.’”
She’s not laughing, however. She looks up at me with one eyebrow raised and says, “Why don’t you jump over a cliff.”
Then she walks away. Clearly, she’s missed the point. I like Jarvis. I just thought it was funny. I turn to find Starbucks towering over me with the skinned rabbit.
“Humans,” he mutters in disgust, moving past me toward the dinner-fire.
Overall, our journey is a good one. The blue sky is bigger than it used to be, full of hidden potential. Echo has been smiling more lately, and we’re miles and miles from those dark days on the shores of New Sea.
Then we reach Hapsburg.
Hapsburg lies on the western bank of the Missipy River. The same river used to flow through the Great Ruins, past my Library. I’ve seen the evidence on old maps, but much of the land was reshaped during the Fall, pushing the river further west.
On the eastern bank lies Blackbridge, a small town full of merchants and fishermen. Despite the name, there’s no actual bridge. There was one, I’m told, but it’s gone now. There are, however, a number of boats willing to ferry people across. We barter with a ferryman and disembark on the western bank, at the foot of Hapsburg.
Hapsburg is three times the size of its sister town. It’s surrounded by a spiked wooden fence, interspersed with towers supporting rifle-wielding sentries. A genuine forest lies beyond it, yielding an ample supply of wood. A timber-mill and a number of farms dot the surrounding countryside.
Starbucks is aggravated as we step off the ferry and head up the dirt path toward the town.
“He’s not a big fan of the Plastic People,” Jarvis explains.
“The what?” Echo asks.
“You’ll see. There’s one now.”
Two guards stand by the town’s entrance, each carrying a machine gun. They’re wearing chainmail hauberks over hooded cloth shirts. The one on the left looks different somehow.
What happened to his face?
His skin is too tight. Overly smooth. Fake. I try not to stare. I can’t help it. Then I realize–he’s not human. He’s a robot. Synthetic skin over rubbery flesh over mechanical insides. The closer I get, the more obvious it is. His eyes are slightly too wide. The eyebrows are colored in. He has no hair. His fingers are smooth cylindrical nubs. He’s like a rough approximation of a person.
The guards stop us long enough to examine our wagon. We’re waved inside. Our weapons are plainly visible, but apparently that’s acceptable here. I’m still trying not to stare. There’s something grotesque about the robot’s mimicry. The failed attempt to appear human is far more disturbing than, for example, Starbucks’ distinctly inhuman countenance.
The guard isn’t alone in his bizarre fashion. At least half the town’s residents are “Plastic People.” They’ve utilized different skin-tones and materials, given themselves shapely bodies, even dressed in human clothing. Some have stitched real hair into their scalps. Many wave and smile at us–which only makes things worse, because their faces don’t have the proper muscles to convey the nuances of human expression. Their smiles look slightly psychotic. It’s like walking through a town full of demonic human imitators.
“Why?” Echo whispers, staring in horror as the four of us enter a bustling marketplace.
“They want to be human,” Jarvis says, shrugging. “Weird, isn’t it?”
“Pathetic,” Starbucks says. Aside from an occasional frown, he refuses to acknowledge any of the passing robots. Jarvis looks through the stalls in the marketplace. We stop as he pulls arcane goods from the wagon and hurries off to various merchants.
“They’re Minkowski-4’s,” Starbucks says, seeing that we’re still watching the Plastic People.
“I’ve heard of those,” I say.
“Then you know it’s a substandard neural embryo. Makes good service-oriented minds, but the individuals end up a bit slow and … lacking. There was a group around here some years back that used to hunt robots. They’re gone now, but back then the M-4’s couldn’t handle it. This was how they adapted. Being a robot wasn’t good enough anymore. To serve their creators, they had to become their creators. Not that you created us anymore than evolution created you. Ask me, all you people did was imitate your own biology and screw around until something good popped up. But that’s how the M-4’s view you: as creators. All this nonsense has become a mark of pride for them. They even hold pageants to see who can be the most human. It’s absurd, not to mention degrading. Have you no shame?”
This last question is directed at a passing Plastic Person, whose smile is stricken from his face as he shrinks from Starbuck’s angry glare. Starbucks towers over everyone in the marketplace. I’m tempted to make some kind of joke about him dressing up like me or Echo, but I’ve seen how easily he decapitates people.
Deeper into the crowd: a blue jacket with red and white shoulder pads. A white star inside a circle emblazoned upon the back. All levity of thought dries up in my head. I grip Echo’s forearm by reflex.
“Cove,” I whisper.
