Strife: Third Book of the Nameless Chronicle

by M. T. Miller

  “Not necessarily,” said the sheriff, causing everyone’s heads to turn toward him. “First off, they haven’t made any kind of move yet. Second, we’re the only power that still has the means of reliably producing firearms. We have them majorly outgunned. If we don’t make a tactical error, we will be able to hold Babylon for a long, long time.”

  “That, Sheriff, is something we cannot do,” the Nameless said. “Hunger will be a problem even if we do not have war. If we lock ourselves in with our starving people, we will merely be delaying the inevitable. No. Should it come to conflict, we will have to end it in the open.”

  “If you say so,” the sheriff said. “I guess there are other defensible positions between us and the White City. When they start moving, we can pick a point and stand our ground.” His gaze drifted back to the paper. “But we’ll have to end this uprising by then. If we don’t, we will have no chance at all.”

  “I think we can all agree on that,” said the Nameless. David nodded, but all Rush did was blink.

  “So, what now?” she asked.

  What now, indeed? The Nameless’ eyes met hers. Rush was by no means stupid. She could tell just how little of a plan he had. Luckily, it didn’t seem likely that she would share that knowledge with anyone.

  “Now we wait,” he said. “Keep the men alert. Station at least one patrol per slum neighborhood. It will be a stretch, I know; doesn’t make it any less necessary. At the very second something goes wrong, we move in for the kill.”

  Rush resumed staring at the moon.

  “The enemy will be better equipped this time,” said the sheriff. “Maybe they’ll even have more of this new toxin. There will be casualties. Of the civilian kind.”

  “Do you have an alternative?” asked the Nameless.

  “No,” the sheriff said.

  “Exactly.” The Nameless rose. “When all paths are stained with blood, all we can do is take the quickest one.”

  “As you say, my lord,” the sheriff said, nodding.

  The Nameless nodded as well. Once again, I have no choice at all.

  ***

  “What’ll it be?”

  Tomas de Silva blinked rapidly, only partially aware of his surroundings. The neon lights flickered from left, right, and above. The smell of sweat and halitosis fought for dominance over that of over-spiced beef. He turned around several times, finding himself immersed within a torrent of people.

  Damn it. I zoned out again.

  “Sir, you are obstructing the line,” someone said from in front.

  Where was I? Tomas turned toward the voice, and realized that he was standing in front of a food stand. A fat, greasy, middle-aged man was staring at him with subdued annoyance. However, he did not say a word. They were always civil. Perks of the uniform.

  “Chicken-in-a-loaf,” he said, reaching for his bag of chips. “Half a portion. No need to pack it up.”

  “Sure,” the seller said, handing Tomas his meal faster than seemed humanly possible.

  “Thanks.” Tomas paid the man, took the sandwich, and bit in as he went on his way. It was not bad. Babylon’s food was at the very least decent. Regardless, Tomas had to hold back his urge to hurl. Costs of the uniform.

  Completely on autopilot, he proceeded toward the center of the second floor. This took almost half an hour, but Tomas barely even noticed the time go by. After devouring his food, he crumpled the paper and stuck it inside his pocket. This wasn’t difficult to do. Crowded as it was, people always backed down somewhat when faced with policemen.

  Sign up, it’ll be good, he remembered the words of his old friend Martin. Money, respect, bitches, the man used to say. He’d died a month ago, killed while defending some nameless slummer. Things were rough back then. Slowly but certainly, they were getting worse.

  Nameless is insane. Mad. Completely off his rocker, he thought as he got nearer the entrance to the gambling area. The Hall of Games. One of the largest parts of the pyramid-city, it was the home of both the hopeful and hopeless. There was no need to exchange chips. Babylon’s currency worked with all machines in the Hall of Games.

  There’ll always be crime, and there will always be corruption. Tomas found a slot machine with a vacant seat on both sides, and sat down in front of it. He reached for his pouch, and found that he had difficulty grasping it. Come on, not again!

