Ruin's Wake

by Patrick Edwards

  ‘Won’t bite you. I did bite them, but only the once.’ He paused. ‘Well, maybe more than once.’

  Cale’s hands began to prickle as the fire of the returning blood flowed down to his fingertips like a thousand jabbing needles. He grunted and quickly set the tray down, clenching his fingers until the pain waned, squeezing his eyes shut. When he opened them, his night sight had returned.

  In the corner Ardal Syn hung above the filthy bucket. Holding the tray, Cale approached, seeing a bald head and pale skin that seemed almost luminous against the concrete wall. The bony ribs were marked with a livid spread of bruising.

  His guess had been right: the man was just a torso, armless and legless and nude. A crude yoke around his chest attached him to chains hung from the ceiling.

  ‘They took your arms and legs?’ Cale asked.

  ‘Said I couldn’t be trusted with them.’

  ‘Why haven’t you bled to death?’

  Syn laughed. ‘Don’t stand on ceremony, do you, buck? They were neticks. Expensive ones too. I expect they’ve sold ’em by now, the shits.’

  Now that he was closer, Cale could see the dull metal ball joints sticking out from Syn’s shoulders and hips. He’d heard of a few amputees who’d risked sourcing artificial replacements, a leg or hand. Never anyone with all four limbs replaced. The cost – and the risk – would be enormous: Aspedair products, advanced tech from the Free City where the Hegemony held little sway, were expensive even before the black marketeers took their cut.

  ‘How did you come to be here, Ardal Syn?’

  ‘Now there’s a tale. Tell you what, I’ll swap it for a mouthful or two of that bread.’

  * * *

  Ardal Syn was good at finding things. Things people had lost, people that didn’t want to be found. Sometimes he brought them back. Sometimes, he was nearby when accidents happened – a fire, a fall, a sudden illness. He took cash and didn’t discriminate. He even claimed that the Hegemony itself had chartered his services once or twice, though Cale thought this unlikely.

  ‘A bounty hunter.’

  ‘I’m the quiet alternative. I’m deniable. And I’m good.’

  ‘Not good enough, clearly.’

  ‘Touché, buck. Right in the kisser.’

  The story of how he’d come to be hung up on a cell wall was an elaboration of what he’d already said. On his return from a job in some back-end town, he’d switched on his hired boat’s navigator and gone to sleep.

  ‘I’d kick myself up the arse, if I could,’ he said, crumbs flecking his dry lips. ‘You get comfortable around machines when they’re so much a part of you. I got sloppy. Give me a sip of the water, if there’s any. Ah, you’re a saviour.’

  Cale listened to him talk for a long time with his back pressed against the cold concrete. Ardal Syn was still alive because he was a good liar. He’d convinced the wreckers that he came from a rich Aspedi family who would pay his ransom, though, not being the trusting sort, they’d taken his expensive netick arms and legs as a down payment. After the biting episode they’d kept him fed by shocking him senseless, until chewing a mouthful of rank gruel was the most he could manage. Sometimes, they came in and pounded him with fists and boots, only just holding back from puncturing a lung or bursting an eye.

  If he could keep them guessing long enough, he told him, keep them searching for this phantom family from the Free City, he’d find a way out. Cale asked how he planned to accomplish this, slung from the wall like a side of meat.

  ‘Patience, buck. Patience and a little luck.’

  * * *

  Food had been pushed through the door four times since the first encounter with the wreckers and Cale’s hands would not stop shaking. Four days, though it felt longer. From what Syn had told him, he knew his captors would be sending out feelers about him, using the Alec IV’s manifest. As the days ticked past, the inevitable came closer: they would find him to be nothing more than a shadow. His accounts were held by Brabant under an assumed name Cale didn’t even know – when his friend had offered to help him fade away, he’d been diligent about it. Cale had little doubt of what they’d do when they summed his worth and found it to be nothing.

  ‘I need to get out.’ His gut twisted, and it wasn’t hunger.

  ‘You and me both, buck.’

  ‘You don’t understand. I need to get to my son.’

  Syn’s face softened a fraction. Then the grin returned. ‘You seem like a clever fellow. If you and I put our pretty heads together, maybe we can come up with a plan.’

