by JD Moyer
Esper watched as she reloaded the rifle with a fresh clip of sedative darts. Was there anything else she could do to prepare? Her adrenaline had worn off and fatigue was setting in – she suspected her thinking was cloudy. She checked her m’eye; the drones were still offline. The queue of messages from Adrian waited, unopened. There would be time for that later. Right now, Trond needed his clothes back.
“Wish me luck, ground dweller,” she said to Esper.
“May the Red Brother protect you.”
Car-En melted into the dark beech wood.
Chapter Thirteen
As Henning had promised, Katja’s hand healed quickly. The bleeding stopped after five minutes, the pain an hour later. In the evening, alone in her cabin, she stared at her palm in the lantern light, watching her flesh knit itself together.
Henning, after slashing her palm, had offered the dirk back, pommel first. She had grabbed it, and pressed the blade against his throat. If she cut him, he had pointed out, he would not be able to answer her questions until the next day. So she had punched him in the nose, hard, and stormed back to her hut without another word.
Now the next day had arrived, and she had questions. Where was she? Who was Raekae? And who had snuck into her residence while she had slept to deliver a breakfast of fried eggs, sausages, and hot porridge with currants? She had eaten every bite.
It did not take long to find the hut with the red door. It opened before she had a chance to knock. Stian, the burly one, invited her in with a wave of his hand. The diminutive Franz sat at the small table by the window. Henning leaned against a cupboard, sipping from a steaming mug.
“A drink called coffee,” he explained. “Would you like some? Franz has an unlimited supply.”
“Where are my spectacles?” said Franz. “Oh, right there. Yes…coffee. The favorite beverage of the Corporate Age, and the Renaissance before that. I’d only read about it – the beans weren’t available after Campi Flegrei – so I was delighted to find it here. It tasted nothing like I expected. Honestly I didn’t like it at first, but it grew on me.”
“Putrid filth,” said Stian. He returned to his seat and took a long draught from an immense tankard.
“It’s eight in the morning,” Franz said.
“So?” responded Stian, taking another gulp. Katja got the impression the same exchange had happened many times before.
“I have come to appreciate coffee as well,” Henning said to Katja. “Will you try some? Or would you prefer Belgian öl?”
“Öl for me,” she replied.
Soon all four were seated at the small table. Katja sat next to the bearlike Stian, whose presence she found comforting (perhaps because he reminded her of Jense), and across from Henning, whom she mistrusted. It was true that her hand had healed, but it was reassuring to have a sturdy wooden table between them. Franz and Henning sipped their coffees and looked at her expectantly.
“What?”
“You have questions, don’t you?” Franz said. “What do you want to know?”
Katja took a sip of öl. It was sweet, with bitter undertones. She glanced at Stian, who stared resolutely into his tankard. Franz blinked his blue eyes behind the glass circles. Henning regarded her calmly, not unkindly. “It is a shock, arriving here,” he said. “You are wondering where you are. And why. And how you can return home. We have all been in your boots, so I will save you the trouble.
“So, to begin: where. As best I know, we are living inside someone’s mind. Raekae’s mind. But that is not entirely true, because Raekae does not know everything that goes on. I think he can find out, if he wants, but he cannot directly read our minds. Many things escape his notice. This conversation, for example. He will not know about it unless he decides to later examine this particular time and place. He can do that – see into the past. A kind of magic.
“So we are in Raekae’s mind, or in a world of his making. A small world, as you learned yesterday. There are the grounds, with the gardens and the huts and the pools. We are surrounded by woods on all sides. There are a few creeks and streams, and low hills, but no rivers or mountains. Sometimes it rains, but never violent weather or a great storm. I have not once heard thunder here. It is a quiet world.”
“Boring,” said Stian.
“Yes, boring,” Henning agreed. “Yet, remarkably, we stay sane. In fact, we find ourselves in better spirits than we might expect, given our circumstances. We are prisoners, but well-treated prisoners. The books are our salvation.”