  He stretched his fingers out in front of his eyes. They were either shaking worse than before, or the flickering lights made it seem that way. He forced them into a fist, an act that took seconds.

  Ignore it. Ignore it and it’ll go away. He reached for his pouch with his other hand, his right shaking pathetically. He pulled out a chip, inserted it into the machine, and pulled the lever. He barely even registered what he got.

  Only one alive from my unit, and my trigger hand’s becoming useless. Tomas would have laughed out loud, except that he realized he couldn’t remember the other men’s names. They were all newly moved from up above, not unlike he was mere months ago. Next time, someone else would be shoved into the meat grinder with him. Who knows? I might not live to see anyone else die.

  He inserted another chip, pulled the lever, and got nothing at all. War on crime? Madness. Pure, utter madness. Policemen were dying, and more and more innocent people were getting caught in the crossfire. Things should’ve been left the way they were. His right hand no longer numb, Tomas slowly relaxed his fingers. The shivers were gone, but there was a certain numbness to its motions.

  One of these days it’ll stop working, he concluded, reaching for yet another chip. He shoved it in, pulled the lever, and drifted away again. If he could, Tomas himself would stop working. But there was no way out, no breach of contract clause. Guardsmen signed up for life, or until dismissed. The madman… or mad god, had them in his grasp, and the omelet he wanted to make required a whole lot of eggs.

  A screeching sound pulled him back into the moment. He spun around rapidly, the way he had so many times before. Everything smelled. Lights were flickering. Could it be? He turned back forward, only to realize that most of the flickering was coming from the machine itself. A torrent of plastic was pouring out from the opening at its bottom, showering his feet with a small fortune in chips.

  “Well, would you look at that?” he mumbled out as he extended his arms to get a better feel for the money he’d just made. Everyone’s eyes were upon him, of that there was no doubt. The people who came here dreamt of scoring what he just did. He had too, once upon a time.

  “Hah! Hahah! Hahahahahaah!” His hands contracting around the chips, Tomas rocked his head backward and laughed maniacally. His lungs started to hurt, but he kept going regardless. By the time he was done, his whole face was wet from tears.

  “Where were you?” he shouted at the pile of triangles that stared back at him from the machine’s face. “Back when I was penniless, where were you?” He rose. “When I came here for the excitement, where were you?” He formed a fist again, preparing to punch the glass.

  His hand shivered. God. Fucking. Dammit.

  He looked around again. A thin, possibly sick woman behind him. An old man, bent from whatever he had to endure to get up to this floor. A child, wearing far more revealing clothing than one would expect. They all stared at him, obviously unable to comprehend what was wrong. And I hope they never have to.

  Tomas dug deep into the chips, filling his pouch with as much money as it could handle. Once it was safely fastened around his waist, he took a step back.

  “It’s yours!” he shouted. No one moved. “No trick! Take it, or someone else will!”

  The grandpa moved first. The child was next. The sick woman would have to settle for scraps. Tomas turned away from the machine, unwilling to look. Even though he was in uniform, he was on leave. Other guards were in place; they would prevent injury to the best of their ability.

  As for me, he thought as he left the Hall of Games, time to hit the bordellos.

  ***

  Eyes closed, legs cross
ed, and breathing steadily, the Nameless sat in the center of his book-littered room.

  The energy of human faith surrounded him. He could not see it, but it was just as real as the physical world was. Yet unlike the tangible, he could barely touch the immaterial. This immense power was right there, and all he could grasp were crumbs. Floating all around him, it taunted him with promises of unattainable magnificence.

  He had no idea how much time he spent lost in meditation. Minutes? Hours? Days? Did it even matter? If he was unable to make full use of his apparent divinity, what would be the point of it all?

  Tarantula could see the future. Coyote could hide from sight. Snake could transform. And the Sun God could smite with his stare. The Nameless’ lungs hurt from the thought. They had long since healed, but the pain from having them charred to a crisp, and then having to re-open the wound via activity still lingered in his memory. What can I do? Kill, and not die? Is that the extent of my gifts?

