by Eyal Kless
“Tell Fraut to stay exactly where I told him to be until I call him on board. Then I want you to head to the upper deck and check the cannons and missile silos again.”
“Yes, Master, out.”
The Comm went quiet for a second.
“You just lied to your subordinate. You are planning to set sail and leave the rest of your people behind,” remarked the Captain AI calmly.
Mannes cursed inwardly. He had not connected his lieutenants to the ship’s Comm, so the conversation with Bria was on a private channel, but the deduction was an easy one.
“You handle the sailing, I’ll handle my people, and don’t worry. I am not going to leave them behind.”
“Well, they are not going to—”
“No. As I said, Captain, our agreement stands. We will refurbish your haul, fix the leaks, conduct monthly maintenance checks on your software and hardware, and keep humans and livestock in the cargo area B. I know my part; do you remember yours?”
“Of course, Mannes-san.”
It was the first time someone had called him by his name in a long time. It reminded him of how Norma used to be and, in a way, it took the wind out of his sails. Mannes picked up the binoculars once more and surveyed the beach. Fraut and his murderous mercenary group were still at the specified coordinates, but subordinate or not, the commander was not a man who liked to stand idle for long and he was getting suspicious. Mannes could only guess what Fraut would do once he realised they were leaving him behind.
He trained the binoculars on the beach, where people were creating monuments of him from wood, dancing around fires, singing songs of praise to his name. The fools. They would continue praying for him after he left them to rot. Maybe a full-blown religion would sprout out of this day. Soon there would be a high wizard or priest, and there would be rituals and miracles and sacrifices, perhaps human sacrifices, just like he saw when he went on that fool’s errand trying to save the poor SP.
Well, if Mannes was a god to them, then every god had a right to a bit of holy wrath.
“Captain, my weapons are online and connected to your sensors. I want you to train missiles on deck A and B on the following coordinates.” He gave the ship’s AI the coordinates.
“Are you sure?” The Captain’s voice was calm but betrayed astonished curiosity. “You have a large mass of your own people exactly in those locations. Perhaps this is where your Fraut is?”
“Nevertheless, do it.” Mannes reached another decision, on a whim, unplanned. There would be no human sacrifices in his name, not if he could help it. “And I want you to train the cannons on the beach.”
Before the Captain could answer, Mannes’s Comm was filled with Bria’s concerned voice.
“Master, there is movem—”
“I know, Bria, it’s okay. Brace for weapon discharge.”
“But, Master, th—”
He cut Bria off the Comm. “Are the weapons ready?”
“They are, but my sensors do not indicate any threat. Why do you want to kill all those people?”
He let the question linger in his ear. “Captain, I remind you of our agreement. Open fire. Missiles first, then cannons, on my mark.” He raised the binoculars to his eyes. “Now.”
For a heartbeat he thought that perhaps the Captain would refuse, that he would need to shift to manual control and fire each weapon individually. That would be a long process and the overall effect would be reduced, but then he heard the missiles discharge with a supersonic whoosh, and the cannons shook the ship a second later. It was a short but devastating attack, and at the end of it, the army he’d left behind was destroyed, and the little that was left of the people who’d worshipped him dispersed in terror.
Mannes lowered the binoculars. He would leave nothing but terrifying stories on this land and become the bogeyman for generations of children. He had no problem with that.
Lieutenant Bria was urgently trying to reach him on the Comm. He ignored her.
“Set sail at your convenience, Captain,” he said as he left the command deck. “I need to prepare my crew for the first maintenance work.”
Mannes climbed down the stairs in deep thought, but before he left the deck he turned around.
“Ask me your question again, Captain, the one I didn’t answer.”
It took a split second for the AI to deduce the meaning behind his words. “Why did you do it? Why did you kill all these people?”
“Because I can.”
