by Liam Clay
“How do you know she's smitten?”
“Because she kicked you out. That means she can't trust herself around you, and needed you gone so she could think straight.” The sniper sighs wistfully. “I wish Delez would kick me out once in a while. But he's always so very accommodating.”
She sneers this last word, as though it was a terrible slur.
“You don't really mean that.” Amy replies. “You like Delez because he's managed to survive in a violent world and stay a decent guy. It gives you hope for yourself.”
“I thought I only liked him because our personalities are merging.”
“Maybe in part, but that can't be all of it. And... it's possible I was a little hard on you guys. People change all the time. We get older, and our priorities shift. That could be what happened with you.”
Peace laughs. “Listen to her. She gets laid one time, and now she believes in true love.”
Amy punches her in the shoulder. “It was nine times. Now, I believe we have a world to save?”
And so our recruitment drive begins. It is far different from anything the squad has done before. We will often go for days without seeing another soul. And when we do encounter survivors, there is no fighting. But this is our life now, and it presents its own set of challenges.
The Free Kogis - as we come to call them - break down into three groups. The most numerous of these are the Loners. They are people who have managed to avoid the war entirely, often without even being aware of it. Living in small groups or sometimes alone, few have ever left the islands they spawned onto. Oddly, they are the easiest to convince. Humans are social animals, and many are half mad with loneliness when we find them. The fear of being left here while everyone else floats in limbo is often enough to earn their allegiance. We spend many days helping Loners build their own canoes, and drawing maps for them as well. The process is slower than we would like, but it is satisfying to imagine the steady trickle of recruits entering Balthazar's camp.
The next group are the Burnouts. Former soldiers of the Queenfisher, they tired of war and fled the front to eke out a life elsewhere. With a few exceptions, they treat us with suspicion, especially at first. When they learn that we can rip the Architect from this world, some of them agree to go back. But others don't believe us, and many more have simply lost their nerve. Some injuries never heal, and they would rather live in isolation than go near the Burnflow again. Seeing the scars on their faces makes it hard to blame them for that.
And finally, there are the Dead. They are Kogis who once fought in the Architect's service, but no longer. Most have died dozens of times over, and the experience has driven them to varying degrees of insanity. Our first encounter with one occurs at twilight. The man is sitting hunched over on a remote spit of sand, staring blindly into the last sliver of sun. He isn’t old, but his face is creased with pain lines, and his eyes have a haunted look to them.
“What do you want?” He says quietly when we approach. Amy makes the first attempt.
“We are emissaries of the Queenfisher. She is willing to offer you a full pardon, if you will fight for her.”
“I can’t.”
“Are you sure? If we can defeat the Architect, life here could return to normal. It might even become the paradise it was intended to be.”
“Not for me it won’t. I have killed too much. Died too much. You’ve never had your life’s blood swallowed by the sand, or been boiled alive by the Burnflow.”
“We have, actually. All three of us have died here.”
“Liar! If that were true, you would be in limbo now.”
“We have an ally in the Real. A powerful hacker. He resurrected us against the Architect’s wishes.”
“Then you should use your new lives to run and hide. Or don’t, it is of no consequence to me. But either way, you are wasting your time. I will never go near the Burnflow again.”
Not far from us, a turtle emerges from the surf.
“I wonder if they really looked like that.” The man says. “Kogi turtles, I mean. The Architect would have modeled hers on pictures and videos, but it’s not the same.”
We watch the creature until it slips into the water again. Peace is next to break the silence.
“What if there was a way for you to help us without going near the Burnflow?”
The man doesn’t answer, but he is listening, at least. Encouraged, the sniper continues.
“How many times have you died?”
The question is a harsh one, but it earns a reply.
“74.”
“And all those times the Architect brought you back, how many respawn points did you cycle through?”
“Eight.”
“And could you find one of them again?”
“Look around you. This is one right here.”
“Then you can do your part without moving a muscle.”
The dead man bows his head, and then nods. “If you kill the Architect and she respawns here, I will do what I can.” He pauses, and I see a hint of hope in his face. “This feels like... it feels like a purpose. Thank you.”
And then we leave the man to his suffering. But from that day forward, we make the same request of all the Dead we meet. And find most of them willing.
Time passes. Our skin darkens, our hair grows knotted with salt, and our arms bulk out from rowing - day after day after day. When we’re alone at sea, the three of us barely speak. There is no need. Tikal, Delez and the others recede into memory, until it is hard to believe they ever existed. We have become creatures of our environment and our task; everything else has been culled away.
Until the day comes when there are no more Loners or Dead to recruit. But we still haven't gotten to 4,000. The Burnouts stand in our way. We start to revisit groups of them, only to be turned away with warnings or thrown rocks. Frustration sets in, and we pick a fight with five men who just want to be left alone. It doesn't come to much, but the incident breaks our spirit. Reaching an empty island a day's paddle from the Burnflow, we each retreat into our own thoughts, trying to find the will to go on. It is here that the Queenfisher finds us. She rows out of the sun with forty boats at her back. In very little time she has a defensive perimeter set up on shore, with us inside it.