Franz nodded, and Stian grunted in assent. “Books?” asked Katja. Esper had books. He was obsessed with all Builder things.
“It took me ten years to learn to read,” said Stian. “Well, actually only two…the first eight I simply refused to learn.”
“How long have you been here?” asked Katja.
“I have not kept track,” Stian said.
“He’s been here ninety-one years,” Franz offered. “I’ve often wished I could see how I took him down, when I was host.”
“It was not you; it was Raekae,” protested Stian. “And sneakily, that is how. None of you could take me in a fair fight.” Henning raised an eyebrow. “Maybe Henning,” Stian conceded, “but only if I had been drinking the night before.”
“You have a short memory,” said Henning. “Maybe because the last time we fought I left your head rolling in the dirt. About ten years ago, yes?”
“With a soulsword that I forged! Biter. Or was it Taker?”
“Biter, the wolf,” Henning said.
“It was I who brought the Five Secrets of godsteel from the Northlands,” said Stian, proudly. Katja knew the secrets of godsteel. Trond had taught her, after swearing her to secrecy: the Crucible, the Sealed Oven, the Gentle Shaping, and the Flaming Sword. But that was only four. Which one was she forgetting?
Henning returned his attention to Katja. “I have been here the shortest, only fifty-three years. I was thirty-five when I became the host. If I still roamed Midgard, I would now be eighty-eight. An old graybeard.” He looked away, wistfully. “I miss Happdal. I miss the smell of fresh milk. And the milkmaids.”
“The öl is better here,” said Stian. “And at least now we have a pretty face to look at.”
“True,” Henning conceded. He grinned at Katja, his face open and friendly. She reminded herself that just yesterday he had casually sliced open her palm, as if filleting a river trout.
“I do not mean to be impolite,” said Stian, “but it is nice to have the company of a woman. We have been only men here for so long.”
“Not technically true,” said Franz. “The hermit.”
“That scary old crone?” Stian said. “May the Brown Brother show us mercy – I hope never to see her again. I would rather drink coffee.”
Franz laughed enthusiastically. These men, who had been in close proximity for the better part of a century, had somehow not come to hate each other.
“I’ve been here one hundred twenty-two years,” said Franz. “Of those here at the table, the longest. But the hermit has been here longer.” Franz turned to Henning. “You were in the middle of answering Katja’s hypothetical questions. I believe the next one was why. Why is she here?” Then, to Katja: “You may, of course, ask any question you like.”
“I would like to know why I am here,” she said. She was still deciding if she believed any of it. She tried to remember where she had seen Henning before. For an instant she had a fragment of a memory – a flash of a man with white hair – but when she chased the image it was gone. And Henning’s long hair was blond.
“Honestly we don’t know why exactly Raekae chooses each host,” Franz explained. “We’ve asked him, but all he will say is ‘to broaden my experience.’ We think it’s because each host offers particular advantages that match Raekae’s current ambitions. He took me as host when he was building something; he wanted my speciali
zed skills. With Henning here, his motivations might have been martially inclined. With Stian—”
Katja interrupted. “So Raekae is in charge. Can I speak with him?”
The men were silent. Only Henning would meet her eyes. She let the question hang in the air.
Finally Henning spoke. “He is not hidden. We know where to find him. But it is…difficult…to go there.”
“Difficult how? You said there were no mountains here, nor raging rivers. What could be difficult?”
Franz interjected. “Here, above ground, we’re…. How to put it? Well, happy, I guess. There are good days and bad days, but we enjoy our simple lives.” Stian nodded. Henning looked at the floor, brow furrowed. “We read books and learn. We discuss things, we play chess. We explore the grounds and the woods, which are constantly changing in small ways. We enjoy the hot pools, and the good food.”
“I was going to ask…. Where is the cook? Where are the kitchens?”
“The food just…arrives,” said Stian.