Chapter 44
Peach
In retrospect I should have seen it coming, or at least planned for the possibility. Gret wasn’t himself when I came back from the upper towers, but I didn’t ask and he did not volunteer to tell. I was too preoccupied with following Sergiu’s lead and finding Puorpan, scouting his residence, and finally making contact and extracting information from him. It was a messy job and I had to go ugly on the poor guy, but I got results, and this was the assignment. I thought it was strange to feel bad about what I did. After all, I’d done worse—much worse—yet somehow, I never felt as bad about what I had to do as this time. Threatening Puorpan’s baby boy was hard, but at least I only had to hurt, not kill.
Vera, you’ve gone soft.
I stopped at the market and bought us some breakfast before I went back to the cottage. Summer and the cart were gone, so I assumed Gret had gone to earn his keep. The door was a little ajar but we’d never managed to fix it completely. I was too preoccupied with my own thoughts to realise what I was seeing.
I found him on the floor, and there was nothing I could do. I still tried CPR, pounding his chest, checking for pulse, but Gret was gone. If I had my medical supplies, I might have been able to do something, maybe jolt his heart back, but the full medibag I had brought with me was gone, too.
I looked at the poor man and used my training to steel myself and check for clues. I was no medic, but it was obvious Gret had been beaten to death, either by intent or, most likely, by accident. A hard blow to the head must have been the finisher. There was a pool of blood under his ear. In Gret’s closed fist I found a piece of the handle of the medibag I had brought from my visit with T’iar Garadin.
God damn you, Gret. You should have let them take it.
I got up from the floor, and the world swam in front of my eyes. My training kicked in.
You haven’t been compromised. Cut your losses and move on. Years of training echoed operational reason in my head.
I’d lost countless assets. Fuck, I’d sacrificed too many assets, more than I cared to count, and it was always a shit thing to do, but it was always for the greater good of Tarakan. This . . . this was idiotic.
Cut your losses, Colonel Major Vera Geer. You have all that you need to track your target down and complete your mission.
I walked out to the garden and spotted the two mud marks from the wheels of the cart, but they faded on the hard pedestrian road a few yards later. I looked around.
People are always nosy. People always look.
I spotted her almost immediately. She stood at the far corner of the street, watching the little cottage. When our eyes locked, she retreated. I did not use ESM but managed to catch her before she disappeared into her little shack. This was not the time for polite introductions. I blocked the woman’s way.
“Tell me what happened.”
“You are Gret’s new wife.” She tried to walk past me but I sidestepped and blocked her way again. “He told me about you . . . Peach . . .” She suddenly stopped, reached out, and squeezed my shoulder. “I’m so sorry. He was a good man.”
I was not about to correct the woman about my marital status, or dwell on the reasons Gret lied to his neighbour. “Who did this?”
Her demeanour changed immediately from sympathetic to defensive. “I . . . I saw nothing. I just heard . . .”
She was lying, and she was frightened.
“That local gang, they killed him?”
“I don’t know,” she said, but her eyes betrayed her
. “I saw them take the cart and the mule but that doesn’t mean . . . It’s no use going to the ShieldGuards, either,” she added quickly.
The voice of my trainer rang in my ears: Cut your losses. Concentrate on your mission.
“Tell me where the Seven Swans is.”
Her eyes widened. “You can’t go there, Missus Gret. You can’t. They’ll do worse by you than they did by him.”
Do not expose yourself. Do not take unnecessary risks that could compromise your mission.
“Still. Maybe you should point me in the right direction. I won’t bother you again.”
“Don’t try to go there. They’ll—”
“I’ll be fine, believe me. Just tell me.”
She did not want my death on her conscience, but she also wanted me to leave her be. It did not take her long to give in to her discomfort.
“Thank you kindly,” I said, and turned away.
This time it was Sergiu’s cracked voice berating me. The only question is whether you are loyal to Tarakan or not. He would not approve of what I was about to do next. Assets were expendable, and personal attachments led to bad decisions.
Screw you, Sergiu, I thought.