Balthazar has changed. The drunken tint in her cheeks is gone, and she moves with an alert precision that was lacking the last time we saw her. She settles onto the sand across from us, ordering her guards to give us space. But no one speaks for a long moment. There is just too much to say - or too little.
“How long has it been?” The Queenfisher asks at last.
“392 days.” Amy tells her.
“And in that time, how many recruits have you sent me?”
“Not enough.”
“That's true. But still, a lot.”
“How many?”
“1,200 out of a possible 2,000.”
“And what news from the front?”
“After you left, I rebuilt our defenses and stopped sending soldiers onto the Burnflow. The Architect has been trying to break through ever since. Our numbers are down, but so are hers. Some of those men have died every week for a year and a half. They're a mess, and a few are even coming over to our side. And that's why I'm here. If you have one more push left in you, I'm hoping we can rally the last holdouts together.”
“And then what?”
“We go after the Architect with everything we've got. So, will you help me?”
Amy looks to Peace, and then me in turn. We both nod.
“Let's do this.” She says.
And where patience and quiet words failed, pageantry and grand promises succeed. We row out to meet the Burnouts with an armada behind us. And on island after island, the Queenfisher puts on a show: holding rallies, giving speeches, creating a sense of momentum. She is half general, half politician, and all that Amy can see. At every rally she is there, standing at Balthazar's side. And each night they slip off together as well. I am happy for both of them, and hopef
ul for the first time in 392 days. A month later, we return to the front with 500 fresh troops. Balthazar thinks it might be enough.
And in a way, the Architect has already lost. She was trying to bleed the Queenfisher's army, forcing her to bargain for her people's lives. But now that the two sides are evenly matched, her only chance is to defeat us in one last battle. It has become inevitable, this confrontation. Both sides begin to make their final preparations, and an eerie lull settles over the Burnflow.
I feel changed by my year at sea. More prone to silence, and to letting my thoughts drift for periods of time. Peace is the same. We are true friends now, and I would put my life in her hands without hesitation. The old me, that selfish drug dealer just trying to make a buck, wouldn't have believed this level of trust was possible. But then, he probably wouldn't have understood much of what my life has become.
We spend our days training. This fight will be won or lost on the Burnflow, in twenty-seat outrigger war canoes. From the Queenfisher's lieutenants, we learn tactics and maneuvers. And from the unranked soldiers, we learn to fear the Flow itself. It is an unpredictable beast, the channel. Cool sea water mixes with the boiling geyser runoff, creating pockets of pain and others of safety. Heat rises, so the trick is to dive deeply and swim for shore. But this is easier said than done when war rages on the surface above.
The night before the battle, we gather in Balthazar's tent for a last supper. Amy is here, as are Peace and myself. A few of the Queenfisher's favored lieutenants have been invited as well. No alcohol is consumed, and we do not discuss the coming struggle. Instead, our conversation skews toward the past. Eventually Peace asks Balthazar to tell us about her space station. The general gets a faraway look in her eyes, and when she speaks, it is with the cadence of a Kogi storyteller.
“My station is a ring over a kilometer across. A torus, the scientists would say. And resting inside it is a second vessel, this one a spaceship with a hole blown through its heart. They say there were once many such stations, and that they dominated the earth from low orbit. But then, a hundred years ago, something happened. A computer virus, a solar storm or an alien attack - no one knows. But whatever it was, the catastrophe knocked almost all of the great stations out of the sky. They plummeted to earth, killing thousands of people.
But in the aftermath, the stations provided fortunes for many more. Salvagers traveled from afar to crawl over these fallen cities, searching for tech and rare metals to sell. It was another gold rush. Before long, all of the stations had been picked clean. Except for one. It fell with its jammer still intact, and vanished into the ocean. For a hundred years, treasure hunters searched for it in vain. It was like El Dorado, the lost city of gold. And like El Dorado, no one could say for sure if it truly existed.
But that all changed with me. Although to be honest, I only found the thing by accident, after I was blown off course by a storm while fishing. The station lies at the bottom of a shallow sea surrounded by a dead city of color-bleached coral. I still remember the moment I first saw it. The storm was receding, and as the sun made its return, a ray of light pierced the ocean's surface. I followed it down with my eyes, and there it was: my El Dorado, the lost space station.” She looks at Amy. “It was the second best moment of my life.”
A year ago Peace would have pretended to throw up at this, but now she just nods.
“And what part of the station do you think the Architect is after?”
“I don't know. There is still a vast fortune in metal down there, waiting for us - or someone else - to extract it. But to me, the Architect has never seemed like a simple salvager. No, I think she is after something else.”
“What?”
“The ship's black box. It would contain details on how the station was destroyed, and blueprints for both vessels.”
We all sit back to digest this information. There is an allure to what Balthazar is suggesting. A few hundred years ago, the newest technologies were always assumed to be the most advanced. But these days it is the older, relic tech that is perceived to have the most value. More proof of our global downslide, if any was still necessary. Regardless, I can already picture myself diving into the deeps, hunting for the black box and the secrets it contains. The only problem is, I can imagine the Architect doing the same thing just as easily.