  Despite the dank cell wreathed in shadows and the cold, congealed streaks of old food on the floor, there was something comforting about the mercenary’s optimism.

  If he can hang there like that and still believe in freedom, what excuse do I have? Cale forced a thin smile. ‘Perhaps. If only to get you some clothes.’

  ‘Sorry about that,’ said the mercenary, looking down. ‘It does rather dangle, with nothing else around it.’

  ‘Here,’ said Cale, pulling off his tattered shirt. ‘Have this.’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind…’

  Cale tied the shirt’s sleeves around the other man’s waist, fashioning a crude loincloth.

  ‘Ah, modesty. There you are, old friend.’ Syn’s face scrunched and he shifted in his harness. ‘I’d give anything to have a good scratch. The nooks and crannies do itch so.’ He looked up at Cale, hopeful. ‘I don’t suppose—’

  ‘Don’t push it.’

  Steps in the corridor, coming closer. Cale stepped away, his back to the wall, one hand ready to shield his eyes. But the steps continued past their door, and they heard metal shriek as the next cell was opened.

  ‘Guess the neighbours are alive after all,’ said Syn. ‘Unlucky for them.’

  Cale crouched and pressed his ear to the wall, trying to listen in, but the thick concrete revealed nothing. He crept closer to the door, heard the faint thwack of flesh being hit. There was a faint whimper, almost too quiet to make out, immediately covered by coarse laughter. He jumped away as he heard the other door slam shut and retreated to the far corner until the sounds of their captors were gone.

  ‘Sooner rather than later, I think,’ said Syn. ‘They’re getting playful.’

  In the gloom, Cale nodded to himself. ‘I have an idea.’

  * * *

  The door crashed open, spilling light into the cell.

  ‘Holy shit, what a stench.’ The guard pulled his collar up over his mouth. ‘What’s all this hollering?’ The wrecker’s scarred face twisted with annoyance and he brandished his shock baton, his face a furious scowl. He spotted Cale curled up in the corner, moaning. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ he breathed, then pulled out a torch. He crossed the cell and poked the recumbent form with the toe of his boot. ‘What the hell’s wrong with you? Sit up! Now!’

  Cale only groaned louder and pulled his knees tighter to his chest, one hand cupped around the opposite shoulder. The wrecker shot a look at his partner, then stalked over to Ardal Syn and shone the light in his face. ‘What’s that on your face, punchbag?’

  Syn squinted away from the light. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Don’t give me that! What’s that on your chin?’

  ‘He started it!’ There was outrage in the mercenary’s tone.

  The wrecker rubbed a hand down his face and groaned. ‘You bit him too? What the hell is wrong with you, animal?’

  Syn spat a red-flecked wad onto the floor.

  ‘You did! You fucking bit him!’ The wrecker pointed at Cale. ‘Why’s he like that?’

  ‘Bastard got fresh, so I showed him,’ replied Syn with relish. ‘A while later, he collapsed. He can choke for all I care.’

  Scar-face gestured to the other guard. ‘I’m not losing another one. The young cunny next door is on his way out as it is. Mal will have our knackers in a vice if we let more go. Check him while I go get the medkit.’

  The younger man nodded and went over to Cale. He leaned over and prised the hand a
way from the shoulder. Beneath the ripped shirt the skin was marked by a raw, bleeding semicircle. ‘Animal,’ he spat.

  As Scar-face turned for the door Syn coughed twice.

  Cale moved.

  He grabbed the front of the guard’s lapel and yanked him forwards, slamming his face into the concrete wall with a hollow clunk. He went limp as Cale pushed himself to his feet. Scar-face was almost at the door, turning as he heard the noise. Cale launched himself across the cell in a headlong tackle and cannoned into his ribs. The man’s spine rammed into the metal frame of the door but Cale’s head smacked concrete, dazing him for a second before he shook it off, reared up and backhanded the wrecker senseless to the floor.

  ‘Well done, buck,’ said Syn. ‘Took a bit of a knock there. You all right?’

  Cale nodded. He took two deep breaths to steady himself, then set about searching the downed men. The one he’d put face-first into the concrete had red bubbles coming out of his nose as Cale frisked him, turning up a bunch of keys. There was no rifle today, so he stripped the man of his baton.

