This was all way too easy. One would think this forest would riddled with soldiers, guards, or...animals? Mend paused and listened. Distant hums and pops, whistles and whines came to his ears. But no animal, not even insects. Mend cringed a bit at the sudden awareness of the silence around him. OK, Mend, he thought to himself as he maneuvered around the twisting mass of thorned trees. So, what. Nothing lives in this forest. Alone, it’s what you always wanted. Thankfully, navigating was pretty easy. The ground was firm and rocky; the smell of the salty air had freshened as he continued inland, mixing in with sweeter scents.
"Well now isn't that funny," he said, ignoring the nervousness in his voice. "It's almost like I’ve been following a path here." Sure, the forest wasn't exactly a mass of walls, but even in the dim light of the city's aura, he saw an oddly cut path through the thorns. Some of them laid on the ground, cut to pieces. A coincidentally convenient way through? Should he take it? "Eh, why not?" Mend followed it. If it headed toward the city, he’d use it. All the while, he committed his path to memory. He had to get out too.
Eventually, after an hour or two of an unsettlingly quiet leisurely walk, Mend neared the other side of the forest. Or, at least, he guessed it was for he saw gas light posts, a row of them, up ahead. Probably the road he was looking for. Even on such rural road, the Empire spared no expense. Gas lighting, they love spending their fortune.
Mend picked out a rather large thorn tree that climbed a bit to the left before twisted dramatically to the right on upward to the sky. There, he removed his gloves, black shirt, and pants, revealing a generic imperial engineer’s uniform underneath. He rolled his black getup into a tight bundle and stuffed it at the very base of the tree. Next, he grabbed a nearby rock and planted it on top his old clothes.
"Now, you stay," he ordered, pointing to the rock. Something on his sleeve caught his attention. "Damn it," he said, noticing a dirty smudge on his engineer's uniform. He licked his finger and tried to clean it. "Can't I keep clean for one damn minute." He paused. "Aren't engineers supposed to be dirty?" He then looked over his rest uniform, making sure everything was in place. Brown overall get-up, a belt with a few small pouches. No tools. Wouldn't that give him away? “Nah, people don't pick up on that kind of thing.” The one thing they would pick up on —or rather one kind of person—would be his face. The Empire flaunted its wealth; no doubt to Mend or the rest of the crew, they would have plenty of memorizers in their employ. Mend had been around the entire continent, even a job over to the Islands. Someone must have picked up his face and committed it to memory at some time.
He opened one of the small leather pouches on his belt. Inside were pencils, a red brushing pad, and broken piece of a mirror. "What kind of manly scar should I have today?" 'Don't get fancy; just do the job' Roach would say. Mend mocked a salute. "Yes, ma'am."
With the pencil and mirror, he applied a jagged line across the bridge of his nose and with the brushing pad, he made it look irritated. If this had been one of the Empire's metropolises, he would try harder to make the scar look meaner, but this was the Golden Island: no fun here, just work. Oh well.
He looked in his mirror, turning his head side to side. Is it too obvious, he asked himself. Nah, people can gossip all that want. He was only worried about memorizers. He knew them; Beast, he was one of the them. Memories were a funny thing. Sure, a memorizer could remember every detail, sight, smell, sound, emotion perfectly, but if they didn’t know what to look for, it wouldn't be so easy recall it. It didn’t matter if his scar looked real, fake or as if a two-year old practiced their artistry on his face while he slept. Its mere presence was good enough to throw off anyone glancing his way. Mend smiled, patting himself on the back. "Brilliant as ever, Mend! You won't spend no time in no tower this time!"
He clasped his hands together. "Now comes the fun. I need to get myself a runic protection suit and snap some memories." Squaring his shoulders back, puffing his chest out, he marched with a purposeful stride out into the road. Gotta look busy. Gotta look competent. ‘That’d be a first,” Roach would say.
But, for all his manly strutting, the road was empty. All that for nothing. The ground was cobble stoned, remarkably leveled too, with some weird blue-dyed mortar in between. He walked to one of the gas lamps. A yellow glass-encased flame danced from a tube. Amazing. He tapped the glass and the flame flickered. "Spare no expense. One day, I'm going to have one of these. Maybe I did?"
