Athel

by E. E. Giorgi

  Cover art © Elena E. Giorgi, all rights reserved.

  ATHEL (Mayake Chronicles, Book 2)

  Copyright © 2015 by E.E. Giorgi

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means – electronic, mechanical, photographic (photocopying), recording, or otherwise – without prior permission in writing from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or they have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Electronic edition ISBN: 978-0-9960451-6-2

  Print edition ISBN: 978-0-9960451-7-9

  Also from E.E. Giorgi

  The Mayake Chronicle series:

  AKAELA (Book 1)

  ATHEL (Book 2)

  ASTRACA (Book 3, pub. 2016)

  THE GAIJIN GIRL (A Mayake Chronicles short story)

  Detective Thrillers:

  CHIMERAS (A Track Presius mystery)

  MOSAICS (A Track Presius mystery)

  GENE CARDS (A Skyler Donohue mystery)

  Set in the Apocalypse Weird world:

  IMMUNITY

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  Map of the Five Doors of Astraca

  Illustration by Heather R. Holden, www.edgyauthor.com

  Background image by Ayelie-Stock, ayelie-stock.deviantart.com

  Table of Contents

  Map of the Five Chavis

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Part I

  Prologue

  Aghad’s hurried steps crunch over a bed of dead leaves. Blades of light twinkle through the canopy of trees and tease his eyes. The trail is steep, the terrain uneven. He stops, leans against a tree, and catches his breath. Covered in long beards of silvery moss, old boughs bend and creak above him. Gnawed roots claw at the ground like witches’ fingers.

  Astraca.

  Only the foundations of the city remain, buried deep underneath the forest. In places, cracked walls jut out of the earth, and blackened pillars mingle with spruces, birches and oaks. An ornate arch still stands between the trees, surreal door to a past that no longer exists.

  Aghad dips a hand under his vest, retrieves a little metal flask, and takes a long swig. Wrinkled and knotted, his are the hands of a man who’s spent most of his life bent over a rice field. All around him, the forest breathes and hoots and creaks with a life of its own. He clicks his tongue and stares at the trail, searching for a glimpse of recognition. This part of the woods looks new to him, and yet he remembers, his memories as ancient as the ruins buried under his feet.

  Must be farther down the trail.

  Has to be.

  He puts away the flask and sets off again, his tired lungs trying to catch up with the steady rhythm of his mechanical heart. The gargle of a creek emerges over the whisper of leaves. He finds the water and then follows it across a small ravine studded by pinnacles. A pointy boulder bulges from the tight embrace of sequoia roots, its left side draped in lichen.

  That’s it. That’s the boulder.

  He knows. He remembers, even though he’s never been here before.

  Aghad drops to his hands and knees and pushes away the fleshy leaves of a fern. The dampness of the forest fills his nostrils. The soil is rich and dark and feels velvety on his calloused fingers. It stains his nails and infiltrates the cracks of his skin.

  Has to be here!

  He pulls weeds and dead roots, digging with his bare hands until they bleed. When his fingers are so numb he can’t feel them anymore, he rolls onto his back and wheezes. Leaves quiver above him and shadows dance on his face.

  I know it’s here. I’ve seen it.

  A spotted dove lands on top of the boulder and coos. Aghad turns.

  “Shoo!” he yells out of frustration.

  The bird takes off and flies to the low branch of an old sycamore. A pen of light pushes through the high boughs and brushes the old, knotted trunk.

  That tree… I’ve seen that tree!

  He’s been looking for that exact tree for months now.

  It takes some effort, but he manages to get back to his feet and shuffle over to the sycamore. The spotted dove screeches one more time and then flaps away, leaving a small feather twirling behind. Aghad rests a hand on the rugged trunk and squints at the grooves etched deep into the bark. Three black lines, pointing downward from east to west, have been carved in the wood, underneath one of the largest branches. The carvings are old, with traces of rust fading at the edges.

  Aghad brushes a finger along the lines and follows the direction they’re pointing to, down the knotted roots and into the ground. He starts digging again, frantically spooning out dirt until his hands hit something hard. A slab of rock shapes under his touch and slowly comes to light. He stops, catches his breath, and tries to remember.

  Memories never lived can be as ephemeral as dreams, the details blurring into myriad possibilities.

  One thing he’ll never forget, though.

  The relief.

  He wipes the dirt away and stares at the embossed relief. Five triangles join their vertices into a pentagon, a different key carved inside each one.

  Five doors, five locks, five keys.

  The five powers of Astraca.

  Aghad licks his parched lips and smiles. The city of Astraca may be dead and buried, but his memories are not. He pushes his fingers under the dirt and wraps them around the edge of the stone. It doesn’t budge, buried deep in the ground.

  It’ll take some more digging.

  A noise makes him startle, then voices, distant, fast approaching. He flattens the heap of dirt back over the stone and covers it with leaves. The rush makes his mechanical heart beat faster.

  Aghad looks over his shoulder and steps away from the sycamore, careful not to leave traces behind. His hands are dirty, his fingernails black and chipped. He dips them into his pockets and whistles, lilting along the trail.

