by Eyal Kless
“Would you look at that!” Galinak exclaimed, waving the black garment in front of my face.
“SmartLeather. Adjusts itself to your body, complete with a torso brace, too. A power knife, and this . . .” He bent down and straightened back up, beaming with joy, holding a massive silver-coloured power machine gun.
“Old Harim knew his weapons, and there are at least ten power clips, three of them renewable.” Galinak turned the weapon back and forth in front of his eyes, mesmerized.
“And look, SmartGlasses, what a classic.” Galinak put the dark glasses over his eyes and looked around. “Yeah!”
I walked past him to the reading table, where a wooden box lay. It was not locked. Inside was a heavy coin bag, a letter, a pipe case with several vacuum-sealed tobacco cases, and an old-fashioned golden revolver complete with a leather hip holster and a clip belt.
“That’s a nice peacemaker,” Galinak said. “A little old-fashioned for my taste.”
I waved the gun around, its heaviness and balance oddly reassuring. It was made to look antique, and it was certainly not the most efficient weapon, but it was actual Tarakan steel and gleamed in my hand with a power clip that fired power shots. I was never a weapons kind of guy—actually, I was the opposite—but the moment I saw it, I knew I was going to keep that gun.
The letter I found on the desk was written in LoreMaster Harim’s hand. Despite having been duped by him to go on a dangerous mission while unknowingly being used as a decoy, I felt a pang of loss in my heart. My old mentor gave up his life so we could escape to the Tarakan Valley and eventually venture deep into the City Within the Mountain. He would have loved every moment of it.
The letter simply said:
Dear guild brother,
Take what you need from here as you see fit, but do your best to keep the knowledge stored here away from harm. The future of mankind lies within its past.
LoreMaster Harim
It wasn’t much, but it was precise, just the way my LoreMaster liked it. I was momentarily flooded with memories of the man—how he took me from my family home, raised me in the towers to be a scribe, only to send me on a dangerous fool’s errand to find Vincha and discover Rafik’s fate. The last time we saw each other, LoreMaster Harim had elevated me to the rank of Associate LoreMaster of the Guild of Historians. The vivid memories stirred strong emotions, and by the time I came back to my senses, Galinak had finished looting the place.
There were other travelling garments hanging neatly in a corner, and I rummaged through them until I found the clothes which fit me best.
“Not bad.” Galinak nodded his approval as he zipped up the SmartLeather suit. “But you’d better learn how to shoot with your new toy. It gives a mighty kick.”
I tried to fast-draw from the hip and managed to tangle the gun in its holster. It dropped to the floor with a heavy clank and skidded towards Galinak, who bent over and retrieved it for me. I was hoping the darkness masked the redness on my face.
“Okay,” he said as I shoved the gun back in its holster a bit too forcefully. “What now?”
I turned and walked deeper into the belly of the Leviathan, found a ladder and a hatch, and climbed up. Galinak followed me silently, hefting his new weapon onto his back and shoving a bag of nourishment pills into his belt. It didn’t take us long to find the place where the drivers of the Sky Birds must have sat. There were two chairs that resembled Dwaine, son of Dwaine’s throne. On top of them lay two bulky helmets. From the front windows I could see several of the other Sky Birds and a few of the Dwaine clan milling about. We sat down and I took the helmet in my hands, testing its weight.
“Are you gonna fly this thing?” Galinak placed his helmet on the floor and flapped his hands, mimicking a bird.
I looked at the vast array of darkened screens surrounding us.
“Rust no,” I grunted. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“So, what are we doing here then? We got weapons, pills, clothes, and some metal, I say we split before the Dwaines change their hospitality rules.”
I shook my head. “There’s one more thing I want to try. It is only logical that these machines have strong communication devices. Maybe we could reach out to the Tarkanians and get the briefing we missed.”
Galinak did not look pleased. “Why the rust would we do that?”
I had no simple answer, so I simply gave him a meaningful glare. Surprisingly, it worked. Galinak shrugged and leaned back in his seat. “Suit yourself, but I ain’t sure I want to follow orders no more. Last time I did they got me killed.”
I had no argument against his logic, so I simply turned my attention back to the screens. They were more than an arm’s reach away. I wondered how the driver could use them from so far back. I got up and walked towards the screens, eventually touching them. Nothing happened. There were no other levers or buttons to pull or push. I sat back down and tried the helmet on. It didn’t fit immediately, but there was a complicated set of pulls and slides to adjust it. As soon as I managed to fasten it on my head there was a soft click and a hundred things happened all at once. The Sky Bird hummed to life, my seat expanded and fitted itself snuggly around my body, the screens around us lit up and projected themselves into arm’s reach, and a semitransparent steering wheel materialised in front of me.
“Whoa.” Galinak straightened up in his seat. “What’s going on?”
“Put on the helmet,” I said, gingerly touching the steering wheel. It felt solid in my hands.
The helmet’s inner screen was disorienting as well. On the left side a constant stream of numbers and letters ran in front of my eyes, changing colours and speed as I moved my head around. On the right side I could see through the material of the Sky Bird. I knew it was not my own gift that allowed me to zoom in through the metal walls.