Mend would often fantasize that he was the son of some wealthy landowner who ran a fowl of the Empire. Land taken away, parents killed. He'd one day take his revenge! Nah. Too dramatic. Truth was, all he got from his parents was his name: Mendeleyev Von Mendevoch, a northern name. He knew a lot of those wealthy Counts in Drakendor used ‘Von’ in their names. Maybe that was it. He was the bastard son of a Count who had a love affair with lowly peasant and then had to be given away at birth. “I’ll avenge you, mother,” he said, mocking a clenched fist in the air. “And stab my dagger into the black heart of the One-King! I will become the new One-King!” He cackled.
But no, that wouldn’t be his kind of luck, not to mention that he’d have to ‘rule.’ He almost gagged. “My life, my freedom!” More likely, he hailed from further north where the nomads and those glacial barbarians lived. Son of a barbarian? He certainly had the light skin for it, but his muscles could use some work. Those barbarians were huge! “Oh no, poor boy born into a barbarian tribe, only to be rejected by his own family, one day, Mendeleyev Von Mendevoch will return, a mighty warrior, a conqueror of empires!” Now, that sounded befitting a good story.
But Roach obviously knew more about him then she was letting on. ‘Found you hiding under a shadow crying for a teat to suckle. You’re lucky I didn’t step on you.’ Eloquent as always, Roach.
"OK, none of that sappy stuff." He looked down both ways, lamps lighting the way until the road twisted from view. He perked his ears, hearing nothing but distant hums and barely audible whistles. "The ‘Rural Road’ is very rural. That's OK. I can walk." He took out his compass, pointing it in either direction. It gave no indication which way was better, of course, so with a stern nod to himself, he spontaneously pointed in one direction. "This way," he announced. "Come on men! Let’s storm the castle." He marched a few paces until the loud clacking of his own shoes slapping the irritatingly silent road annoyed him. He would run, but running would look too suspicious, so he strolled as light-footed as he could. The road wound northward, then eastward, then northward again. The trees on either side hadn't thinned any. They were just as thick, large and twisting as ever. The gas lights quickly lost their novelty after the one hundred and first he counted. Each post was about three of Mend's height away from each other, so he traveled about three hundred of his heights so far. The city limits shouldn't be more than three times that, but then again, that depended on how winding the road got. What was the damn purpose for a road like this anyway? Out in the middle of nowhere. No hint, not even a sound of anyone nearby. Maybe there was a mansion here, a private road right to the emperor himself. "I can kill him and rule the world!"
But that fantasy didn’t appeal to him. "Rather see their Head Researcher." Mend had heard she was originally from Prince Landrie’s lands, a Sera Gallegos, a beautiful blond with curves and bounces that—
Clatter of horse hoofs echoed from behind him, still very far off but growing louder. Mend smirked. "Time to shine. OK, Mend. You’re an engineer who lost a bar bet. The Quick and Easy. A bar with a name like that even I would believe the story." Mend opened another pouch on his belt. A small bottle of liquor: the Dreamy Sailor. "Beast, Roach, how much did you pay for this?" It was local brand, premium too. “So then, I'm not just playing an engineer, drunk, and hazed, but I'm also an idiot blowing my money on expensive booze too.” It was an easy part to play. Mend knew a lot of those kind of people, but usually they were rowdy too. Mend couldn’t be rowdy here. He opened the bottle and took a sniff. "Yup. smells like a sucker. Wonder if I should drink it?"
'Can't you take this seriously! You could die,' Roach would say. And she would be right, so no, she wouldn’t say that.
Mend wet his lips with the booze. It fizzled, then burned. He then poured the rest on his cheeks and neck, fizzling and burning like a disinfectant. Mend winced. “Maybe it is disinfectant.” He then unbuttoned his right pocket, positioning the bottle inside just so that the top stuck out. Next, he staggered away from the coming noise, favoring his right leg and letting drool drip down to his chin. Not too much Mend, don’t look like your infected with the Chills. Being shot isn’t part of the plan.