CHAPTER 17
The next day finds me in the Queenfisher's war canoe, heading to a parlay with the Architect. Peace and Amy are directly ahead of me. We are wearing the unofficial uniform of the rebel army: a hooded seal-skin tunic over breeches of rough wool. It's a far cry from the mechanized armor I wore during my adaptability test, what seems a lifetime ago now. But that get up would be heavy enough to sink this entire ship, so maybe this is better.
There is something strange about a preordained battle like this one. Both parties had to agree on so much beforehand. First, it was decided that these islands would constitute the war's main front. And now, by mutual consent, we're about to have a battle that will decide who gets to rule this world. But before things kick off, we are going to have a nice polite chat with the enemy.
It's been a few days since I've held a paddle, and it feels good to get my muscles working again. With Balthazar calling the stroke, we peel away from the island's main dock, which is located at the southern end of the island just east of the Burnflow. Then we enter the channel, rowing hard against the current. A yellow vapor permeates the air, and the smell of sulfur becomes overpowering.
Another war canoe emerges from the mist. The Architect sits cross-legged in its prow. Her gaze takes in the Queenfisher... and then settles on us.
“You keep strange company, Balthazar.” She calls out. “Those three were sent here by the Colonizer, and he is no friend to the Kogi.”
As before, her voice lacks inflection of any kind.
“I will decide who to name friend.” The Queenfisher replies. “Now, do you have anything to say before the killing starts?”
“I would strongly urge you to give me the space station's location.”
“Why should I do that now, after all this time?”
“Because so far, not a single Kogi has been harmed in this dispute. They are merely in stasis - what you call limbo - and can be restored at any time. But if I cannot extract the necessary information from you, we will be forced to use other means.”
“Who is we, though? So far, all I've seen is you and a bunch of Kogi traitors.”
“I am part of an organization with a single purpose: to save humanity. Even if it means destroying parts of it.”
“But let me guess. You can't tell us why you need the station.”
“That is true. If I did, the information would leak out into the Real, and there would be mass panic.”
“How convenient. Is there anything you can tell me that isn't shrouded in ten layers of mystery?”
“No.”
Balthazar snorts. “Typical.”
At her signal, we let the current carry us out of the Burnflow. The Architect watches us go without expression.
Back at the docks, the Queenfisher flips the switch on her war machine. 180 outrigger canoes are pushed into the surf. Rowers wade out to them, spears and rope-mauls in hand, to take their assigned places. Peace, Amy and I report to our own vessel. The captain is a hardened vet who has fallen into the Burnflow more times than most of the Dead. Every inch of exposed skin is covered in burns. But his voice carries, and the boat team he commands is fiercely loyal. I can tell he doesn’t want us onboard, but his orders were clear. He repeats them to us one last time, and then it's into our canoe and out to sea. Balthazar wanted to lead the attack herself; but together with her lieutenants, we were able to convince her otherwise. She will be watching from a newly constructed palisade on the beach.
We form up in tight lines of eight, pontoons almost touching. Our canoe is in the third line, flung out to the far left. The war drummer sets the stroke. Dipping oars in time to the tempo she sets, we begin our advance. The front
line of boats is lost to the mist. Now the second fades, and then it's our turn. We are in the channel. The sulfur smell is even worse than before. It fills my nostrils and mouth, making it hard to breath.
From across the water, the sound of another drum reaches us. It slides into sync with our own, and the two factions row as one, twin beasts flying into each other's jaws. Somewhere in the fog to our right, there is a splintering crack, followed by the sounds of death. The front lines meeting. We're running at top speed now. Our hull cleaves the waves, sending fans of scalding spray over the gunwales.
The captain orders us to slide out wide of the second row. As we comply, the first enemy ships enter our world within the fog. Painted mottled white and curdled-brown, they could be carved from the bones of a vast sea creature. The rows crash together. A massive chunk of wood hurtles toward my head. I twist sideways in my seat, and it strikes a man further back.
“Every fourth rower to the right pontoon!”
That's me. Dropping my paddle in the boat, I heft my rope-maul. A fist-sized iron ball attached to a length of twine, it is meant to crush heads and chests from afar. Then I leap onto the crossbrace that connects our pontoons to the hull. A quick dash brings me into position. When the next enemy ship appears, I sight in on the captain and loose. The sphere strikes the woman’s shoulder, and she topples silently into the Flow.
“Hard right!” Our captain calls out. We change course, and our reinforced prow breaks the other ship’s pontoon in half.
“Rowers, lean left!”
As the boat’s weight shifts, my pontoon lifts a full meter out of the water. The heavy timber flies over the enemy's gunwale, crushing six soldiers to death in an instant. Then I jump into their ship. A maul flies at my head; I duck it and lash out with my short spear. Peace is launching arrows point-blank into my adversaries, who are still recovering from our broadside. A year ago, I thought this body was a hindrance. But now I have sea legs and the shoulders of a rower. I push the enemy back: dispatching some, forcing others into the Flow, until none are left. It is a meager victory in the scheme of things, but a victory nonetheless.