Ruin's Wake

by Patrick Edwards

  Cale shook his head. ‘It’s an old mine. Nothing more.’

  ‘You’ve heard the stories.’ Aulk took another battery of sips.

  Cale had, many times over the years, and never the same tale twice. It had been a war, some said, that chased the miners away; others said a plague. A couple of years before, Aulk had stayed for one more cup than usual and had spun a yarn of his own about the miners being driven mad. It was the Lattice, he’d said: out here, alone in the barren tundra, they couldn’t bear those dark claws blocking out the lights in the night sky and dragging great shadows over the land during the day. With nothing but flat, iron earth beyond the town limits stretching to the end of the world, the horror of the thing was too much to bear. One night, as one, they’d all risen and walked to the lip of the Groan, tossing themselves in without so much as a scream. They were still there, he’d slurred, glassy eyes staring up through the dark waters, waiting.

  Waiting for what, Cale had asked, but the old man shook his head and refused to go on.

  That time was vivid in his mind as he watched the fisherman finish his rakk. It always came back to the Lattice, in the end, wherever you went. Raised in the Home Peninsula and a product of the best academies his father’s rank could afford, Cale could count himself as an educated man, but even he felt an ominous stirring whenever he looked up, day or night, to see that huge, complex intertwining shape hanging there. It was the sheer scale of the thing that brought on a kind of vertigo, giving form to the immense distance between the ground and the outer shell of the world, the roof of all existence.

  Aime had been the only one who’d been willing to talk about it. Her guess was that it was a leftover from the ones who’d come before, something even the Ruin couldn’t obliterate. It was a monument of a forgotten people, she’d said, meant to inspire wonder, not fear.

  For an instant the smell of her hair against his face was everything.

  Rising, he gathered the mugs and went to refill them from the kettle. ‘I’ve heard some of the stories,’ he said. ‘Do you ever wonder what it was for?’

  ‘The pit? Why would I?’ Aulk accepted the full mug. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Not much in the way of minerals around here. Certainly nothing worth something so large. The mine, this whole town. I wonder what they were digging for.’ Cale had pondered this many times, in the quiet months when the cold kept activity to a minimum. Why scoop a cone two kilometres across and one deep into the barren steppe?

  It wasn’t just Aulk who was reluctant to discuss the Groan – he’d never heard a straight answer from anyone and now he rarely brought it up. It was difficult enough getting people to talk to him, like he’d been tarnished by the place.

  ‘I catch fish,’ said Aulk. ‘I try not to think about it. Place gives me the shivers.’ He shrugged. ‘Who the hell knows?’

  Leave it alone, is what you want to say, Cale thought. It was difficult to look past the stories your grandam told you.

  The fisherman launched into his freshened mug of the fiery amber spirit. Cale filled his own and returned to the table. There was something in it, he had to admit. Sometimes, when Ras began to lower in the sky, he’d find himself hurrying to get indoors to light and warmth and shut out the wind howling over the broken old buildings. That sound: nothing more than a meeting of wind and geography, the rational part of him said, though even after all these years it could still shake him awake with hackles raised.

  At least I have peace, he thought.

  He looked up at the ribbed ceiling of his home. The long, arched metal structure looked like it had once housed mining trucks or even light aircraft: there was a hint of grease that time had never fully scrubbed away. Its shape had been proof against the weight of built-up ice, though thawing the coffin of frozen water around it had taken many days when he’d first arrived. It was comfortable now with the windows sealed and the concrete floors sheathed in thick carpet. The wooden partitions that made up rooms cut down the echoes and he’d filled every bit of empty wall with old books and older landscape pictures – the only reminders of the world he’d left behind – and added lights to all the rooms, staving off some of the oppression of the dark months.

  Cale let the silence stretch, content to listen to the ticking of the old chrono in the corner. It, and the dark wood chairs they sat in, had come from the ruins of an administration office in the town – he was careful never to mention this. There were book piles dotted around on tables and chairs, empty bottles, unwashed plates in the sink, making him wish he’d thought to tidy some of it away.