“Bukra’s balls.” Galinak somehow managed to deal with the helmet faster than I had. His hands moved around in the air, touching the screens hovering around him.
“Galinak, don’t—” I said.
“Armed,” a voice rang out in my head.
I turned my head sharply. On the left side of the screen a picture of the Leviathan’s wing tip blinked red while on the right side I zoomed in on another Sky Bird on the far side of the tarmac.
“Locked.” A red rectangle surrounded the Sky Bird I was looking at.
“—touch anything,” I finished, but it was too late.
There was a swooshing sound in my ear and a heartbeat later the other Sky Bird blew up in a mushroom of fire.
We sat in silence for a while, not daring to move our heads or even blink. I reached under my chin and slowly unfastened the helmet. My surroundings winked out of existence.
“Rust,” Galinak said, still wearing his. “The Dwaines ain’t looking happy.”
I closed my eyes and leaned back in my seat, which, surprisingly, reclined itself back so I was facing the ceiling.
“I have a feeling they won’t give us some of their stew when we try to leave.”
“You don’t say,” I murmured and shut my eyes, feeling suddenly overwhelmed and tired.
Galinak freed himself from his helmet. “What now?”
I kicked my new boots off my feet. “I need to rest a bit. I haven’t slept right since, well, since I was born. The Dwaines are not going to shoot at us and they can’t get in. I’m almost positive Dwaine is illiterate.”
“And if he’s not?”
I turned my head and looked meaningfully at Galinak’s new machine gun. Taking the hint, he smiled back at me, picked up the heavy gun and turned his seat to face the doors behind us. “I’ll take first watch, then?”
I didn’t answer. A little later I was fast asleep.
Chapter 14
Peach
A dream, but not a normal one, I knew. Finally, Command was reaching out to me, but I knew instinctively that this dream briefing was different than usual. An image of a woman came into view. She was a warrior by the way she stood, no
t young but still powerful. Red hair, and black markings around her neck and ears. She turned to me, drew a power gun, aimed, and fired. But as I flung myself to the side she changed into a young woman in her teens, dressed in a simple brown linen dress. Her hair was voluminous and red, and she had grey eyes, fair skin, and a strong body. She could have been stunning if it were not for a slightly wide chin. The warrior’s younger self . . . no . . . her child . . . the warrior’s child. The younger woman was my target, Emilija, and the mother was her protector.
I was lying in the mud and saw a name written, Vincha, before I rose slowly and realised I was standing in a field. From afar I could see the familiar silhouette of the City of Towers and my heart skipped a beat. Then a splash of muck stained my clothes as someone stepped over a puddle and walked past me. It was Vincha again, gun in hand, looking with open suspicion in all directions, but not seeing me or the shadows that surrounded her. I felt the urge to follow, saw her walking towards her daughter, who was standing with her back to us, oblivious, as shadows grew around her. The dream was telling me that there were others looking for the girl . . . but who? Before I could find out the answer the warrior jumped into the shadows and disappeared. The daughter remained, although she began to fade into the distance as bells began to ring. The image changed again into a fountain I recognised, and lastly into a bird which landed on a wide straw hat. It was a rendezvous point, a place where I would make contact.
I woke up to the sound of chimes, curled up on a thin rug that was spread on the floor. The dark chamber had no door, and I saw three people slowly passing the entrance as they walked the lit corridor, one holding a pot filled with burning incense and the two others playing delicate chimes. Turning on the rug, I surveyed the room. There was no one with me in the small, windowless chamber, empty of furniture save for several other hand-stitched rugs, a candle holder with a short stump of a candle in it, and a knee-high wooden table. As soon as I rose to a sitting position, three more men came in. Since I did not believe in coincidence, it was logical they were standing outside, waiting for me to wake up. One was carrying a bucket of water with one hand and a smaller, empty bucket in the other, another lit the candle in its holder and the third man was carrying a tray, which he placed on the small table. It contained a loaf of freshly baked bread, hard cheese, several vegetables and a covered plastic cup.
“Wash, use the empty bucket for yar needs, and eat,” one of the men ordered, but not unkindly. “Then you shall cleanse and see da Healer.” His accent did not come out as natural as the others’, a little distorted, like he forced it upon himself. I made a mental note of this, even though it seemed to be of no importance.
“How is Brak doing? And Trevil, my companion?”
“See da Healer, then all will clear,” the man said.
Both men stayed in the room as I took care of my vessel’s bodily needs, and other people who passed the room could see me as well. Despite occupying a vessel, I had to remind myself of my time in the military in order to relax enough to relieve myself in front of strangers, a sign I was slowly merging with my new body. As soon as I was done one of the men carried the bucket away without a word. The food was simple, but after surviving on a severed leg, nourishment pills, and food scraps, it felt incredibly good. I took my time eating, savouring each and every bite. The vegetables looked fresh and the cup contained boiled water, still warm. Like everything else in this area, it was contaminated, but with a surprisingly low dosage considering where I was located.