Soon the neighing of the horses reached him and the clatter sped up. More than one horse? A carriage? Mend tried concentrating on his drunk acting, but a cold sweat broke out all over him. They wouldn’t run him over, would they? The sounds sped up further, louder; the ground bounced with each pop of the huffs hitting the road. They won’t run me over. The horses were close, closer! His feet threatened to lose their footing, or was it just his nerve? Mend imagined the cobblestones cracking under their massive huffs. They better not run me over! Mend couldn't resist anymore; he snapped himself around, seeing two horses bearing down him, their nostrils flaring. With a loud snapping from the reins, the horses let out a piercing cry. Mend lunged head-first off the road as the horses bucked and then trotted to a stop.
“What the hell are you doing," the carriage rider shouted. “I almost ran you over.”
Lucky break, Mend, he said to himself, checking to see if he was hurt. His heart beat faster than the horses galloped, but he didn’t care. He was one piece, though the shaking of his hands didn’t lend well to the whole drunk story. Relax Mend. You’re safe. Now get a ride to town.
"Get up! I know I didn’t hit you."
Mend slowly stood, staggering to one knee and then hoisting himself up with the other foot. Awkward but believable.
"Don't tell me you’re drunk," the woman carriage driver said. Mend hiccuped, frantically flaying his hands in the air as though he was balancing himself on a beam. "Engineers and their leisure will be the death of us all."
"I'm. Off duty. Hiccup! Uh, ma’am. Every—"
"And in the middle of now where." She jumped off the carriage, put one fist against her hip and pointed at him with her other, calling him over with her finger. He cringed when his stomach tightened; she definitely had some authority here. Not a good start if Mend wanted to sneak around. She wore a charcoal gray one-piece jumpsuit with a reflective metal on her upper right chest. A nameplate? She has a damn nameplate— "Get here. NOW!"
Mend started at her command, almost breaking out of character. Damn, must be some boss lady. My infamous luck, again. He drifted back to the road, zigzagging until he stood before her. He kept his eyes down, eyelids drooping. A dark blond? It was hard to tell without making him look obvious. She was pretty, though, a bit older, maybe almost Roach’s age? But Roach was approaching her mid thousands. Better if he memorized her face and checked who she was later. He bobbed his head, trying —and failing— to read her nameplate before saluting—
She slapped his hand down. "What the hell’s the matter with you," she barked before grabbing the bottle out of his pocket. She flipped it in her hand, reading the label with a growl in her voice like a vicious animal. This had to be Roach’s sister. "Not only are you drunk, but stupid too. Damn greenhorns. These foolish hazings have to stop."
"Wasn't thinking. Ma’am," he replied, swerving in place.
She then reached for his nose but he waved her hand away. "Let me see that. You're injured.”
“I’ll be fine—”
“Damn it,” she barked again. “I don’t have time for this.” She looked down the road. “No time to go back to the city, either. I need to find some help."
"It's fine; I'm fine. The world is fine. I'll walk. Go. You look hurry." Just go, lady. I'll take the next ride.
"No, it's not," she said coolly, looking him over with a disgusted frown. "Horrible timing for a hazing. Damn it, I knew this would happen with all of your reckless games. What the hell is your name? And who are you assigned to?"
"I have no name in hell, ma’am —yet," he said, giggling. "But those guys I was with. Good guys. They weren't no drunks. They didn't give me any. I can't work like this, ma’am. I'm sorry. Please. Go find them. They went that way." He pointed in the direction she was already headed.
"How many," she asked.
"Lots. Twelve of us. Wild. Free like horses. Go. Find them,” he stressed those last words with more frustrated lucidity than he wanted.
"A whole crew," she muttered. "That would be enough." She then eyed him. Goooooo, he screamed in his mind. "They're not as drunk as you, are they? Should I risk it?"
"I'm the stupid one, remember ma’am." No, no; too lucid.
She eyed him again, before smacking her lips. "I'm sorry, I can't give you a ride. You’re not too far, though," she said before climbing back onto the carriage box seat. "You remember their names?"
He giggled. "Jerks, Bastards, and plenty of Ass—"
"That's good enough. I'll send someone to pick you when I can."
"No, no, don’t worry about me. Go! Everyone goes. Rather be alone."
She paused again, looking at him. Mend could sense her studying him. Was she getting suspicious? But, I do perfect drunks!
