“I need a bed as well.” Tyson stepped past the man and into the steamy warmth from a smoky fire. He turned to see the spars of the star lock grind home as the innkeeper secured the door. A chipped, red metal bar dropped across the wheel locking it in place.
In a move faster than Tyson expected, the old man had him pressed against the curved wall with a knife at his throat. He struggled but the blade nicked his skin, the man’s breath hot and foul in his face.
“The batts.”
Tyson reached into his pocket.
“Slow, lad. Be slow.” The pressure from the knife lessoned a little. Tyson lifted the bag free and handed it to the man. He snatched it away and moved back, releasing Tyson.
“You didn’t need to do that.” He rubbed at his throat, felt the stickiness of blood. It wasn’t bad and he knew it could have been worse. “I would have paid you well.”
“Paid now, lad. By the fire, Stange-er. Warm yerself. You have luck with you, I'd have slit yer throat for Alks. Lettin' yer lives might bring more of these fancy ones my way.” He eyed Tyson carefully. “What you say, you bring me more?” his voice a whisper of steel shavings. He took two of the batteries and pushed them into the back of a crusty copper torch, the light flickered on. He nodded approval then returned the torch to his pocket.
“Yes, I can get all you need.”
“Good, good. Now I hope yer like water-weed, no good fish till the morning.” His hands wrung together. “Can guarantee a night... after that, yer on yer own.” He winked. The batteries had bought his life for one night.
Tyson dragged a worn stool from beneath one of the five large tables in the room and sat close to the fire. Grey smoke clung to the ceiling, the roof’s rivets hidden by its thickness. The old man ladled stringy broth into a tin cup and handed it over, he had calmed once he had the batteries. Tyson couldn’t trust him. You couldn’t trust the Thoughtless, they might not be technically advanced, or even high in intelligence but they were keen hunters of what they wanted, which made them dangerous and difficult to negotiate with. If they had the thought just how was he supposed to get it back?
“Drink, lad,” he said. “Tastes like shit but it’s good fer yer.”
“I’m looking for something.” He sipped the broth, the old man was true to his word.
“Yer kind always are.” The old man ladled himself a cup. “Yer see the body under the dock?” Tyson nodded. “She was looking for somethin’. Didn’t have the right batteries though. Yer got what we need, lad, for now at least”
“And if I didn’t have Lithiums?”
“Yer did, no point yer worrying about ifs, is there? Now drink up, it tastes worse when it’s cold.”
Struggling with the overwhelming stench of the soup, the bedraggled old man and the smoke, Tyson fought back the assault on his senses. An adjustment to his nutrient levels in his gut had the hunger dissipate. The soup was too putrid to stomach, the stinging in his eyes and nose didn’t help. What he needed was a pleasant thought; a place to rest and a pleasant thought. The corroded steel walls, riveted and welded, only offered an inevitability of failure; the sheet iron tables, the bar of roughly bolted together iron all spoke of necessity over style. How do you live in a world without perfection? Did the Thoughtless dream? Did they have art? Above the clouds there were galleries of fractal designs and he had access to any dream he wanted, without advancement what did the Thoughtless have other than fish and their rot? A clicking started overhead, something mechanical lost in the smoke haze. He looked up.
“Be the filter, lad.” The old man motioned to the cup. “We suffocate in the smoke when the tide’s in. Yer kind made them for us, long ago. Long, long ago.”
Tyson pushed the cup away.
“It’s all yer get till the boats are back,” the old man said, sculling his cup. He shuddered then laughed. “I’d even eat a Strange-er right now.” His laughter, big and gurgling, echoed in the room, vibrating Tyson’s nerves.
He sat staring into the smouldering fire, the small licks of yellow–red flames as they tried to burn the too-damp wood. They didn’t often have open fires in la Strange, their heating coming from steam and the sun, their cooking gas came from deep wells beneath the tower. He liked the way the fire moved, how its colours flowed over the blackened wood, seeking out fuel to keep it alive. The timber came from the forest that edged the swamp-like land of the under-damp. It was sent to the dry kiln, a smoke billowing construction just within the forest proper then onto ‘Deep Sea’. Sometimes, when trade was poor and the fishing catch light, the Thoughtless would offer dry fire wood; only the wealthy ever used this basic commodity.