  ‘Tick tock, chum,’ said Syn. ‘Let’s get the jolly fuck out of here, shall we?’

  Syn would have been a light carry even with his limbs attached. Cale fashioned a harness from belts and the yoke that had secured the mercenary to his chains. He wrapped one of the guard’s shirts around the naked torso, then hoisted him like a backpack.

  There was a small antechamber outside their cell. The walls were as bare as the cell had been, lit by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling and furnished with a small table and two rickety chairs. The table was littered with bottles and a game of knucklebones seemed to have been abandoned halfway through. The air was different – after the dank staleness of the cell it was like standing in the freshness of an open field. Cale caught a hint of salt, almost imperceptible, and a distant crash of waves. His hunch had been right: wherever they were, it was near the shore.

  ‘Come on, you need to move,’ said Syn in his ear.

  ‘Wait.’ Cale went to the other cell that faced on to the antechamber and began sifting through the bunch of keys.

  ‘Buck, we haven’t got time to stage a jailbreak. Either we go now, or no one gets out.’

  ‘He said something about another.’

  ‘Who said? Other what? Come on, turn it around. Out we go, quick as birds.’

  ‘The one with the scars,’ said Cale, trying another key in the lock and failing to open it. ‘He said there was another. I’m not leaving them if they’re alive.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s very fucking good of you. Just put me down and I’ll nod my way out of here.’

  Cale ignored him and tried another key. The heavy lock clicked. He swung the door open and the stench from the dark room made him recoil.

  A body lay before them in the middle of the cell. A big man, dead for some days going by the smell. He lay face-down, a drying pool of blood surrounding his head like a glossy halo. The face was turned towards the door, and Cale saw the tongue had become swollen and purple, bulging from the open mouth like some fat worm. To make matters worse, the corpse had voided its bowels.

  ‘Don’t you go in there,’ said Syn. ‘Nothing for us.’ Despite this, he seemed to know what was coming and held his breath.

  Cale found the other occupant against the far wall, hidden from the door by the pile of decaying flesh. The boy’s head was cradled between his shaking knees and his bare chest was streaked with grime and blood. His red mop of hair hung in lank ropes over his face. He looked up at Cale with hooded eyes.

  ‘Am I dead?’ he said.

  Cale helped Derrin to his feet. ‘Come on, we’re getting out.’

  Derrin swayed on unsteady legs, his gaze bleary. Cale kept hold of one skinny arm and guided him out to fresher air. He shut the door on the grim cell, then turned to find Derrin staring at him with fogged surprise.

  ‘Why do you have another head?’ he asked, his voice fuzzed by thirst and exhaustion.

  ‘This is Ardal Syn. He was with me in my cell,’ answered Cale.

  ‘Would shake your hand, if I could,’ said Syn.

  Derrin took a step back, overwhelmed. ‘But—’

  ‘We’ll explain later,’ said Cale, taking Derrin’s arm again and pushing him towards the wooden door where the draft was coming from. ‘The longer we stay here the more chance we’ll be caught. Understand?’

  Derrin nodded.

  As soon as they were outside, Cale saw where the sounds of the sea were coming from. The cells had been dug into the face of a tall cliff that ran straight down into the waves. They emerged from the man-made caves onto a wooden platform with a flimsy handrail; looking up, Cale saw that the entire place was a cobbled-together network of walkways and platforms bolted and slung off the cliff face, some carrying huts and shelters. It was dark, Marna hidden by low clouds.

  ‘Looks like we go up,’ said Syn.

  ‘Agreed.’

  Creeping slowly, they made their way up ladders and rickety stairs, keeping low. The wind played through the wooden structure, filling the night with groans and clicks that had them freezing every few steps. They saw no one, passing several darkened huts on their way.

  ‘Do you think they’re asleep?’ Derrin whispered.

  Cale held a finger in front of his lips and shook his head.

  The air changed as they neared the top of the cliff, the smells of earth and vegetation overtaking the brine. It was then that they heard noises that were not made by the wind, the noise of many people gathered in one place, laughing, talking, singing. The sound was coming from a large construction on the widest platform – it looked big enough to be a meeting hall. Light spilled through the cracks in the walls and pipe music snuck under the door jambs, reedy and flat. Every encampment he’d ever known had a place like this, where men could shut out the cold with warmth and drink.

