The Puzzler's War

by Eyal Kless

  He executed the officers who approached him and promoted others, who were more obedient, in their place. This led to several more bouts of desertions, but on the bright side he had fewer mouths to feed and those who stayed on were the more fanatic core of followers. They did not follow him for a reward anymore. Following him was the reward. They bowed deeply when he passed them. Some would drop to their knees; others grabbed and kissed his hands. At first, he watched this phenomenon with a mixture of disdain and amusement, but since it made his forces so much easier to control, he did not try to dissuade them.

  Mannes and his guide reached the top of the hill. Tygrynkeev made sure Mannes was standing stable before rummaging through his side pack and handing him a pair of wide-rimmed binoculars. Mannes did not bother to lift them to his eyes; what he saw with the naked eye was enough. He suspected it was going to be this way. The signs were definitely there, but seeing the devastation with his own eyes was like a blow to the chest.

  Failure. Utter disastrous failure. All the years, the battles, the sacrifices, all in vain.

  He fought the urge to curl into a ball and weep.

  The Bering Strait used to be only fifty-five miles wide. The narrowest crossing between Asia and Alaska, with an island or two along the way to make the voyage even easier. Mannes’s contingency plan when he had to turn back from middle Europe was to travel east through Russia and Siberia and reach the farthest point of land. Then he would build an outpost, try to find a ship on shortwave radio, or, when that failed, build a large barge and with the help of the Chukchi people, cross the Bering Sea.

  Who would have thought that even this remote place would be so devastated? GPS was a thing of the past, but Mannes estimated they were standing at least two hundred miles from the point he wanted to reach. Instead of land he saw water dotted with chunks of floating ice. He did not know if the water was deep or a sort of a shallow swamp, but it did not matter. This area was impossible to cross.

  Something glittered in the distance. Mannes lifted the binoculars to the visor of his hazard mask. It was a blurry picture, but the piece of metal looked like a piece of a ship or a submarine stuck on a chunk of floating iceberg. He lowered the binoculars and looked at the Geiger counter on his wrist. The needle was almost off the chart. Nothing could live here.

  “What happened?”

  The Chukchi guide leaned over so as to bring his lips as near as possible to Mannes’s ear. “I was born after,” he shouted. “That’s what my name actually means, ‘after.’ But my father told me he heard from people who came inland to die that there were a lot of ships passing and suddenly there were big flashes from underneath and the entire sea came up and washed the land away.”

  The northern alliance, or perhaps the Russians, or both. An armada of warships and plutonium-driven submarines. The man standing next to him had not been born yet when this happened, and now he was a man past his prime. How many years had Mannes wasted on this plan? How many people had perished? And for what? How would he be able to cross to another continent? And even if he did, Alaska was just another frozen wasteland.

  Mannes did not remember pulling out the power gun, but it was suddenly in his hand. The gloves were too thick for him to feel the safety latch, so Mannes had to look down in order to guide his finger to remove it.

  “Chief?” Tygrynkeev took a step back. “What are you doing?”

  Just put the barrel to the side of your head and pull the trigger. It probably won’t even hurt . . .

  “Chief.”

  He’d murdered billions. The planet was ruined.

  I’m sorry, Professor Vitor.

  Mannes pressed the barrel to the side of his hazard mask.

  “Chief, no.” Tygrynkeev was on his left side, so he could not grasp the gun held with his right hand, but he stepped forward and grasped Mannes’s left shoulder. “No, Chief.”

  Survive. For Deborah. Just for her.

  Mannes felt Tygrynkeev’s weight on him and suddenly lost his footing. Instinctively he shoved the Chucki guide back. Tygrynkeev flapped his arms but it was too late. He lost his balance and, with a surprised and frightened yelp, began falling down the hill. He went head over heels several times, gaining momentum, then managed to lift himself up only to fall again and suddenly disappear into a pile of soft snow.

  Shit.