The old man sat silently watching, scratching his large belly and occasionally belching up an odorous stench. He counted the batteries again before putting the sack on the bar behind him. How much safety did they really buy him? This was Tyson’s first trip into ‘Deep Sea’ itself. His usual encounters were at the trading post. No one from la Strange ventured this far without pre-arranged protection and advanced purchased deals.
“You come fer yer dead?” the old man asked. “The woman?”
“Do you know what happened?”
“She dead, tha’s all. Yer come for her?”
“In a way.” Tyson supposed someone would eventually come down for the body.
“She shouldna’ been here. I warn her, I did.”
“You spoke with her?”
“She come sellin’, sellin’ some sky tricks. I tell her to go back before someone not as friendly takes her. She had Alks – no protection.” The old man sounded angry. Even in the dull light, Tyson could see his eyes were the colour of the swamp; dark and suspicious.
“What was she trying to sell?” Tyson, warmed by the fire, now felt urged on in his task. It was dangerous to trust a Thoughtless but he needed information.
“Stay sittin’, lad, stay sittin’.” The old man rubbed his wrinkled face. He was perhaps the oldest person Tyson had ever seen, at least in his forties. “You do nuttin’ till mornin’.”
There wasn’t really a morning as far as Tyson understood. The world of the under-damp was just shades of grey, the brighter the grey the more the Thoughtless moved about. Above the clouds where nothing got in the way of life the sun shone bright and the nights were clear. An orderly system for la Strange's perfectly maintained lifestyle. The old man pulled a dented, shiny flask from within his shirt, popped the lid and took a swig. “Be drinkin’ some a this, then be sleepin’.”
“What is it?” Tyson took the flask.
“Better you not know, just be knowin’ this stuff ain’t what I sell to the regulars; this is refined, smooth. Good five tides old.”
Tyson took a swig and almost vomited. Fire burned in his mouth, in his chest. For a moment he couldn’t breathe.
The old man laughed and slapped him on the back. “That be fixin’ the chills.” He snatched back the flask. “Yer batts will give yer a night, no more. Come, I’ll show yer the cot.”
Tyson felt his mind drifting, an unauthorized chemical reaction, the effects of the drink, a numbing in his lips, skin, a deadening of his senses. “What was the woman trying to sell?” he managed, following the old man through a brown curtained doorway. “I need to know.”
“One of yer dreams, I think, but it ain’t me yer need to be talkin’ to, lad, it be Eyeless.” The old man stopped by a stack of broken crates and stinking bedclothes. “Here yer sleep.”
He couldn’t argue; it was this or out in the flooded streets. As Tyson slid off his wet coat he stared at the old man and wondered if he would be able to sleep knowing he could be could have his throat slit? Greed also shone wild in that haggard face. Tyson turned to a porthole, water lapped at the slimed glass. The tide was already flooding the city. He thought he’d be safe enough till it went out again.
“You will take me to this Eyeless?” he asked, feeling the tiredness spreading through his limbs. “I can pay you.”
“Pay? With what?” He laughed and walked back
up the narrow passage to the curtained doorway. “Yer best sleep well, yer on yer own come mornin’.” He stepped through the curtain.
“How will I find this Eyeless?” he called. No reply. What were his options? Flee and leave without the thought or stay and have his eyes plucked from his face? He needed the thought, and this person was his only lead. He would find this Eyeless and get what he needed back; a Thoughtless couldn’t outsmart him.
Feeling on edge, he set up a repeller field near his bed, pulling the tiny antennas out until the device looked like a spiked ball on one of the crates. Nothing could get through without setting off an alarm, shocking the intruder and waking him. He lay down on the cot, the reek of body odour and fish thick in the blankets.