"Where did you guys go to…get stupid," she asked. Mend recognized the tone; the way it fell flat at the end told him something about him wasn’t sitting right with her. Well, I hope they don’t have a tower here.
"The Easy and Quick," he replied, saluting again.
"You mean the Quick and Easy. Damn that's too far. Alright. I guess I have no choice. A body's a body. Get inside. There's coffee. DRINK. IT. We've got an emergency in Runic Pod Building 23. Something went wrong with containment. One of the Beast’s pieces is breaking through and we can't stop it from returning to the Main Body. If it breaks free, we're going to have a piece of the Shard the size of one of those trees crashing through the city. And if that happens, you and you friends will have names in hell. Do you understand what I'm saying, greenhorn?"
Mend let out a genuine sigh. "Thanks Almighty,” he whispered to the sky. “Thanks for blessing me with more of this wonderful luck.”
"Almighty," she asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Sarcasm ma’am."
"Just get inside," she ordered, grabbing hold of the reins. "And I'm not in the military, greenhorn. Don’t salute. And before you make even more of a fool of yourself in front of me, I should tell you I'm your boss, Sera Gallegos, the Chief Engineer here, so you better impress me. Not your drinking friends."
Mend broke out into a hysterical laughter as he opened the carriage door and slid inside, laughing and laughing. "Shut up! And get sober," she shouted before Mend heard her whip crack. The two horses neighed, and Mend’s body shot inside the carriage and up against a blue couch. He up-righted himself and saw another blue couch on the other side and fresh coffee steaming from a dark puddle on the red carpet. The decanter rattled from side to side under the couch.
But Mend didn't care. He was stilling chuckling at his own personal brand of luck; it never failed. "Chief Engineer," he said to himself. "Maybe it’s a challenge! Alright, Almighty. I accept! I didn’t really want to get to know anyone on this island, just in and out. But, if she thinks I’m one of her engineers, then maybe I can get her to help me." He reclined against the couch, soft and leathery. The bouncing carriage barely made any difference.
Up above him, the small door to the box seat opened where Sera sat, driving the horses.
“My questions,” she said.
"Questions?"
"What's your name, greenhorn? And who are you assigned to?"
"Uh," Mend stalled, recalling what Roach had told him. "Glen Tellerson, Junior Engineer. I’m assigned to, I don’t remember. Old man, black beard." —Mend brought to mind the sketch of one of the Lead Engineers he had memorized— "Chipped teeth, hazel eyes—"
"Ah, Dal
e from the coolant department," she said. "Wait...what's that smell?" She turned from her seat and peaked through the door. "You spilled coffee in my carriage! That leather's expensive, Glen!”
"I'm, I'm sorry," he said, reminding himself to hiccup. He looked around but couldn't find anything to wipe the spill, so he got down on fours and wiped the coffee with his sleeve. “Ouch!” Hot, hot, hot.
She chuckled. "At least you’re doing something productive, Glen. …Your name. Glen. It’s a good name." Her voice darkened.
Mend perked up. Oh, like my name, do you? Maybe she had a soft spot he could exploit. Oh, Mend. Genus! You’ll have her giving you a tour of the whole place. “How come? Remind you of anyone?”
But she didn't answer, giving the horses another crack of the whip. The carriage wheels spun faster, grinding against the road. The panting breaths of the horse quickened. They're clattering hooves clapped harder. But to Mend, her silence seemed more deafening. Maybe he shouldn’t pry further; it could risk— "Family, huh," he found himself saying. Mend, you idiot, he scolded himself.
"Yes, my brother," she answered. "Do you have family back home, Glen?"
Mend continued wiping the coffee, not doing much good by working the stain deeper into the fabric. "I…I don’t know. I don’t remember them. A family friend raised me." There, Roach, I didn’t call you something nasty this time. Not everything I say is has to be an insult!
"I'm sorry. War reaches everyone—"
"Nah, it wasn't war," he admitted with a shrug. "I was just found. Probably giving up by no-good drunks."
"You were found by a ‘family’ friend? How does that make sense?" Damn it, Mend. Shut up!
Call of the Chosen- Broken Kingdoms Page 15