As I ate I thought about the dream briefing I’d received. My mission was clear and the dream came exactly on time, a week after awakening, once my brain waves completely merged with the vessel, making deep sleep a possibility. Yet something felt wrong. On the one hand, only Tarakan Central Command had my unique brain patterns and the ability to send me dream sequences, which was good news. That meant that contrary to what I had heard so far, Tarakan had survived. Someone had woken me up, given me a body, and ordered me on a “find and retrieve” mission. It would have been a laughably easy assignment under normal circumstances, way under the level of my expertise or my rank, but in this new, broken world, without the help of satellites, global communication, facial and body recognition scanners, and the ability to reach any point on the globe within an hour, this simple mission felt like trying to find a needle in a haystack.
There were other things in the dream sequence that worried me. By my last few missions, a few of Tarakan’s more advanced foes were already suspected of having the technology to pick up dream sequences, and as a result the dream should have been a little vaguer. This mission briefing felt like a parent pointing a child to a task, a gross breach of protocol, which could also be the result of all of Tarakan’s enemies having been wiped out. The dream world should have also been richer, more immersive. This one lacked complexity and depth, reminding me of an old virtual reality game I had once tried in a museum, when you had to put a mask on your face in order to play instead of immersing your consciousness into the machine. Something was amiss. That I knew for sure.
Since there was no way I could solve my concerns regarding Central Command, I forced them aside and my thoughts shifted to last night’s events as I chewed on a bitter radish. It was unlikely that the man calling himself “the Healer” had managed to hide a cell regenerator in his palm. Even the emergency combat version of it, used on the fields of battle, was the size of a human arm and took some time to function. Technology could have advanced forward as I hibernated, but it seemed improbable that Tarakan managed to minimize the size and accelerate the speed of the cell regenerator to such a degree. I went as far as considering that he was an Angel who had replaced his arms with medibot arms, but that was going too far.
Finally, I accepted the facts as I saw them; that this man somehow healed Brak, that he was worshipped by the men and women here, and that he had some kind of interest in me. His speech about the steep price was a matter of concern. Now that the orders of my mission were clear, I was not about to waste time or risk myself unnecessarily. I finished my meal with a drink from the cup, feeling its warmth course through my body. It was time to get some answers.
I rose and indicated to my guardian that I was ready. He led me through a short corridor dotted with doors leading into small side rooms, very much the same as the room I’d slept in. Most of them were empty; a few had groups of people sitting on floor mats, listening to preachers or meditating. We passed a chamber where a large group of people were busy having slow, ritualistic sex. There was a supervisor, or a teacher of some sort, standing above them as couples of both sexes copulated in a deliberately slow rhythm. My vessel was created with all the anatomical features of a human female and was able to have sex, of course, and I admit that walking among the writhing bodies did wake up some long-hibernated desires. Instead, I was steered towards a larger corridor leading outside, where I was taken again to the steam room and went through another process of cleansing. A pair of rope sandals and a long grey dress awaited me as I emerged. This time the clothing was made of linen, still a little rough on the skin, but a great improvement.
I was taken back to the main building and led up to the second floor. Surprisingly, there was no large hall, no high dais, or an adoring crowd. The only person in the medium-sized room was the man with the bone earrings. He bowed a little as a form of acknowledgement and gestured towards a rug. As in all the chambers I had seen in the building, this one had almost no furniture, with only a few comfortable cushions on the floor. I sat down on one of them, but before I got too comfortable the Healer came in and I rose to my feet. Instinctively, I decided not to bow this time.
The Healer was naked except for what looked like a bandage surrounding his pelvis, in the same place where Brak was wounded. He held a walking stick made of gnarled wood and limped slowly into the room, assisted by one of his four guards. What a show, I thought as I scrutinized his markings.
The Healer motioned for me to sit down, and he positioned himself
slowly and with a theatrical grimace on a cushion next to me.
“How are you?” There was no better way to begin the conversation.
The Healer handed his walking stick to his aide and turned to me.
“Da Patshin is back in the light. My burden is a shadow of his. I heal by morrow.” The Healer’s eyes were large and brown, full of kindness, warmth, intelligence, and openness, tempting me to trust him. I was immediately on my guard.
“You mean you took Brak’s wound upon yourself?”
“I see your eyes not believing.” The Healer shook his head and gestured at his bandaged side. “I can show you his wound but you’d say I harmed myself.”
“I just don’t believe in miracles,” I said in an even tone. “What I saw definitely falls under that term, so I am looking for a logical explanation.”
He smiled knowingly. “What is a miracle for one, is natural for another. The man called Trevil swears you move and fight like the marked”—he indicated the markings on his own body—“but we see no markings on you, and the man called Brak says so, too. Maybe you can do miracles, too?”
This time I found myself nodding in acknowledgement. The man had a point. There were many things I did not know.
“You are from far away, a different land and time. You do know of the marked, for you it is a miracle, but you were born not from a woman’s womb, how that is not a miracle? The world is a miraculous place.”