I was going to the Seven Swans and I was going to use my entire range of skills to kill each and every one of those assholes. Oh, and I wanted my mule back.
Chapter 45
Twinkle Eyes
To a new visitor, Tinker Town was still one of the busiest areas outside the Pit. It was filled with shops, stalls, and street vendors selling and fixing every augmentation known to Trolls. But I spotted several boarded-up shops, and the fact that I could make my way through the famous commercial street without my shoulders constantly brushing against another person spoke volumes. The prices were still relatively high, but not exuberantly so. I noticed most of the stalls were manned by simple fixers, Tinkers without the gift of Tarakan tattoos. There were still several Gadgetier shops, especially the old, known establishments, but a lot of Gadgetiers must have moved to the upper towers, where the rich and powerful could still afford their services. Less fortunate, petty fixers would have taken a route through the villages outside the city, fixing or buying and selling old machines.
Galinak was as excited as a little boy in a toy tent and I was the severe parent who had to remind him our funds were extremely limited. It was still slow progress, as he would stop at every stall and enter every shop “just to try things out.” Eventually my patience ran out. I shoved a fistful of towers into Galinak’s hand, told him to meet me for an evening meal at the Deep Run, a local ex-Salvationist establishment, and left him as he was trying on a much-too-tight combat brace.
You did not have to be an expert on Vincha to know she was not big on friends, but I knew that with a handful of people she made an effort, especially if those people were beneficial or easily exploited. Puorpan was one of those people.
It was already after midday, so I assumed he had already left his small stall in the middle market and was at his home, fixing things and taking orders. He had a reputation as a decent yet a little overpriced fixer who specialized in communication devices. His permanent home was several streets away from the commercial market, a one-story wood-and-brick hut, built in the shadows of the plateau’s small towers. The gate sign said “Puorpan Comms and Augs” in flashing red that changed to green “Buying. Fixing. Selling.” As I crossed the yard I noticed several security cameras in different locations and a freshly painted sign that warned me to keep to the paved path as I crossed the small yard. I was glad I hadn’t brought Galinak along; the rough Salvationist had the kind of personality that made people nervous, and by the look of things, Puorpan was nervous. There was a button on the side of the door that chimed as I touched it. A wide ray of white light scanned me twice, then a spyhole opened and a woman eyed me with suspicion.
“Yeah? What’s yar want?”
That was a little odd. Customers were supposed to be a good thing.
“Good day, Mistress,” I said as politely as I could. “I want to speak to Puorpan.”
“We take custom at the stall in the mornings and at the middle market on Mondays.”
“I’m afraid I’m in quite a hurry.” I jingled my fullest coin bag. “I need a fast service.”
She eyed me and the bag, then a lower part of the door slid open. “Leave yar weapon here.”
I complied, and after a third scan I heard the clicking of several mechanical locks and the door opened.
She was holding a fat baby on one arm and my peacemaker in her other hand.
“He’s back there.” She waved my peacemaker to indicate the direction, her eyes never leaving me. “Don’t touch nothing, I’ll keep yar weapon here.”
It was actually hard to walk across the room without touching anything, as it was filled to the ceiling with metal junk and trinkets. The back room mirrored the one I had just crossed, but it also contained a wide Tinker’s workbench, a metal cutter, and several other machines I could not name. Puorpan had on a heavy apron and a visor. Blue sparks flew as he welded metal to metal. I only managed to get his attention after he was done welding and took his visor and Tinker’s glasses off, so he was a little startled to find me standing there and then annoyed at his own reaction.
“Yeah, Master. What’s yar want?” he said gruffly. “We take orders only in our stall.”
“Business is that good, is it?”
“Yeah, business be good,” he grumbled. “Well, if ya made it here, what can I fix ya for.”
“I was sent here by a mutual acquaintance,” I said carefully. There was no reason to try to explain to Puorpan who I really was. “A certain scribe from the Guild of Historians. He met you several times when he was looking to find a CommTroll named Vincha.”