Franz adjusted his spectacles and continued. “As I was saying, if we go underground, beyond the library, and even in the library to some extent, we grow uneasy. Anxious. If we venture deeper into the corridors, we feel fear. A horrible, deep fear, mixed in with dread and hopelessness.”
“Extreme dysphoria,” said Stian.
“See, he does read,” Franz said.
“Wait a minute,” Katja said. “Underground? How far underground? Is there a way out that way?”
“I don’t think so,” said Franz. “I mean, we’re trapped in Raekae’s mind world, so I don’t see how there could be. But we’ve never found the end of it. We’ve tried to find the deepest level, but each time we break, and rush to the surface. So truthfully we don’t know. There are places we’ve yet to explore.”
Stian drained the last of his öl. “It is much easier, if you want to talk to Raekae, to just wait for him to visit.”
Katja stood, drew her dirk, and plunged the tip into the wooden table. Franz’s coffee spilled into his lap, and Stian’s empty tankard clattered to the floor. Henning, who was holding his cup, leaned back in his chair and gazed at her expectantly.
“Take me to Raekae. Now!”
Stian bent down to retrieve his tankard, grunting with the effort. “I am sorry, beautiful blond maiden, but I will not accompany you. I will show you the library, but that is as far as I will go.”
Franz shook his head. “I apologize as well, but I don’t have the stomach to go beyond the library. Maybe in a few years I’ll build up the courage again.”
“I do not have a few years,” said Katja. “My brothers must be searching for me as we speak. My mother will be worried sick with Trond and Esper gone. She fears that Haakon will raid the village soon, and she has good reason. I need to speak with Raekae, and I need to convince him to let me leave this place. Who will help me?”
Stian stared at his empty tankard. Franz folded his hands and looked at his feet.
Henning had not looked away for an instant. “I will show you where Raekae lives, great-granddaughter.”
Katja yanked her dirk from the wooden table. “Then show me now.” She strode to the door and left the hut, hoping that Henning would follow.
Chapter Fourteen
Car-En knelt behind the low rampart, watching the giantess mourn her offspring. In the warm light of the bonfire embers, stroking her dead child’s hair, she seemed more mother than monster.
It took Car-En a full minute to realize that the other giant – the father – was missing. How many darts had she hit him with? At least six. Even considering his size he should still be out cold, unless he possessed some kind of enhanced detoxification physiology. Car-En was curious to see the results of the genetic sequencing. What mix of Corporate Age wildstrains and natural mutations had created these monstrous humans? She assumed they were human. She supposed there were other possibilities, but none seemed likely.
First things first. Car-En switched the rifle to rapidfire, carefully aimed, and sunk three darts into the female giant’s broad back. She twisted, staring in Car-En’s direction and clawing at her back. A few seconds later she slumped to the ground. Car-En slowly counted to fifty. While the giants didn’t seem exceptionally bright, even possum and hyena were known to play dead.
Car-En thermally scanned the area. In one corner, hides and furs were heaped in a rough pile. Keeping one eye on the slumbering mutant, she crept forward and rummaged through the mess. Trond’s things were there: his weapons (sword, dirk, and hatchet); a belt pouch containing a small wooden box and a jar of ointment; his clothes (leather boots, thick woolen socks, trousers and a long-sleeved shirt sewn from rough cloth). The giants themselves had few possessions, none worth stealing. Their hides and furs smelled powerfully of urine, a large iron pot was crusted with layers of carbonized food, a small ceramic bowl was filled with filthy grease, a few cleavers and carving knives were dull and rusted. Holding her breath, Car-En slung her rifle over her shoulder, quickly gathered Trond’s things, and snuck away.
She returned to the camp slowly. The cut on her hip was still healing, and ached. The extra weight didn’t help. Trond’s boots and sword were especially heavy. She considered dropping the sword and coming back later to retrieve it. She took a mental inventory. What weapons did they possess? Her own carbonlattice blade was gone. Esper’s makeshift spear was shattered. She had her rifle, but the supply of sedative darts – which had just recently seemed superfluously abundant – was nearly exhausted. Esper had his bow, but he might run out of arrows. Each of the brothers had a dirk, but Trond’s sword was their only large blade weapon. Better to endure the burn in her biceps and the pain in her left hip, and push through to the campsite.