  He scoffed, opening his eyes. His concentration was shattered. There was no use in wasting more time. Perhaps David was correct—maybe the cult was a mistake. He had no way of knowing if the miniscule amount of faith he could use was even enough to sustain his life. If he could not consciously grasp what it generated, perhaps he was still not free of his fate. Maybe, when peaceful times came, he would have to keep killing.

  He punched the floor, forcing himself upright. No point in thinking like that. For the moment, a future like that seemed unlikely. If it happened, he would find a way to deal with it. What I can do, however, is deal with the situation at hand.

  He looked around, taking in the sight of the mess. There were tomes on the ground, the table, on chairs and beds. Works on history, technology, war, and even mysticism. It was the latter he had the most hope for. So far, they’d proved the most disappointing.

  I could use a walk, he thought as he started picking up one book after another. The Cloud of Unknowing. The Interior Castle. Dark Night of the Soul. All difficult to grasp. All vaguely familiar. All equally useless. Perhaps giving them back would de-clutter his mind along with his quarters.

  Holding a stack of a dozen books under his right arm, the Nameless went out his front door and slammed it shut behind him. He made certain it was locked. No one should ever be allowed in his quarters. Especially not after he had that brought in.

  His destination was not far. Making his way to door 75, the Nameless pushed the knob down and shoved his way in.

  “Lem? I have come to return some books!” he said as he shut the door with his foot.

  As almost every business on the third floor, the library was in essence a modified hotel room. The furniture had of course been done away with, to make room for more bookshelves. As far as the Nameless knew, the bookkeeper slept in a glorified closet. He refused every offer of a separate bedroom.

  “Oh, glorious day!” Lem shouted from in between a remote pair of shelves. His voice was unassuming and strangely calming. “Didn’t think I’d ever get those back.” The sound of footsteps came closer. Slow, but certain, and evenly paced, it was as if the librarian was never in a particular hurry. Eventually, a short figure of sturdy build surfaced from behind a nearby shelf. The man was smiling. He was almost always smiling.

  “Where do I put these?” asked the Nameless.

  “Anywhere,” Lem said, still approaching. “Just try not to damage anything. Not like we can replace them in any way. Ah. Only a hundred or so more, and you’ll have brought everything back to me.”

  “I need the rest,” the Nameless said as he slowly lowered the tomes to the floor. “There is still so much I do not know.”

  “There will always be much you do not know,” Lem said, now standing in front of the Nameless. The man’s cropped moustache gave him a benevolent look. “Life is a constant pursuit of knowledge that ultimately ends in failure. Accept it, and it will be so much easier.” He paused for a moment. “Lord Nameless.”

  “No need for honorifics,” the Nameless said, upright again. “Not for you. You have been more helpful to me than anyone save the rest of the Management, and have asked nothing in return. If anything, I should be honoring you.”

  Lem’s smile widened. “Ah. I still remember when you first came here. Confused by light bulbs. Terrified of cars, of all things. But look at you now! Not only can you function without seeming like an alien, even your vocabulary’s improved!”

  “It all means nothing if I do not make use of it,” said the Nameless as his eyes leapt over the nearby shelves. “The more adjusted I am to this world, the better I can serve its people. The more I can… compensate for imposing my will on them.”

  “Your thinking is off… Nameless,” said Lem. “There’s no way for you or anyone else to set this right. The nature of man is to destroy. Make, shatter, make, shatter. The cycle goes on and on and on. No one can fix it.”

  “No man can fix it.”

  “No one can fix it,” Lem was insistent. “If what you said is true, the former Management were not one but four gods, and look at what they did. Men are fallible, gods are fallible. You should admit it to yourself and move on. If nothing else, it will give you a clearer perspective for when things inevitably turn sour.”

  “Is that so?” asked the Nameless. “You think what I do will result in disaster?”