She pales at the sight of the man. There’s no way of knowing if this particular soldier was one of those who burned Farmington, but the sight of him fills me with blunt, unmanageable hatred. I should put a bolt right through that star.
“Over there,” Echo says, nodding in another direction. Soldiers are scattered throughout the marketplace. There’s even one on horseback passing at the edge of the crowd. Jarvis comes back with a purse full of coins, but his smile fades when he sees our faces.
&nb
sp; “What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say.
“Men like that burned our village,” Echo says, nodding toward a soldier.
Jarvis looks confused.
“From Cove? But–they’re good,” he says.
Echo’s eyes bulge, but she swallows her anger and shakes her head.
“Good at setting fires, yeah. They did an excellent job of murdering our families,” I say, feeling a deep bitterness rise. Echo and I huddle unconsciously closer together. A fierce loyalty and solidarity arises between us.
“Let’s move along,” Starbucks suggests.
We do, though the joy has been sucked out of Hapsburg. All I can do is look for more soldiers. Shifting my attention is like pushing at a brick wall. I manage to trade the toy cars and a few other scraps I picked up the horde territory. They use copper coins in Hapsburg, so I end up with a purse-full, which Starbucks tells me is an even deal. Jarvis sells a third of the booty from his wagon. He saves the rest for Apolis.
“Guy over there says a caravan is heading north in two days,” he tells us as the sky darkens to a deep navy blue.
“What guy?” Starbucks says, looking through the crowd.
“Can’t see him now. But what do you do you think?”
“We’ll see.”
“What about the river? Do any boats go upstream?” I ask–somewhat absently, because I’m imagining putting a bolt through another star.
“You don’t want to take the river,” Jarvis says.
“Why not?” Echo asks.
“Same reason we didn’t follow the z-line. Raiders. Passenger ships are just begging for an ambush. A guarded caravan is the safest way to go. We took one here on the way south. We should probably wait for another–don’t you think, Star?”
“We’ll see,” Starbucks says again.
We find an inn for the night. It’s attached to a tavern, and Jarvis wants to treat us to a late meal, but his kindhearted efforts to improve our moods are doomed to failure. He cracks jokes and tries to entertain Echo, but she and I are preoccupied with vengeful thoughts. We sit in a booth under the flickering orange torchlight and stare moodily about the room. I’m not used to crowds, so I’d be anxious even on a normal night … then three Coven soldiers make their entrance, striding boldly to the bar, and all hope is lost.
“Are they always in town?” I ask.
“I’ve seen them before, but never this many,” Starbucks says, monitoring them coolly with his glassy black eyes.
“Come on, guys. Let’s just enjoy our food,” Jarvis says with a pained expression.
“I’m not hungry,” Echo says.
“Foundry’s army was headed to Cove. They should’ve reached it by. Why are there soldiers here?” I ask.
No one knows. The army was only a few days behind us when we fled the Library, and from there it was maybe a week to Cove. Did the battle already take place? It must have.
“I wonder what–”
And then time stops.
He’s sitting across the room, eyes on me, and I’m staring at him before the rest of my mind can catch up. The shaven head. The square jaw. The cynical gray eyes laughing at the world. The same bandolier crisscrosses his chest beneath a black leather jacket. The scimitar and shotgun aren’t visible, but I’m sure he’s armed.
Cabal.
He sprouts half a smile with something like amused disbelief, and one hand strays toward his hip, though he doesn’t draw a weapon, just sits there watching, eyes glittering with malevolence.
I’m transfixed. He can’t possibly be here, but he is. Neither of us can look away. Has he come for us? A cold thrill of fear spreads through me. A trap. I see our imminent end in a dozen involuntary flashes. Fear has ambushed me again.
Cabal says something to another guy at his table. He rises to his feet.
Things are moving too fast. I need to time think. I’ve day-dreamed about another confrontation. My vengeance has been accomplished in a score of impressive imaginary scenarios, but now there’s only panic.
Coward, I curse myself. Conan would leap from the table and cut him in half. Pathetic. Loser.
No. I can do this.
“Ow! Tristan, what …” Echo says.
I’m squeezing her leg.
“He’s here,” I whisper through a dry throat.
There’s no time to explain. He’s already crossing the tavern, walking our way. His eyes flick sideways at the Coven soldiers as he passes. He passes them warily.
“Well, well, well,” he says quietly, standing in front of our booth.
Echo’s breath catches. Her muscles go tense, her fingers digging like talons into the flesh of my arm. Cabal leans over, planting both hands on the table. He relishes the moment, though I sense the fury and pain just beneath the surface. He’s a cyclone in a cloth sack, and the string is loosely tied.