  It took Mannes a while to follow the rope down the slope, reach Tygrynkeev, and flip him over.

  Tygrynkeev had been unlucky enough to land face-first into a piece of hardened ice, which broke the visor of his hazard mask. His face was a mess of cuts and blood but he was still alive, breathing.

  Mannes straightened up and looked around. The hoverbike they had used to reach the hill was not too far.

  Pull him onto the bike, drive to camp. Norma should be able to mend the face, and a radiation flush will take care of the rest.

  Tygrynkeev groaned and Mannes leaned down again. “Stay with me,” he said through the mask. “It was an accident. I’ll get you to camp.”

  A radiation flush for such high exposure will take almost half the energy of the mobile clinic.

  Mannes bent over again and removed the mask from around Tygrynkeev’s head. The guide groaned again, shutting his eyes and lifting his hands to protect himself from the sudden cold.

  “Easy now,” Mannes said, and put the hazard mask aside.

  This could be mended.

  “I’ll pull you to the bike now,” he said.

  And then they’ll ask him what happened, and he’ll talk. He’ll say what he saw, and a group of half-starved, fanatic killers will find out that their infallible leader contemplated killing himself.

  Mannes pulled out the power gun again. He steadied the gun with both hands.

  Try not to hit the suit.

  Tygrynkeev must have heard the power up or instinctively felt something was wrong because he opened his eyes and began saying “Chief, wha—”

  Survive.

  Mannes pulled the trigger.

  Chapter 42

  Peach

  I reached the Upper Plateau the following morning, after spending the night huddled on the steps, massaging my poor, spasm-afflicted calves. The view made up for the laborious journey, for I got to see the city from angles rarely seen by anyone using easier methods of travel. It reminded me why this city was voted the most beautiful in the world for so many successive years. The enormous architectural and technological achievements were surpassed only by the Star Pillar, which came several decades later.

  The stairs emerged into a beautiful, surprisingly well-maintained park, and I lay down among the bushes and waited for midday, watching the garden bots whizz around the trees and flowers, trimming, watering, and spraying the plants. After months travelling through devastated land and seeing humanity declining into savagery, this was bliss. I was not just resting my poor vessel; I was replenishing the deep void in my soul.

  It took all my willpower to get up when it was time. I brushed myself off to the best of my ability, tied my hair into a bun, lifted the empty wicker basket, hugged it to my chest, and began walking. To any passerby, I would look like another busy house employee rushing to do her mistress’s bidding, but aside from several fancy horse carts, I saw no one in the wide streets.

  The hospital building was not as big as the one in the Middle Plateau, but it was a beautiful building, surrounded by gardens and working water fountains. There was no line of sick people and no guards at the doors, which slid open silently when I approached.

  There were several men and women dressed in brown trousers and tunics. They looked at me with curiosity mixed with suspicion as I approached the central desk.

  The man sitting down looked at me, assessing my status and grimacing before uttering a curt, “Yes?”

  “I am looking for Master T’iar Garadin. I have a message for him.” I flashed the scroll case.

  He extended his hand. “He’s not here. I’ll give it to him.”

  This was the old chain-
of-command routine. I guess some things even Armageddon couldn’t wipe out.

  “It’s for his eyes only,” I said drily.

  The man scowled. “I don’t know who you think you are but—”

  “I am a messenger from a Master living in the Upper Towers,” I cut him off midsentence. “Do you want me to go back to him and report that you did not let the message through?”

  That was enough to break him, although I had to repeat this kind of conversation and threat several more times as I was slowly but surely passed up the food chain of clerks and personal assistants. The uniforms got fancier as I progressed through the corridors and floors. Eventually I had to relinquish the scroll to Garadin’s personal secretary and wait by his door for more than an hour before being allowed in.