They’d camped far from the ruins, but seeing the firelight through the trees, Car-En worried it was not far enough. The giants might even be hunting them now. She hoped that Esper was at least awake and alert.
“Welcome back, sky dweller,” he whispered, as she stepped into the clearing. She hadn’t surprised him. He greeted her not only with a smile, but with a nocked bow.
“How is Trond?” she asked.
“Sleeping peacefully. I’ve been feeding the fire, keeping him warm as you instructed. Well done – I see you’ve recovered his belongings.” He placed down his bow and took the load from her arms. So close, she smelled his musky, unwashed scent.
Tenderly, Esper pulled his boots from Trond’s feet and replaced Trond’s own. “A much better fit. And my own feet were getting cold.” Esper placed Trond’s sword and other possessions by his side. “Ah, Ilsa’s ointment,” he said, uncorking the small jar. “It will help heal his wounds.”
“It looks like somebody tried to eat some,” said Car-En, noticing the imprint of a large finger in the salve.
“It would not taste bad. Bitter, from the herbs, but the base is honey. Are you tired? Do you wish to rest? I can keep watch.”
Car-En was about to answer no, but the suggestion of sleep had a sedating, hypnotic effect. Her eyelids drooped, her head was suddenly too heavy for her neck. “I’m exhausted.”
“Very well, sleep. I will wake you in a few hours.”
She considered unpacking her tent, but instead curled up next to Trond. She squeezed in between the pile of gear and his slumbering mass, not even bothering to remove her boots. She lay on her right side, her back to the smith, using her cloak as a blanket, instructing it to keep her warm. Gingerly she touched her left hip. The shallow cut had mostly healed but the surrounding tissue was badly bruised. More worrisome was the tear in the bioskin, which had widened, exposing her bare skin. The intelligent fabric could self-repair to an extent, but this tear was too big. Returning from the ruins, the night air had seeped in, chilling her. Now she was warm under her cloak, but hypothermia was a real threat in her undernourished state. The bioskin’s thermoregulation would be rendered useless if t
he hole got much bigger.
She closed her eyes and waited for unconsciousness, but sleep eluded her. The unopened messages from Adrian blinked in her m’eye. Fine, she would hear what he had to say.
The first message was audio-only, and chatty. Adrian expanded on his migration theory (which felt like old news; she had leapfrogged ahead by conversing directly with Esper). He also suggested that she observe a different village, one just to the west of Happdal beyond a steep ridge. The ringstation telescope feeds were picking up increased signs of activity in that area. Now that was interesting. Could the second village be Kaldbrek, the town the pipe-smoking man had mentioned? And the bully, Lars, hadn’t he referred to the same place? She played back the encounter in her m’eye. Lars had contemptuously (or maybe fearfully) mentioned someone named Haakon. Who was that?
In the second message Adrian’s face appeared, scowling and imperious. “Car-En, if this research project is going to progress, you need to keep your feeds open.” Another threat. But if he really wanted to kill the project he could have already done so. He wanted her research to continue; he was hungry for more data. “The pardon from Academic Conduct was conditional. The expectation of impeccable future conduct was implied. That includes raw feeds and regular reports to your advisor. That’s me, in case you’d forgotten. I’ve received nothing from you since you abruptly signed off over…” – his eyes darted to a display – “…over twenty-two hours ago. I accept that you are fatigued – that’s understandable. To be expected, even. Perhaps your judgment is a little clouded. Remember our mission. Remember your pledge, to hide yourself from the villagers, not to Intervene under any circumstances. The pledge we all made, even those who disagreed with the ruling.”
Adrian paused and took a sip from a lime-green beverage. Probably that disgusting sweet mint concoction he preferred. The monologue had relaxed him; his face bore its normal expression of smug superiority. The message ended.