  Something darts past him and blisters a tree inches away, chipping off splinters of burnt bark. Aghad winces. His right ear stings. He touches it and the tip of his finger comes away red.

  Blood.

  What the—

  “Don’t move.”

  He turns, slowly. A kid stands before him, his right fist raised. Four holes gape above his knuckles. The kid’s jawline glints eerily in the sunlight. Behind him, a man jogs out of the shadow, his slim silhouette framed by the backlight, and drapes a hand over the kid’s shoulder. A long gray braid swings around his muscular neck.

  “Careful, son,” the man says. “You could ‘ve injured our friend.” His lips stretch into a curt smile. If he’s concerned, he forgets to show it.

  Aghad bows his head. “Hello, Hennessy. What a surprise to find you in this remote part of the forest.”

  Hennessy cocks his head and sends a proud glance to his son. “We’re practicing our aim,” he repli
es, patting the kid on the back. “Right, Yuri?”

  Yuri lowers his arm and scowls. The ducts above his knuckles retract as he opens his palm and stretches his fingers. “He stepped into my shooting path.”

  Hennessy squeezes his son’s shoulder, his smile unfazed. “Now, now.” He comes forward, his steps fluid on sleek, robotic legs equipped with pneumatic joints.

  Aghad looks away, embarrassed by the stilted movements of his old prosthetic knees. It doesn’t happen every day that a common rice farmer is addressed by one of the Kiva Members.

  “It’s all good,” Hennessy says, towering over Aghad’s short and bulky figure. “I assume we’re both here for the same reason, aren’t we?”

  “I’m just taking a fresh breath of air,” he mumbles, scratching his rusty beard. “My old lungs—”

  “Of course!” Hennessy leans forward and plants his hands on Aghad’s shoulders. “Rumors of an imminent attack are spreading. Would I blame a man who seeks refuge in the forest? Never, my friend. Never! That’s why my son Yuri and I are here, to make sure we’re prepared for this war.” He turns to his son and smiles. The kid doesn’t reciprocate, his awkward half-flesh, half-metal face still frozen in a scowl.

  Aghad nods and wriggles away from Hennessy’s grasp. “Yes, yes. Of course.” He pats his vest and brushes away the dirt on his pants.

  Hennessy lowers his voice. “We’re brothers, Aghad. All Mayakes are. And brothers don’t have secrets.”

  Aghad stares into Hennessy’s icy eyes and freezes.

  Does he share the same memories? he wonders. What if…

  A sudden gust of wind swirls through the forest. The boughs creek, the leaves rustle. Hennessy wraps a hand around Aghad’s short arm and starts down the trail. His son clicks his metal jaw and follows at a distance, as Hennessy chants of a glorious past and victorious wars, his long strides unmatched by Aghad’s stilted pace.

  Chapter One

  Athel

  Day Number: 1,583

  Event: We found a scavenger droid by the mouth of the gorge.

  Number of Mayakes left: 430

  Goal for today: Create a weapon that will destroy the Gaijins’ supremacy.

  Scavenger droids look like enormous crabs. About ten feet tall, they prowl the rugged terrain at the foot of the mesa, scoop dirt with their robotic hands, and shove it into their mouths.

  Except theirs aren’t really mouths.

  They’re sophisticated spectrometers, Lukas explains, his hastily typed message streaming along the bottom corner of my retina. Their detectors are so well calibrated they can distinguish copper from steel.

  What if they find neither? I ask.

  They vomit the dirt out. Watch.

  The droid bends its three pairs of clawed legs, lowers its huge abdomen, and releases a whole pile of dirt from a chute in the middle of its lower belly.

  It looks more like pooping than vomiting, I comment.

  Crouched behind me, my fast-running friend Wes snickers. I turn to him and say, “Looks worse than you after a sugar binge.”

  “No way,” he replies, still laughing.

  We both keep low, hiding in the aspen grove just outside the gorge. Lukas types more specs and tech jargon on our retinas. Apparently, this one droid we found roaming just outside the gorge is a new model, and our geek friend is peeing in his pants with excitement. He climbed all the way to the top of the cliff to observe every movement the droid makes and is now taking note of every new spec.

  Guys, he messages. Look at the smooth movements from those actuators! You wouldn’t even think they’re robots. I’m guessing at least one million neuromorphic chips and 50 petabytes of RAM.

  I’ve no idea what he’s talking about, and honestly I don’t give a damn. Where Lukas sees chips and nanowires, I see graphene to make bulletproof shields and carbon nanotubes for body armor. With a few tricks, their shooting hands can be turned into firearms.

  “Man,” I whisper, pushing away some of the aspen leaves the wind keeps blowing in my face. “This baby has so much tech it’s gonna make us win the Kiva challenge.”

  Behind me, Wes scuffs the ground and says nothing.

  I turn and nudge him. “What’s up, Wes? You’re not getting cold feet, are you? Oh, wait. Yours are always cold!” I laugh, as Wes doesn’t have feet. His lower limbs are titanium blades screwed directly into his femurs.