  T’iar Garadin was sitting behind an impressive oak table that still could not hide his girth. He was the fattest man I had seen since arriving back in this world. Actually, since I’d spent my life in the military, combined with Tarakan fat-burning medicine and easy, do-it-yourself cosmetic technology, he was the fattest man I had seen in the flesh, period. Brown clothing covered his body, but just above the neckline I saw several markings which reminded me of the ones I saw on the Healer.

  The scroll was opened on his desk, held by small ornamental weights. He looked at it, then at me. The chair creaked as he changed his sitting position while scratching his beard. “Come in, sit.”

  He gestured and I complied, my vessel indicating to me that its legs needed rest and soon.

  “How did you get here? I assume you are without a permit.”

  “I climbed the stairs.” There was no reason to lie. Scroll or not, I had to get on the man’s good side.

  “That’s quite a feat. You must be famished.”

  The smallest movement of T’iar Garadin’s fingers and a slight nod were all that was needed for his assistant to bring a jug of water and sweet buns to the table.

  “It’s pure water, right from the veins of the city.” He leaned over and peered at the scroll but waved for me to help myself.

  There was no reason to decline nourishment. I let the cold water fill my mouth—there was no question of its purity—then took the food that was offered. By the time T’iar Garadin finished reading the scroll again, I was on my third bun and second cup of water.

  “Tell me. How is old Sh’iar doing, or what does he call himself these days?”

  “I believe it’s ‘the Healer,’” I answered.

  He chuckled. “Always been a little off his wires, that one. Is he doing fine?”

  “From what I saw, he is leading a large group of fanatical followers in the middle of a contaminated city, and he shuns metal.”

  The man nodded, then shook his head at what must have been a passing thought. “That’s him all right. We go back a long way, Sh’iar and I, to a time when I did not need my assistant to tie my bootlaces. But I haven’t heard from him in over ten years, and the Sh’iar that I knew never gave anything for free, especially not to call in the favour he has called with this scroll. I wonder, what have you done to receive such magnificent help from the Healer?”

  I shrugged. “He thinks I am important.”

  “Are you?”

  “Time will tell.”

  T’iar Garadin chuckled and helped himself to the last sweet bun. “They’re good, aren’t they?” He chewed thoughtfully.

  “Surprisingly good,” I admitted.

  “Well,” he said, still chewing, “spell it out. What do you need from me?”

  “Medical supplies,” I said. “My guess is that you have far better stock than what they have down below.”

  Garadin sucked the sweet crumbs from his fingers.

  “Well, yes, obviously,” he admitted. “But Sh’iar left the city when medical supplies were coming from the valley. Now we only have the city’s nodes and they are hardly enough, and expensive . . .”

  His meaning was clear. I felt with my fingers until I found the fattest of the coin bags I was carrying and laid it on the table before shoving it towards him.

  He opened it and looked inside.

  “Well, yes,” T’iar Garadin said, his facial expression betraying disappointment, “but times are very hard indeed. You are lucky I still hold my former colleague in high regards. For all his crazy notions, he was an excellent Mender. What do you need?”

  “I want you to arrange a pass for me to come and go as I please.”

  T’iar Garadin raised his gaze from the opened coin bag. “I cannot do that.”

  “A top member of the Guild of Menders?” I tried, but he shook his head.

  “I am sorry, but it is impossible. I will get someone to escort you down with no hassle from the guards, but I am not allowed to issue return passes.” He pocketed the coins along with the bag and was surprisingly quick onto his feet, then walked to a side door which silently slid open. He stepped aside and beckoned me over.

  “Let’s go find what you need,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument. “Then I have other things to do.”

  I got up from the chair and walked after the man into the side room. The gear laid on the shelves was enough to fit a Tarakan emergency field clinic and then some.

  “See anything you need?”

  I looked around and smiled to myself. “This will do.”