  As they crept closer they heard a roar of laughter and men shouting at each other over the music. One slip and the whole camp would be on them. From the way Syn’s breathing had quickened, Cale knew he understood.

  At the far end of the platform was a large ramp leading up, and beyond it the ramshackle buildings seemed to end. He saw the sky’s pinprick lights peering through gaps in the cloud. The top of the cliff was just a dash away but to get to it they would have to sneak past the front of the hall, using the scattered cargo crates as cover.

  Cale turned to tell Derrin but saw understanding on the pale face. Moving with even more care, they crept between cover spots. When they reached the double doors that led into the hall Cale sent Derrin across the gap first, directing him to hide behind a pile of thick rope.

  The youth made it just in time; with another roar from inside the hall the doors banged open, pouring bright yellow light onto the platform. Two men came reeling out, trading punches. Cale hunkered low, hoping they would be too caught up to spot him.

  It was a short fight. The bigger one, with a long beard and a huge belly, managed to grab his opponent’s neck and hammer a meaty fist into his jaw. The smaller man dropped like a stone and lay still. The victor rubbed at his knuckles, belched, then walked over to the edge of the platform where he proceeded to unlace his trousers and piss into the sea far below. Cale held his breath, willing the man not to turn towards him.

  The wrecker finished, farted, then walked back over to his stricken opponent. He grabbed an ankle and dragged the comatose man inside. There were shouts and more laughter, then the doors banged shut.

  ‘I think we can agree, that was too bloody close,’ said Syn in a low voice.

  Cale found Derrin cowering behind the pile of rope as they made for the ramp.

  It could have been a few minutes or an hour since they had escaped from the cells, but by the time they made it to the top of the cliffs both Cale and Derrin were exhausted, fear and weakened bodies making every step feel like a struggle. The edge was fenced off in a semicircle, with a single gate and guard hut. A man stood on watch, the tip of a smoker glow
ing against the darkness beyond the gate.

  Cale wasted no time, forcing his tired muscles to move. He pulled out his stolen shock baton, clapped a hand over the sentry’s mouth and jabbed him in the back, letting him convulse before lowering him to the floor. He stripped the man of his filthy smock and handed it to Derrin to wrap around his naked shoulders.

  The guard hut held meagre supplies – a canteen half-filled with brackish water and some hard biscuits was the best they could find. Derrin picked up the guard’s battered rifle, but Cale shook his head.

  ‘Leave it. Too noisy, too heavy.’

  ‘I’ll carry it. I don’t mind.’

  Syn clicked in irritation. ‘You’ll mind in an hour, kiddo. Leave the gun.’

  Derrin stuck his chin out and looked like he was about to refuse, but then relented, leaning the rifle against the wall of the hut.

  ‘Help me with him,’ Cale nodded at the unconscious guard. Between them, they propped him up onto a chair, draping a limp arm over the rifle. ‘That might buy us some time.’ The sentry’s head lolled and drool trickled down his chin.

  There was a scrape behind them, and a cry of alarm. Cale spun and saw another guard at the top of the ramp, a rifle slung over one shoulder and an unlit smoker drooping from his lip. He was already reaching for the rifle but fumbled in his haste. It fell to the ground, he dived for it, Cale tore the shock baton from his waistband and coiled to go for him, then there was a bang; a concussion wave blasted past his face.

  The top of the wrecker’s head shattered in a bloody shower and the smell of gunpowder filled the air. Cale ignored the squeal in his ear and turned to find Derrin holding the sentry’s smoking rifle, his eyes wide with terror.

  ‘I just… he… I didn’t…’

  Syn’s voice was just audible over the buzz. ‘Go. Go now, or we’re as good as dead.’

  Cale knocked the weapon out of Derrin’s hand and pushed him into the night, heading inland.

  Sleep 28 – 498

  Finally, they send me someone. I am not impressed.

  The young man came in on the last supply caravan before the cold. I was at the landing pad to supervise the arrival of some high-sensitivity spectrometers – the knuckle-dragging loaders had no concept of their fragility – and assumed the new arrival was one of theirs and was taken aback when he introduced himself as my new assistant.