by Eyal Kless
“You can come down now.” Rafik’s voice echoed in my head and in a blink of an eye, I was standing in front of him again.
“In the past, every new mind received a large piece of world to design as it wished.” Rafik spoke as I was steadying myself and getting my bearings. “Much larger than this little pocket, and each mind was free to create what it desired. Most would give themselves some kind of physical powers, altered their age and appearance, and quickly realised they could make every moment of time here only a fraction of the time in the real world. Then they would begin to get . . . inventive.” Rafik smiled and gestured for me to sit down again. I complied.
“But all of this is impossible now. We have a very limited amount of energy to spend, so we need to hibernate most of our minds, like we did with yours.”
“I thought we won the war against Cain.”
“We won the battle, yes, but the war—I am afraid not.”
I picked up a butter cookie from a large pile, but dropped it back when a thought hit me. “And here we are,” I said. “After five years of happy slumber, you suddenly decide to wake me up.” I sighed. “Better tell me what this is all about.”
Rafik took a slow, deliberate sip from his own cup and began talking about a seemingly unrelated subject.
“There used to be an old hand-to-hand combat style called jiujitsu. Now it is just another piece of lost human knowledge. The practitioners trained for combat starting on their backs, with their opponent laying on top of them.”
“That . . . does not make sense,” I said, “or sound like a fair deal.”
“Who said combat was fair?” Rafik remarked drily. “With training and discipline, even a dainty woman could escape the vulnerable position and subdue a larger, stronger opponent. In a way, Adam and Cain are locked in such a battle. Adam is stronger and more capable, but despite being on its back, so to speak, Cain has managed to gain an advantage, a choke hold of sorts. He is slowly depriving us of air, trying to suffocate Adam, and he is now closer to succeeding than we anticipated.”
“I’m a little lost here,” I said, not hiding the bitterness in my voice. “Maybe it’s the shock of death and betrayal.”
Rafik ignored me again. “Vincha was supposed to come back with her daughter, Emilija, a Puzzler who had all the signs of harbouring a rich code line in her essence—perhaps the last strain we need to become fully awakened again. But Vincha never came back.”
“The fact that you believed Vincha would ever show up here again makes me question your thought process.” It felt good to hurl that little insult. “She went through all that rust just to keep Emilija safe and you thought she would hand her over to you, just like that?”
“We knew there was a chance Vincha would not see reason.”
“A chance?”
“But Puzzlers always end up in the Valley,” Rafik continued, unfazed by my remark. “They are drawn back to Tarakan. It is part of their DNA.”
“Their what?”
“Their essence. It is what they are made of and an important influence on who they end up being,” Rafik explained, not showing any signs of losing patience. “We knew that even if Vincha failed to bring her daughter, Emilija would eventually find her way to us. We had other means of reaching out to her.”
“Like the Great Puzzle dreams?”
Rafik paused, then nodded. “It was inevitable she would show up eventually, with or without her mother. And if she failed or died, someone else would eventually come.”
“But something went wrong, didn’t it?” I said without thinking. “Something that made you abandon your waiting strategy and wake me up from my beauty sleep.”
Rafik’s first sign of hesitation proved I’d hit the mark, making me feel childishly proud.
“The valley is not cleared of the Lizards, but it is not as dangerous as it used to be,” Rafik said. “We estimated that Salvationist crews would begin coming back by now, but that did not happen. We have a limited amount of information about what is happening outside our sphere of influence, but it seems that the City of Towers is preoccupied with some kind of a conflict.”
“You mean war?” I straightened on my seat.
Rafik shrugged. “Some kind of a limited armed conflict, not posing a danger to the city itself, but it keeps the Trolls occupied.”
“Well, as you said”—I shrugged—“it is only a matter of time . . .” Come on, Rafik, spill it out . . .
“A few weeks ago, Cain staged an attack on several fronts. He managed to penetrate our defences only for a short time, but after the attack was repelled, we found out he stole one of our hibernating agents.”
“Which is . . . ?”
“A highly trained Tarakan operative that we used for special operations. We managed to close the gaps in our defences, but not before Cain found out about Emilija.”
“For a side which won the day, we are getting hit quite often.”
This time the insult seemed to hit home because Rafik snapped back, “Well, Cain had some outside help. Now this agent is being used to locate Vincha’s daughter. If Cain finds her first, his choke hold on Adam will be complete. Cain would win.” For the first time I saw emotion cross Rafik’s face. It could have even been fear.
“That ‘outside help’ you mentioned . . .” I said, realising too late that the snap answer was not a slip of the tongue; it was bait. I was being reeled nice and slowly into something I was going to regret.
“What do you know about Mannes Holtz?”
I shrugged, surprised. “Nothing much. The name used to crop up in the city every few months or so. He is something between a rumour and a myth, said to live down south, past the Broken Sands. People claim he drinks the blood of his foes and can only be killed by a stake through his heart. I say, if he even exists, he is probably some ruthless warlord.” Another memory surfaced, and I added, “I used to know someone who claimed association with him, but the man was way too far gone on the drink to keep a coherent story.”