  Wes shrugs, not sharing my humor. “I don’t know. I just wish we could win the war against the Gaijins. Like, fast and painless, you know?”

  I grab his arm and squeeze it. “Dude. If we get hold of this big carbon fiber guy and win the Kiva challenge, ours will be the weapon that wins the war too. It will be fast and painless.”

  Not sure about the painless part, but I gotta keep our spirits up. Wes had one of his legs reinstalled just a couple of weeks ago, after it got torn while we were inside the gorge. He’s recovered pretty well, although he’s still not one hundred percent back to the super-fast speed he used to reach.

  Truth is, we’re all in pretty bad shape. At a current head count of 430 people, our race is doomed to extinction. We no longer have the resources to produce the technology that keeps us alive. The only chance we have is to rebel against the Gaijins, the people who dominate us by sending scavenger droids to rob our land and kill our men. But in order to fight back, we need to make weapons. The Kiva Council instituted a challenge last week. A bunch of men, lead by Kiva Member Hennessy, will be in charge of organizing a military strategic plan to attack the Gaijins. Every Mayake is invited to submit a weapon prototype, and the best one will be mass-produced for our war. Lukas, Wes and I are determined to win the challenge.

  Lukas resumes his frantic messaging. Guys, we need to lure the big bot away from the gorge. It’s come the farthest away from the others. The next closest droid is about half a mile away—I can see it from up here.

  Great, I reply, stooping down to open my backpack. Leave it to us. I’ve got a plan.

  Wes becomes suddenly serious and starts massaging his thighs.

  “Are you ok?” I ask. One of Wes’s blades had to be surgically reattached after he was badly injured in the gorge, three weeks ago.

  He brushes off my concern with a brisk wave of his hand. “Course I am. Ready to sprint any minute now.”

  Not so fast, Lukas messages. These new models are fifty times faster than the previous version in reaction time and response. They have a more sophisticated mapping algorithm and a wider radius of communication.

  As he reads Lukas’s message, Wes’s eyes bulge. “You sure about this, Athel?”

  I roll my eyes. Lukas always has to ruin momentum with his tech specs. “How often do you find a scavenger droid this far away from its pals?”

  Lukas’s words reappear at the bottom of my retina. Scavenger droids tend to stick together. This one must’ve found an unusual scattering of metal to come this far out of the gorge. It’s a unique chance. I say we go for it.

  “Very brave of him to say,” Wes says, “when you and I are the ones who have to face all those tons of carbon fibers and chips.”

  “Dude’s got brains,” I reply. “Gotta give him credit for that.”

  I whistle, and my trained falcon Kael comes swooping out of the sky. It dives a few feet away from the droid and then swerves away. The M4—that’s the new model name Lukas just coined—pivots on its midsection and elongates its lenses to track the bird, yet no bullets come out of its deadly hands. As soon as Kael soars up again, the droid bends over and nibbles another rock.

  Kael needs to get closer, Lukas sends.

  Closer? I reply.

  They changed the algorithm. These droids are smarter, they don’t just randomly shoot. They no longer waste ammunition.

  Now he tells me. Do they shoot faster, too? I ask.

  Lukas doesn’t reply.

  From my backpack I pull out the coil of wire rope Lukas and I found at the landfill. We’ve found all sorts of useful stuff from the pre-Plague world at the land
fill, like old cell phones and pieces of motor vehicles. It’s become our primary source of tech and recyclable junk these days.

  I don’t care what Lukas says, I’m not putting Kael through that kind of risk.

  “Stay here and watch my back,” I tell Wes.

  “What are you going to do?”

  I wink. “Time to introduce myself to the big barfing boy.”

  I crawl out of the small grove we’ve been hiding in and crouch behind a tall shrub, waiting for the droid to step out of the gorge. Unaware of my presence, the M4 treads over the pile of dirt it just vomited and moves over to the next patch of terrain. The diode at the top of its head blinks as it processes new information.

  The droid’s carbon nanotube ears register the sound of my boots scraping the ground, and its sensor arrays capture the scent molecules released by my sweat. The robot turns and its lenses zoom until they detect me.

  A simple algorithm—this is what it comes down to. So long as I hold still and don’t move, the droid will not react. The minute I twitch, jerk or jump, the software will perceive my movements as a threat and instruct the M4 to shoot first, then deploy its firing hands.

  Kael circles up in the sky for a few more seconds, then gives out a loud squawk and dives. The M4 raises its head, but Kael’s faster. The falcon clasps the droid’s lenses between its talons, forcing the big machine to yank backwards, its robotic arms flailing in the air.

  I sprint out of my hiding spot and run, ignoring the blur of furiously typed messages streaming at the bottom of my retina. Kael’s distraction lasts only seconds before the falcon takes off again, dodging the bullets the droid finally fires into the air. I clutch the coil of wire rope in my hands and duck under the droid’s massive claw legs.

  I hear Kael coming back for a second attack. Bullets zip through the air. I uncoil the rope and wrap it around the M4’s robotic joints. Its legs looked like toothpicks from afar, but now, as I dodge their swift movements, they’re more like mining picks stabbing at me.