  The place must reek of me, he thought.

  He hated the Death that kept him shut indoors and away from working on the Faces, his sole vocation robbed by swirling winds that cut to the bone. Nothing to do but drink, read and try over and over to get a tune out of the old bandothal on the wall. There were faded patches on the fretboard where Bowden’s hands had marked the wood and he could still hear how it had sung under his deft, young fingers. He wondered for the thousandth time why the one thing he’d brought to remind him of his son was something he could not hope to master – the stubborn strings only whined in his thick hands. Every time he tried to play only reminded him of that last time, when words had cut the air with the heft of resentment. The memory of their parting always came on fast and had him abandoning the instrument for a bottle of something strong and dark as remorse threatened to swallow him down. After the second bottle, he’d shout his questions to the empty room, but the stubborn bandothal gave him no answers. The pale light of the Wake was always a blessed relief.

  There was little reason to worry about how the place smelled, he realised, coming back to himself: Aulk’s own powerful odour of fish and engine grease pervaded the air. The warmth of the room and the drink had relaxed the fisherman, now resting his feet on the open rakk crate as he contemplated the ribs of the vault above him between longer pulls on his steaming mug. Cale leaned back into his own chair and savoured the feel of the rakk’s sweet-burning vapours jumping up his nose and down his throat before spreading heat to his fingertips and toes.

  ‘How are things in Endeldam?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, same, same you know.’ Aulk took a gulp, his brow creasing. ‘Long Death this year. Ice was thick. Fish were slow to come back.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Buggers turned up, so no bother. But, ah… there’s this new Factor in town, and a new official means more…’ he rubbed a finger and thumb together. ‘Always more tax.’

  Cale nodded. ‘And… your new wife?’

  Aulk brightened, easing his shoulders back and giving a contented sigh. ‘Fat and warm. Soft-like, eh?’ He winked. ‘She’s, ah…’ Aulk held cupped hands out in front of his belly.

  ‘Already?’

  ‘Of course she is!’ A twinkle in the old eyes. ‘For fishers the Death is mighty dull, unless you like drilling holes in the ice. So, instead, we get drunk and… drill holes.’ He hooted and slapped his knee, then doubled over with a rattling fit of coughs. ‘Bad Death, though. Too long,’ he said, cuffing moisture from his eyes.

  There was silence for a while as Cale made another trip to the steaming kettle to refill their mugs.

  ‘Ah.’ Aulk straightened like he’d just remembered something important. ‘Got… gots ’mink for…’ He rummaged through his numerous pockets, then his small backpack, finally finding what he was looking for with a satisfied grunt. ‘Came just last week, first ship to break through.’ He handed the object over, a light brown paper package that had paled and stiffened at the edges. It was still sealed.

  Cale turned it over in his hands, examining it. His name was written on it in thick handwriting he recognised. He gave it an experimental squeeze. The thick paper crunched under his big fingers – there seemed to be something rigid inside.

  ‘Would’ve brought it sooner but, well…’ Aulk let the words hang.

  Cale ripped open one end of the package and carefully tipped out the contents – a metal cylinder rattled
on the table and came to rest. He picked it up – heavy, dull gunmetal, flat-ended and as long as his forearm. At each end was a stud, one blue, the other black. He held it level in front of his face.

  ‘What is it?’ The fisherman’s eyes were locked on the cylinder.

  ‘A message capsule,’ he replied. ‘My… friend in Keln uses them. Old tech. An affectation of his.’ Cale pressed the blue stud and there was a click, followed by an electronic chirp. A flat, glowing rectangle sprung into existence, then flickered out again. He slapped the end of the cylinder against his palm and the screen popped back to life, filled with lines of blue code. Through the translucent display, Aulk’s eyebrows disappeared under his hat.

  ‘Old, you say? Makes radio relay look like carving on wood.’

  ‘Not many of them left now.’

  Then the screen flickered again. A man’s face appeared, staring directly at the camera. It was fleshy, round and completely bald.

  Aulk snorted. ‘Soft city man, I see that.’