“Mannes Holtz does exist, and although we cannot confirm that he drinks blood, I can tell you he predates the Catastrophe, which he himself caused.”
It took a moment for Rafik’s words to sink in.
“You mean he . . .”
“Mannes is now more than a hundred and fifty years old. He used to be one of us, a high-ranking Tarkanian, but in truth he was a traitor, a murderer, and the one who created Cain. Cain was the first strike that began the war you call the Catastrophe. At the time, we thought Mannes had been duped or somehow coerced to create Cain, and that he died on the day of the Catastrophe. But he somehow survived and emerged a few decades ago, taking control of the Star Pillar, a faraway but strategic area and a vulnerable spot in Adam’s defence. He had been working continuously to strengthen Cain and weaken us. Whatever rumours you want to believe, I assure you Mannes is as ruthless as he is capable, and now he is aware of Emilija and her importance.”
I was beginning to suspect that my head was not throbbing only due to the fact that I did not, technically, possess a real head.
“So . . . you want me . . .” I said slowly and deliberately.
“. . . to find Emilija for us.” Rafik completed the sentence. “Most likely by locating her mother, Vincha.”
The look on my face must have spoken volumes because Rafik continued hurriedly, “You have been successful in finding her before.”
“By sheer luck. Do you know how many times I almost died on that mission? And I mean ‘times’ aside from the time I actually did die.”
“We have confidence in you.” Rafik leaned forward. “And this time you will have information and equipment. There are files on Mannes we managed to extract after the Catastrophe. You should view them as well, once you are transferred to the bunker.”
“Transferred where?”
“We will send you back to the physical world. The bunker you will wake up in is still well supplied. You will have all that you need on your mission.”
“Back fr
om the dead for one final mission,” I said wryly. “Sounds like one of the Salvo-novels I used to read when I was young and stupid. What if I refuse to go?”
Rafik waited a little before answering. “You would go back to sleep. We cannot spend the energy to keep you self-aware. But if you bring us Emilija, you’ll have a world to be a God in.”
This time I took my time before asking, “Where’s the stick?”
“The what?”
I stared him down. “You dangled a very ripe, juicy carrot in front of my eyes, but what happens if I fail this insane mission, or what stops me from forgetting the whole thing and staying in the physical world? Where’s the stick? There’s always a rusting stick.”
“Your bodies will begin to decay in less than three years.” Rafik locked eyes with me. “It is a relatively quick but nevertheless unpleasant experience.”
“Here’s the stick,” I said quietly. Then added, “You said ‘bodies’?”
“You won’t be sent on such a dangerous mission on your own.”
“Ah, planning an armed, Troll escort team to accompany me?”
“‘Escort,’ yes. ‘Team,’ that depends on your point of view.” My guess was that Rafik knew he’d broken me and was now simply enjoying himself.
“Who do you have in mind?”
Rafik told me, and for the first time since I came back to life, I smiled.
Chapter 2
Peach
Initializing.
Date and time are not known.
Reporting full physical functions and health.
No specific orders embedded in my surface memory.
Vessel is of a middle-aged woman showing Asian heritage, dark skinned. Height and weight under average for women in this hemisphere.
Vessel has been grown for reconnaissance and infiltration, not combat. Normal physical limitations and only basic damage resistance. Pain dumpers fully functioning, and standard combat capabilities and reflexes. ESM active.
No internal equipment is detected. For security reasons, I will not use external equipment to contact headquarters.
The sterilized compartment contains basic gear, light clothing, nourishment pills, rapid hair growth salve, and such, but no weapons or other equipment. Therefore I conclude this is an emergency bunker and not a normal operation-level hub.
Initiating silent mode, dictating events into the organic internal drive. I will continue to do so until I run out of space or find an opportunity to upload.
The bunker is running on a minimum power level. I have detected a second vessel, a female combat breed, but it has sustained some kind of damage or malfunction and is ruined beyond repair. Perhaps this is why I have awoken in this vessel.
Since my orders are unclear and the bunker is in some sort of malfunction, I am initiating survival code Alpha.
Switching to personal, internal briefing.
I knew something was wrong the moment I opened my eyes. It wasn’t just the physical state of the place—I’ve woken up in worse conditions—or the fact that my vessel was a middle-aged Asian female. From a muscle-ripped warrior to a nine-year-old child, I’d occupied all kinds of vessels on my past missions. Yet this time, something bothered me on a more fundamental level.
I knew who I was and I knew my assignment. I was to locate and find a young woman, Emilija, and bring her safe and sound to a rendezvous point—but that was it. No details on the girl—not even what she looked like—no threat assessments, no extract team, not even the exact location I was supposed to bring the girl to, only that she should not be harmed and that I should head to Tarkania, the City of Towers. I can’t say this scared me—I’ve been through too much to become unhinged by the absence of ideal circumstances—but I took note of the fact that headquarters was not responding; this was not a usual situation. At least the mission was a simple “find and retrieve,” not an assassination or my specialty, mass sabotage. I wondered who the girl was. She seemed to be important enough for command to deploy someone of my rank and status.