Tyson closed his eyes and thought of Shana and her research on emotions, a completeness of thought she had suggested. His programming had put them together, though he didn’t share her tactile necessity when it came to emotional interactions. She tried to reduce receptors in her mind so she could get more from the touch responses during their sexing but the system always countered the action. When she adjusted his the experience was prolonged. He didn’t like it and had to argue with her until she readjusted him. Only five nights ago he’d given her a quick hormonal check under protest. Levels of progesterone and oestrogen were normal with slight testosterone traces; enzymatic influences were minimal. He couldn’t understand what made them so different. As he lay in the distilling odour he tried to picture her face, move away from the chemical interruptions in his head but all he could see was her blood-stained uniform. He wondered if he should run a grief system’s check. He needed to realign his axon delivery, so he slipped in a pleasant thought and let its vision of flowers lead him into dreams.
Brighter light shone through the curtain, the place looked less threatening than it had at half light. Tyson crawled from the bed. He no longer noticed the smell as he tidied his shirt then dragged on his coat; the air was cool and smoky.
“Station,” he said into the throat device. He switched off the repeller and stored it back in his coat.
“What have you found?” the voice asked. Why didn’t the relayer address him by name?
“Shana came to sell the thought. I think I know who has it.” He didn’t really know but he didn't trust this relayer, something felt wrong. “I will be making contact soon.”
“Get it back!” the relayer demanded. “Kill if you have to.”
“Repeat?”
“Kill anyone who stands in your way.”
“Just how dangerous is it?” Killing people wasn’t something he expected. Yes he was trained, but actually doing it?
“ Secure it. Dispose of the threat.”
“What is it?”
“Classified.”
“I understand.” If Shana had been with him she would have questioned and pushed for an explanation, would have refused to do anything without all the information. She was dead. Where did that kind of recalcitrant behaviour get her? But still. Did he really have to kill to get what was wanted? It was an unusual request; rarely did the inhabitants of la Strange have to lower themselves to the level of animals. “Who is giving this order?”
“You do not have the right to question.”
“I do not recognize your voice, so who are you to relay this order? I need to know for my internal report after the mission.” He felt a disturbance. Relayers always followed the protocols.
Tyson cupped his hand over his ear shell, a vibrating hum had started up in the inn and it was getting harder to hear. The operator’s voice kept cutting in and out of the interact with small clicks. Someone was tapping the line.
“We are being overheard,” he said.
“Get the thought...”
“Repeat.”
“Stay…” Hissing “…death …” The interact dropped to white noise.
“Station?” Tyson’s ear shell now a hash of sound. “Station? Station?”
“Can’t hear you, lad.” The old man stood behind him, a long knife in his hand. “Seems to me maybe yer been found. Give me the talker and hearer.” The old man slashed at him in warning.
Tyson unclipped his gear and handed it over. He wished he’d kept the repeller on until after he’d contacted la Strange. He studied the old man’s face as he stuffed the gear into his pockets. The Thoughtless couldn’t generally use the devices, their minds couldn’t deal with the signals they put out; this was for trade.
“Yer weapon.”
“I don’t have one.” He never carried one; never needed one before. To fight in a physical sense was to diminish the reason and logic of his race.
“Yer stupid as well as pretty.” The old man pushed the knife closer to Tyson’s face. “Eyeless don’t care if yer pretty.”
“You said I was safe until morning.”
“It’s morning and the deal is over. Eyeless pays well.”
“I’ll get more Lithiums?”
The old man shook his head. “Eyeless is ‘ere fer yer. Deal settled.” The old man waved him towards and through the curtain. “Yer better not lie to her, lad. She’s not like the rest of us down ere’, she bring fear with her sight; kills fast.”
Stepping from the light of the hallway and into the inn’s brilliant electric light tubes took a few moments for Tyson's eyes to adjust. Why the bright light? He moved to the centre of the room, in the space between the two rows of tables – the inn appeared empty. Stools both sides of the tables were worn smooth, shiny, but the table tops, beaten metal sheets, were scarred with graffiti. The fire crackled in the hearth but there was no other sound.
He turned back to the old man. He hadn’t come through the curtain with him. Tyson looked to the fire.