  Chapter 43

  Mannes

  Mannes watched the small barge manoeuvre and attach itself to the side of the ship. Knowing that the whole process was done through the ship’s Comm system warmed his heart. He’d waited for this opportunity for years. He’d carried with him not just weapons but every piece of modern technology he could find, many times with considerable risk to his life. Now, standing on the command deck of Bihou-Maru, an old, but still afloat, AI-controlled Japanese transport ship, felt like a miracle. Even the name Bihou-Maru, meaning “a beautiful treasure,” was symbolic. And to think that a leaky transport ship was probably all that was left from the great Asian fleet.

  “That is the last scheduled load,” the ship’s voice announced in his ear. Mannes’s Japanese was still rough, but he understood what was said.

  “I know, Captain.” On instinct, Mannes had decided to call the AI by this title when he first contacted the ship on shortwave radio. It was a good call and made negotiations a little easier.

  “I’m saying this because there are still many more of your people on the beach, and there is still enough space in my hull to take them aboard.”

  Like Norma, the Bihou-Maru had learned to grow beyond docking procedures and navigational charts. Mannes reminded himself of the dangers of an overdeveloped AI and where it could lead.

  “I am standing by my side of the bargain,” Mannes answered, watching the women and children shakily climb up the ladder with the help of his crew.

  “There is a lot more cargo on the beach as well. If you want, I can arrange to transport it.”

  Mannes brought the old binoculars to his eyes; his own retinas had lost their high-zoom capacity long ago. He surveyed the beach for a long time before saying, “No, that’s enough, Captain. We set sail as soon as you are ready.”

  “What are they doing on the beach?” The Captain’s voice was truly curious. Obviously, he had not encountered such human behaviour before.

  “They are praying, worshipping.”

  The ship’s AI took more than a few seconds to respond. Perhaps he was accessing information regarding this phenomenon that was buried deep in his memory. When he finally responded, it was with a question. “Who are they worshipping?”

  “They are worshipping me.” Mannes let the binoculars drop to his chest.

  “That is odd. You scan as human. Enhanced with a few workable technologic enhancements and several artificial organs, but human nonetheless.”

  “I can’t explain it, either.” It was a lie. He knew why they prayed to him, and he went along with it. There were many good aspects to religion if you were the being who was worshipped.

 
Mannes changed the subject with a question he knew the answer for. “Are you absolutely sure we have to go the long way?” When Bihou-Maru told him the planned route, he thought the AI had developed a quirky sense of humour. It was simply ridiculous. A few weeks’ voyage was prolonged to many months, maybe more than a year.

  “It is too risky to approach the shores from this side.” The AI reverted to English for the explanation. “There are still uncharted mine fields and other underwater weaponry. I lost several friends who tried to sail that way. On top of that, there are strong currents, several large areas that are prone to vicious storms, and without GPS or long-range scanners the risk is simply too great.”

  “Yet you risk yourself time after time when you sail the world,” Mannes said. “You said you’ve done it how many times?”

  “Fifty-seven times already.”

  “Why would you do that? What’s the point?”

  The ship did not answer for several seconds, and when it did, Mannes imagined it would have been shrugging if it had shoulders. “I’m a ship. I sail. I guess I do it because I can.”

  Bria, his best officer and soon-to-be commander, suddenly spoke in his ear. “Master, all is in check.”

  Mannes tapped the voice button. “People and cargo, all secured?”

  “Yes, Master, people and cargo. There was a bit of trouble over living space. A fight broke out, two stabbed, but I handled it.”

  “Execute the stabbers and conduct a full search for any more weapons.”

  “Already done.”

  Mannes nodded to himself. She was his best.

  “One more thing, Master.”

  “Yes?”

  “First Lieutenant Fraut”—Bria did not mask her distaste in uttering the name—“is pestering me with questions about coming aboard. He is unhappy about being the last to board, and threatening that if his quarters are not spacious enough, I am quoting, Master, that ‘there will be a shitstorm of trouble.’ Also, he claims that as long as he is waiting, he should be allowed to raid a settlement six clicks to the west.”