  “Now, I didn’t say that,” Lem said, “I just said that at some point, things will go downhill. Maybe in the near future, maybe even after you’ve improved on this place. Who can tell, really? The cycle goes on, and all we can do it stockpile knowledge. Read, if you will.”

  “What I have read has driven me to but one conclusion,” the Nameless said. “That I have made a mistake. A gigantic one. I should have accepted my demise. But I could not do that. I fought back, and Babylon will, in time, suffer for it.”

  “Not necessarily,” Lem said. “For one reason, and one reason only.”

  “Yes?”

  “Unlike the last guy in charge, you know when you’ve messed up,” Lem said. This time, he didn’t seem to be smiling. “So learn. Find something new, and try that. No one willing to admit their mistakes has ever been a tyrant.”

  “And no one unwilling to die for their people has ever been a good ruler,” the Nameless turned his gaze to the floor.

  “No one wants to die, Nameless,” Lem said. “It is only human.”

  The Nameless couldn’t help but laugh.

  ***

  This time, the Nameless took no books. He was behind on his reading as it was, and he would likely not get the chance to catch up anytime soon. He was halfway back to his place when he noticed a characteristic flash of violet near the door.

  Damn it, he thought as he approached.

  Even though she seemed preoccupied with her nails, there was no doubt that Rush’s attention was wholly turned toward the Nameless.

  “Nerd,” she said as her eyes turned toward him.

  The word was new, but the Nameless had learned of its meaning. “It is either that, or ignorance. The latter leads to defeat.”

  “Yup,” she smiled. “Winnin’s all we do here. No incoming meltdowns or anything like that, nosiree.”

  “We are winning battles,” the Nameless chuckled to himself, albeit bitterly, “but the jury is still out on the war.” He stopped a mere foot away from her, standing straight.

  “All the more reason to get smashed,” Rush said, moving to the side. “We all might die soon. Might as well make use of what time we have, right? Whaddaya say, Bones? How ‘bout we empty a bottle or two? I know you miss it.” She raised an eyebrow, her head tilted to the side.

  Horace Bones, the moniker the Nameless had taken upon reaching Babylon some six months ago. Few still used it, but Rush always did.

  I do want to. The Nameless’ stare centered on her lips. Colored in a cold shade of purple, they nevertheless radiated heat. He wanted to drown his frustrations in her, and she wanted the same. Plus, if there was anyone in this wasteland who had the potential to understand h
im, it was Rush. They were both equally inhuman.

  “What I want is irrelevant,” he said, the smile and cheer disappearing from both of their faces. “I have made this… mess we are in, and I have to pay for it. Now is a crucial point. If we let ourselves relax, we might never get the chance to try again.”

  Rush’s hands formed into fists. The Nameless’ eyes narrowed, his muscles tightened. He would never underestimate her again.

  “Asshole!” she said as she turned away. She took her first step, raising her right hand as if she wanted to hit the nearby wall. But the impact never came.

  “Fuck you, Bones,” she added, the sound of her footsteps probably audible even down in the slums.

  I am sorry, the Nameless thought as he watched her leave. He was tired of apologizing. He was tired in general. There was no reward for his victory over the Sun God. Instead, there was only more and more work. Chores that, for all he knew, might not result in anything good.

  Time will tell. He looked left and right, unlocked his door, and stepped inside his home. Making certain that the entrance was locked, his gaze turned to the bedroom. But whatever happens, I will not give this city to the Cleanup Crew!

  He started moving, ignoring the stacked-up tomes.

  “Tarantula is with the resistance,” he said as he neared the closed bedroom door. It was secured with four different locks. He used a key for each one. “This is how they managed to outmaneuver us yesterday. But her predictions start to falter as soon as she starts influencing events.”

  He grabbed the knob, hesitating for a moment. No reason to fear. Not a threat anymore. He forced himself to turn the knob, and went inside.

  The chamber was air-conditioned and reinforced, but that didn’t seem to help much. The smell was disgusting. The Nameless wondered when it would start seeping into the rest of his quarters. Still, the potential gains far outweighed the costs.