  ‘Brabant is his name. And you’d be surprised.’

  ‘Looks well fed.’

  ‘He arranges the payments for my supplies.’

  The fisherman went quiet.

  Cale waited for Brabant to begin. His friend’s heavy jowls always made him look sombre, but there seemed to be something else this time – perhaps a tightness around his eyes or a rigid jut to his jaw.

  ‘Cale,’ fuzzed the voice, coming at them as if from the other end of a long room. ‘Brabant here. Well… you know that.’ He looked down, seemed to be toying with something.

  Disquiet seeded Cale’s belly.

  ‘Look, I’ll come straight out with it, it’s bad news. Bowden’s hurt. I mean, he’s been hurt. I got a… I got contacted by the Army. I know you parted on bad terms but… well.’ Brabant passed a hand over his face and rubbed an eye. ‘Skies, I wish you were near a relay station, Cale. I don’t even know if this is going to reach you…’ He took a deep breath. ‘Details are sketchy – you remember what the military’s like. Some police action down south. Something happened; he did something bad before he was injured. And now he’s in a lot of trouble.’

  The world beyond the screen dropped away until there was nothing in the universe but that glowing square and sad eyes in a tired face. There was a dark hole above Cale’s breastbone that felt like it might suck everything into itself. He forced a halting breath.

  ‘He’s been sent to Sessarmin, the sanatorium,’ continued the recording. Brabant’s eyes stared straight at the camera. ‘You know what that means. How bad it had to have been to get him sent to… that place.’ He looked away. ‘They say he’s critical, but stable. But he’s not waking up, Cale.’

  The hole grew, swallowing him whole until only the pounding in his ears reminded him that he was alive, sitting with shoulders hunched, eyes unblinking and starting to water.

  ‘That’s it. I’m really sorry to have to tell you this. I don’t know if this message will reach you in time, but… well, there you have it. Go well, old friend. Get in touch.’ The screen flicked back to code.

  Without pausing Cale hit the blue stud and listened to the message again. On the other side of the world, Aulk shifted in his chair and cleared his throat.

  It was a mistake – another plea from Brabant to come back to the world, that was all.

  The words came again, each one a bullet impact. Cale’s disbelief died a little more with every shot, replaced by a creeping, hollow horror.

  He’s not waking up. The words were an ice burn.

  He hit the black stud and the screen flicked off. With slow, deliberate care, like it might shatter, he placed the cylinder on the table. He leaned back, closed his eyes and let his head droop with a long, rasping breath.

  Oh, what the hell, he thought. What the hell.

  A lifetime ran past, a flurry of memory, scenes jumping out of the flow but disappearing before he could focus.

  A small, soft hand holding his weathered fingers.

  Aime walking away, smiling over her shoulder.

  His son’s face twisted in anger, looking too much like his own.

  His hand whipped the table with a gunshot slap; rakk spilled; the cylinder rolled off and thunked on the carpet. Aulk jerked back, his eyes wide.

  Cale inhaled through his nose, then stuttered the breath out past his teeth. He was standing, he realised. Looking at Aulk’s huddled form, he realised just how much smaller and skinnier the other man was – in that moment he looked almost childlike.

  Slowly, he held up his hands. ‘I’m sorry. Bad news. Very bad news.’

  The fisherman knocked the table with his knee as he stood. He downed the dregs of his rakk. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ll go. You need time to yourself. Terrible news.’ He nodded, agreeing with himself. ‘I’ll be back in a couple of months, but if there’s—’

  ‘Wait,’ said Cale. The sucking hole was still there but he held himself from its edge by force of will. His hands had stopped shaking, and he knew what needed to be done.

  ‘Give me a few minutes,’ he said. ‘I’m going to need a ride.’

  i. Karume

  The Major was still asleep when she got up to make breakfast. Kelbee moved slowly, carefully, as she did every morning, not wanting to wake him. The rough tiles were cold underfoot as she drew a thin robe about her shoulders. She shivered as she searched for her slippers at the foot of the bed, but they were not where they should have been. Maybe he’d knocked them into a corner of the room. He’d come home late and she’d had to help him stagger to the bedroom, had to pull off his high boots after he collapsed onto the bed.