“I’m here,” a female voice said, the sound as soft as a breeze across his cheek.
Tyson spun about. A strong hand grabbed him by the jaw, the strength inescapable; the sharpness of long nails pressed into his flesh, painful. A single thrust sent him sprawling across a table. The metal scrape of legs over the steel-grated floor a scream in the silence.
“I am Eyeless and I understand you have lost something.”
Tyson still hadn’t seen her but knew that his life hung in the balance. “The old man has taken…”
“Not your gear, Strange-er,” she said. “You have lost a thought.”
He couldn’t confirm this to her, the Thoughtless knew nothing of such matters and wouldn’t even understand the meaning of a la Strange thought. He slid from the table to a crouch. A drop of blood spattered on his leather trouser leg. Tyson touched his cheek. A shadow moved by the fire, a blur of motion. This Eyeless moved fast, faster than any Thoughtless he’d heard of. She appeared a few metres in front of him. Dark. Menacing.
“As you see, Strange-er, I am not like these dim-witted fools who know nothing but fish, fighting and rain.” Eyeless sat on the table opposite. She shifted smoothly in her black leather coat and jumpsuit; she had a grace about her. She moved like the clouds that scudded beneath la Strange. “I don’t like the water much.”
Tyson could see his reflection in her polished, slag metal goggles. They seemed to drip from her brow. It reminded him of glossy candle wax. She smiled. Perfect, white teeth between narrow lips; it was a smile he did not expect, the perfection startled him. She wasn’t a Thoughtless. A human, perhaps? They never showed violence, only ever passive silence.
“You fear me? So you should, Strange-er.” She caressed a pocket on her breast and two eyeballs fell out on the floor between them.
Tyson jumped back and rolled over a table top.
“They were useless of course.” The woman sounded disappointed. Tyson had a table between him and the eyes, between him and her. “Do you think I would be well served trying yours?” She lifted her glasses to reveal two holes where eyes should have been. Coloured wires ran into the red pulpy mess. She lowered the glasses and waited.
Shana’s killer! I’m going to die. Tyson looked toward the hatchway that led outside; could he e
scape?
The shadows moved and the woman stood by the door. The smile was now gone but her face, smooth beneath long black hair, didn’t look angry. “Relax, Strange-er,” she said. Again the whisper. “I’m not going to kill you, yet.”
“You killed Shana.” He was trapped. “Why? Did she ask too much in trade? Didn’t she want to trade her eyes?”
“I killed no one. That is the Thoughtless way.” The woman cocked her head to one side, listening to something. “You are popular; I hear them, you know.”
“What will you do to me?” he asked, sitting on the table. He had nothing to trade. “Will you trade me?”
“You will explain what you have lost and then I will decide.” The smoothness of her voice carried deeper menace than he’d first thought.
la Strange had its secrets and he could not divulge them under any circumstances. If he had to die then he would take those secrets with him.
Eyeless sprang forward. Finger nails bit into his chest. “Tell me!” Her voice pounded inside his head. “Now!” The nails dug deeper. Pain erupted in his muscles; reached into his back. He tried to pull away but the nails penetrated deeper, it felt like she was ripping his lungs out. “What is it!? What is it!?”
“A thought,” he cried, giving in to the fire in his chest. “A dangerous thought from the forbidden vault.”
She released him. Tyson slumped forward, sliding to a stool. Dark stains appeared on his shirt. He looked up at her and knew if his superiors ever found out he’d never be able to go back up the tower. He dropped his head into his hands, fighting for breath, fighting back tears of pain. His thoughts began to reorder but still he could not understand how easily he had broken his vow; he was as good as dead to them, now. To show weakness under threat was to be on equal terms to the lesser lives of those in the under-damp; he had shown animal behaviour.
“I know,” she said, moving to the smouldering fire. “I want to know why it is dangerous? Why was it important to the dead girl?” She focused on him. “Was the girl important to you?”
“Shana was my affection partner.” He boosted his uptake. “I let her have access to the thought vault.”
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