Puorpan’s eyes narrowed, but he did not recognise me. “What of it? Haven’t seen her in years. She even owes me metal.”
“That sounds like her, all right.” I tried to lighten up the conversation. Actually, the last time I went looking for Vincha, Puorpan had sent me chasing shadows, but I tried not to hold it against him. At least he’d been decent enough to do it for free. This time he was obviously lying, and nervous.
“Thing is, I need to find her again—”
There was an audible click and quick power up behind me, and I heard the voice of the woman who opened the door. “Ya told me ya came for buying, not yapping, Mister.”
I turned my head to see that she had put the baby away and now aimed my own peacemaker at me with both hands. Her face was resolute, but the heavy gun was shaking dangerously. I spread my hands to the side. “Please, I am just here to talk.”
“Don’t need yar words or metal. Be gone from here.”
There was no need for me to use my sight to recognise fear.
“Nilda, relax, it’s under control,” Puorpan pleaded, and turned to me. “Excuse my wife, she’s very protective of our baby and sometimes—”
“Shut up, you fool. Did you weld your own eyes? Can’t you see his metal’s fake? I ain’t going through this again.” She pointed the shaking gun straight at my chest. “Be gone from here.”
Going through this again. I forced myself to turn my head away from the gun back to the Tinker. “Someone else came here looking for Vincha,” I said, “recently.” I saw Puorpan’s eyes harden.
“On second thought, you better leave,” he said. “That’s a high-calibre weapon and it will be hard to clean up the mess. We’ll give it back to you once you’re out the door.”
“Was the one asking you about Vincha a short woman?” I asked. “Dark hair, slightly slanted eyes . . . ?”
“Yar next word coming outta yar mouth better be ‘good-bye,’” I heard Nilda say.
“Fine. I’ll leave,” I said. “But when I find Vincha I’ll tell her you’re responsible for the fate of her daughter.” I turned to leave.
“Wait,” Puorpan suddenly said. I turned back and saw the man sigh and lean back on his workbench, wincing with pain.
<
br /> “Don’t you tell him a word,” Nilda warned.
“It’s enough. If he’s a friend of Vincha I owe her a warning. If he’s not, then it’s just as well.”
“I am a friend of Vincha,” I promised.
“Vincha has no friends,” Puorpan said drily, “at least not for long.”
“True. She’s not the endearing type, and your metal tends to run out when she’s around.” That brought a smile to both of our lips.
“Yar both as dumb as rust metal.” Nilda shook her head and lowered the gun. “I’m going to find young Pol.” She wagged a warning finger at her husband. “It be yar fault if that man shoots ya.”
We watched her leave.
“She’s nervous since—” Puorpan hesitated “—the event.”
“What happened?”
Puorpan sighed deeply as he leaned on his table. “That woman you described, she showed up at my door with a faulty power button on a power sword. A little odd, ’cause there are plenty of weaponsmith Tinker stalls about, but I ain’t saying no to work. I fix the sword but then she asks me about Vincha. Now it’s true I ain’t seen that CommTroll in over a year, and I tell her that. But she is insisting like and then she . . .” He took a steady breath. “She is stronger than she looks, and fierce like. I had to pay the Menders afterwards, and she threatened Pol and Nilda too. I just told her what she wanted to know—that the last time Vincha came and paid metal for a long-range disc and a locator.”
“Wait, what are those?” I interrupted.
“It is a very small, one-way communication device, smaller than a nail.” Puorpan raised his finger to demonstrate. “You put the disc somewhere, or give it to someone or—” he hesitated again “—in someone, and the locator can find them.”
There was only one thing I could think of that Vincha would make sure not to lose. “Did she have a young woman with her?”
Puorpan shook his head. “No, Vincha was alone. Actually, it was only the disc she took; Vincha didn’t have a lot of towers on her, so she paid for the disc and the encryption key, which is odd ’cause those are waveband specific. Without the locator you can’t find the disc.”