  Kelbee gave up on her slippers, padding barefoot along the short hallway that joined their bedroom to the kitchen and lounge of the apartment. She paused to greet the Seeker, bowing deep to the portrait set on the otherwise plain wall reserved for it. As she straightened she spotted a fine layer of dust on the frame and felt a twinge of worry that someone might see it. She flicked a furtive finger across the polished wood, thankful that he’d been too drunk to notice last night.

  The lined flooring in the kitchen felt clammy, like the skin of a fowl. The district’s power was still off at this early hour but the seals on the cold cabinet were in good repair and there was no smell of rot as she reached in. Kelbee took out a silver tarn, three fingers wide and as long as her hand, feeling a few delicate scales flake off on to the floor as she moved it to the counter.

  With a small, sharp knife she cut the barbed fins away, and with quick, practised strokes scaled the fish into the sink. The dawn was coming, the faint light peering through the window in front of her as she worked, glinting off the scales in the basin.

  Kelbee turned the tap to rinse the smooth fish and the pipes gave out a chopping groan. Startled, she shut off the water and listened for any sound of him stirring. She waited, tensed like a bird on a branch, but there was nothing; the apartment was still, save for the trickle of water down the drain.

  Exhaling, she continued, drawing her knife along the tarn’s belly line from throat to tail. She used her thumbs to ease its silky guts into a bowl, then covered the quivering red mass with paper and set it aside for the end of the week when she’d make fish sauce. The Major liked her fish sauce, as long as the smell from the rendering was gone by the time he got home. She knew he liked it because he grunted when he ate it – a single grunt was high praise. The commonplace merited only silence. He only spoke aloud when the food was not to his liking and she remembered both times that had happened.

  Two more cuts of the knife, running along both sides of the backbone, then she peeled the fillets away from the ribs, leaving the spine gaping on the board like a trap. She scooped the tender cheeks from the head before dropping the carcass into the waste bin under the counter, which let out a burst of cloying stink as the lid was lifted. The glue-makers only called every two weeks and she knew she’d have to burn more of her precious stock of incense to cover the smell until they came.

  Kel
bee took a pair of tweezers and set to plucking out a few stubborn, bristle-like bones from the fillets. Ras was up over the horizon now, hidden behind tendrils of low mist so she could look directly at it without having to squint or turn away. As she worked, it rose further until it broke free of the mist and passed behind the enormous edifice of the Tower, just two klicks from their small apartment, casting its shadow over her. She set the fillets down in the sink, rested her palms on the smooth ceramic lip and watched Ras’s bright corona haze the edges of the giant pyramid.

  This was her time, a moment for herself every morning. When Ras emerged, she would continue with her day, but for these few minutes she could just stop and stare at the quiet city. It was so still she could pretend it was a model, perfect and serene under a glass case, like the one in the Unity Museum. Over there were the tall trees that bordered a municipal park, where citizens could take the air and which she crossed every morning on the way to work. Apartment buildings just like this one stood in neat, numbered rows, marching out from the centre of the city like the spokes of a giant wheel with the Tower at its hub. If she were to just crane her neck to the right she would make out the square charcoal bulk of the building where she worked; she didn’t, leaving the smell of bodies working close and the heavy chatter of sewing engines for later, when she could no longer avoid it. This time, now, was for her.

  Every day, for these quiet turns of the dial, she could stop and remember how it felt that first day in Karume. The first time she’d seen a skimmer humming along the street on a cushion of hazy air, she’d stared at it open-mouthed, a dumbstruck country girl. Then the terrifying bulk of the Tower, taller than anything she’d ever imagined; a pyramid that seemed to join heaven and earth. Even after years of living in its shadow, she still marvelled at the madness of its scale. Reaching out, she ran a finger down the pane of glass, as if she might feel the hundreds of floors and balconies of the monolith as rough bumps under her fingertip like the scales of the silver tarn.