I also had an overwhelming, inexplicable desire for a peach. This, too, was not out of the ordinary for a hibernating agent. Sometimes during the transition into the new vessel some odd quirks would take hold. You might wake up hating milk, or wanting to wear clothes in the colour of blue or, like me right now, dying for a peach. It was not a big deal, but this sort of thing usually happened when the hibernating agent was shelved for a long period of time, more than a month or two, for sure.
There were too many unanswered questions, too many variables, and with all signals from the outside world blocked I could not see what was waiting for me outside, or even where I was on the globe.
There was just enough air being recycled in the small bunker, but it was not of the best quality. It made me queasy, and so the first order of the day was to get out of the place. It proved to be more of a problem than I expected; I soon found the exit tunnel had collapsed and my way was blocked by debris. I had to improvise some tools and work several hours to clear the tunnel, sustaining some minor damage—mainly bruises and cuts.
When I eventually managed to reach the sealed door, I had to manually unlock it, brace against the wall, and push away a heavy slab of concrete that lay on top of the door. This was a good thing as it meant no hostile welcoming committee was waiting for me outside, yet I found out soon enough how dire my situation really was.
At first I thought I’d emerged on a wooded hillside of some sort. I climbed up to a vantage point, a slab of broken concrete laden with rich moss, and began slowly surveying the premises, concentrating on each tiny detail and trying to piece them into a bigger picture. It was a vast, unrecognisable city that had sustained heavy damage of catastrophic proportions. I’d seen a lot during my course of duty, but this took some time to sink in.
With the exception of several small animals—birds and squirrels, mainly—there was no indication of any living beings. My body detected residue of nuclear waste still lingering in the air, but not at a health-threatening level so long as I left the contaminated area in a week’s time. Assuming there was cleaner air elsewhere.
Despite the destruction, or maybe because of it, nature was slowly claiming back the land. In fact, only the most elevated parts, which could be seen in the distance, were not covered with thick foliage. By the condition of the ruins and the fauna I guessed this city had been in a ruined state for a long time and there were no visible efforts of recovery, which ruled out an accident or natural disaster. Yet if a large city remained levelled for so long, it was a sure sign of a larger conflict, perhaps a destroyed civilisation. I just had to figure out which one. At least I knew that since I was awake, my side still existed.
I had to admit that despite the utter shock at what I was seeing and its implications, having had my predictions—filed in numerous postassignment reports—come true gave me the tiniest spark of professional pride. I’d seen it coming, I really had. Over the course of two decades, my assignments had gone from subtle to almost crudely aggressive. I told myself each time that I might not be seeing the big picture, that Central Command found the missions worth the risk despite knowing their actions created enormous enmity and suspicion. I guess we were all wrong. Nothing was worth this.
A light rain began to fall. I got up and began moving cautiously towards the more visible ruins on higher ground. I passed under a ruined bridge and climbed up another only to have to backtrack. At some point I reached a huge trench, at least forty feet deep and thirty wide. The surface of the bottom, which was not covered in mud, glistened as rain bounced off it. It was hardened, dark blue glass. Something very hot had crystalized the earth it touched. The walls were charcoal dark but had the same reflective effect as the bottom. The trench went right and left for as far as I could see, as if God had decided to carve his initials on the city’s surface with a very hot knife. A combat vessel would have been able to clear the gap with a running jump, but I had to spend an hour searching for a fallen tree with which to create a bridg
e for myself.
The drizzle was getting heavier, and my canvas boots were not meant for this sort of hiking. I was wet and cold, and despite having consumed a nourishment pill I felt a growing pang of hunger for real food. I decided not to spend time trying to hunt as I was weaponless and any source of sustenance would most likely be contaminated.
Night was cold and wet. Rain was falling constantly and I hugged myself into a light doze, taking shelter inside a crumbling ruin. From the height of the ceiling I guessed it used to be a building of giant proportions. Now only a corner and a far wall remained. Before I let myself rest, I spotted a flicker of a bonfire in the distance but decided against treading in the slippery darkness for the chance I might meet a friendly face. I suspected anyone sitting around a bonfire in these ruins might not be the most accommodating of individuals.
It was the right decision.
The next day I managed to track down the bonfire. There were the chewed remains of four small mammals, most likely squirrels. By the look of the foot imprints and the amount and trajectory of the urine I concluded there were at least three people, probably all males.
Half a day later I spotted one of them climbing a pile of crumbling stones. He was a young man with long and unkempt brown hair, carrying several items hanging from a large belt which suggested he was some kind of a trophy hunter. The most interesting item I could tell he was carrying was a short sword strapped to his belt.
He had his back turned to me, so I had a moment to decide whether to keep tracking him from a distance, hail him in the hope of a peaceful conversation, or incapacitate him and take his gear. I gave the encounter a 60 percent chance of being resolved peacefully. This time I was wrong. My decision-making process was cut short when I heard the rustling of leaves and a stern voice saying, “Don’t you rusting move, bitch.”
I turned my head to see a man standing on elevated ground, dressed in a worn army camouflage uniform. I couldn’t tell which army, as the insignia had faded. What I could easily detect was the hunting bow that he had aimed at my chest. A real wooden bow, with crude but effective-looking arrow tips that would rip a large enough hole in my vessel to cause an inconvenience.