“Always nice to see old friends,” he says.
Jarvis and Starbucks look back and forth with concern.
“Mind if I sit down?” Cabal asks, pulling over a chair.
I force my grip on Echo’s leg to relax. I try to breathe normally. I have to be ready with the crossbow. Yet my hands feel wooden. I’m afraid I’ll screw up the attempt. Maybe I should use the axe instead? It’ll be awkward to pull free from this position. I’m undecided.
“What do you want?” Echo asks.
He spreads his hands. On his face is mock bafflement, pretend hurt.
“Can’t I say hi to familiar faces? So few around these days. And look at you two. Cute as a button. Good to see you both together. I have to say, I didn’t think you had it in you, Tristan. Last I remember, you were cuffed to a wall. How’s this go again? You get loose, shoot Ballard, and take the whore for yourself. Is that it? Oh man, you must really like blondes. Bravo, Tristan. Bravo.”
“Cabal–” Echo starts.
“Hey, don’t get me wrong. She’s good. I enjoyed her too. It’s just I didn’t think you had it in you, killing Ballard and Fin?”
I need to speak, but the words stick in my throat. Cabal looks at all four of us. He frowns.
“Or maybe … maybe it wasn’t you. I mean, how did you get free? Maybe she just needed someone new, eh? Got tired of Ballard’s … tools? Did she tell you, Tristan? About our time in the desert? Oh, but I’m sure it wasn’t the way she said. Don’t let her fool you. She was practically begging for it. The look on her face, with her hands and knees in the dust–”
“Shut up!” Echo snaps, and I can hear the savage hatred in her voice.
“Quiet, whore, the men are talking,” Cabal says, his eyes never moving from mine.
“You can’t talk to her like that!” Jarvis says, springing half to his feet, as much as the table-space will allow.
“Pipe down, pip–”
But he makes a mistake. Cabal’s finger jabs at the boy’s face in a threatening manner when there’s a whirl of motion, and Starbuck’s silver-white hand is locked around his forearm. The big robot leans forward.
“The next time this arm crosses the table, I will rip it off,” Starbucks says.
He might as well be asking to pass the salt. Cabal assesses.
“Fair enough,” he says, and Starbucks lets go.
Cabal turns back to Echo.
“Interesting choices you’ve made in your new life. Tristan was bad enough, but a robot and a boy too? I don’t know which is worse. What is he, twelve? Tristan not doing it for you either? Ballard was right about you from the start. He knew what you were, the moment he–”
“Shut your goddamn mouth,” I manage through gritted teeth.
“Oh. Tristan, you can talk. I almost forgot you were here. Ah, no, no–let’s not lose our heads,” he says, seeing my hands shift beneath the table. His eyes move to one side briefly, toward the soldiers by the bar behind him. That’s why he won’t try anything here, why he doesn’t dare start a fight. He mig
ht be crazy enough to shoot, but he doesn’t want to attract their attention.
“How about I call them over,” I say, nodding at the blue-coats.
“I think that would be a poor choice, considering that they’re looking for us,” Cabal says.
“You mean you.”
“I mean us. Aren’t we sitting together? Weren’t you in Foundry’s army?”
I scowl.
“Starting to ride my wave?” he asks. “You tell them I’m with Foundry, then I’ll say, ‘You got me, guys–but my friends were scouts too. Oh yes. Especially that blonde one with the tight ass.’ You think they’re going to wait for proof? And Echo really was a scout, or have you forgotten? They’ll hang us all and be done with it–well, maybe not you, Echo. You, I suspect, might make even more new friends. Or do you think Cove’s soldiers are above taking spoils. Let me ruin the suspense: they’re not.”
There’s a brief silence. Cabal examines the four of us. I glare at him, breathing slowly. The emotion is stifling. I can barely think. He leans forward and sighs.
“Anywho. I’ve had a wonderful time chatting with you all, but the standards of this bar have really gone downhill. I think I’ll try someplace new. Robot. Boy. Enjoy the whore. Tristan, Echo. One day I’m going to kill you both.”
He gets to his feet.
He means to walk away, but I grab his forearm. My face is hot, my jaw tight. I want to say something scathing. Something clever. Something to put the fear into him, or at least wipe that stupid look off his face. But the words never come at the right time. All I can manage is, “This isn’t over.”
“If you’re trying to hold my hand, Tristan, I’m sorry, but you’re not my type,” Cabal says. He jerks his arm free and disappears into the night.
Love, Death, Robots, and Zombies Page 13
