by Joshua Guess
“Sounds like a guy I’d buy a beer for,” Hale said. “Anyway, you’re not in trouble. Not much. If you’re willing to move around and fight that way, great. We can work with that when your shift in the maze comes up in the rotation. It’s partly on me for thinking you two couldn’t hack it, but this should be the last time you have to ignore what an overseer says to get the job done. Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Beck agreed.
“We’re good, then,” Hale said. “Word of warning, though. I might not be inclined to punish you for saving the life of my lookout, but others won’t be so generous. You make them look bad or incompetent, and they’ll find you afterward when you’re too tired or drunk to defend yourself.”
“Appreciate the warning,” Beck said. “But so far I’ve never found myself in a situation where enough booze was even available to make that a possibility.”
Hale shook his head. “God, I remember what it was like to be your age. You can’t be more than twenty, huh? Feels like nothing in the world can stop you. Just remember, no one can be on guard all the time. So take care not to make enemies.”
Beck considered this excellent advice, though she was self-aware enough to understand her own limitations. She wouldn’t pick fights—probably—but that didn’t mean she could guarantee she wouldn’t make things worse by finishing them.
She felt a sudden, unexpected pang of homesickness for Wojcik of all people. In the months the team was at Brighton, he had been her most reliable drinking buddy. The few times anyone gave Beck even mild trouble, the giant man had silently glowered until the culprits slunk away with their tails between their legs.
That thought led to Jeremy, so reserved but dedicated. Her trusted second in command. The voice of reason. He was largely a mystery to her, and not just in the way that all people are mysteries incapable of being truly known. Jeremy complained rarely but neither was he free with praise. The most she knew about him was that Fisher’s home-brewed beer, nectar to Beck after so very many long days, elicited a mild “Not bad” from Jeremy upon his first taste.
Beck badly wanted to sit across from him and poke at his stolid reserve just to see if she could get a response.
And she couldn’t.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Hale said awkwardly. “I told you, you’re not in trouble. And your wound isn’t that bad. It’s pretty shallow.”
“Huh?” Beck said, confused.
Hale didn’t touch her face, but he gestured at it. “You’re crying.”
She wiped away the thin tears, a pale imitation of the rivers she’d wept for her family. It wasn’t the same, not really. The team and Fisher and even Stein, they were all still alive. Or had been when she left. Yet in a way, the grief resonated with those scabbing wounds. It was still a loss, if not as intense or deep.
And like any loss, all it took was a reminder of what she no longer had in her life to finally make it real.
18
Eshton was summoned to the Canaan barracks the next day. There was nothing like the rigid structure of the Deathwatch here—in fact, other than the basic organizational necessities of keeping human beings alive, the place lacked many similarities with the Protectorate at all.
Hale was present when the commander of the defense forces ushered Eshton into his office. The room was tiny and spare, with only a single small terminal in evidence. Power generation was a problem Andres had warned them about. The only reliable sources were solar panels on the cliff above and a single turbine anchored in the river. From what he had already heard, both were in a perpetual state of near failure.
But managing a stable defense meant paperwork, and in the absence of actual paper, electronics had to be used no matter how precious the watts needed to make them run might be.
“Mister Brogan,” the commander said. “Welcome. I’m John Downy. I run our defense program.”
Eshton put out a hand. “Sir.” Downy shook it.
“None of that sir business here,” he said. “I don’t have a title or rank. Our structure isn’t that stiff. Can’t be, what with people floating in and out they do.”
Eshton frowned. “I thought that was just new people. You mean there isn’t a standing defense force?”
Downy glanced at Hale, who picked up the cue. “No. Not even overseers like me. Most folks rotate in on a schedule. People with critical skills like doctors or engineers are exempt because we can’t afford to lose them, but otherwise it’s all based on whoever is scheduled to work that day.”
“Huh,” Eshton said, running a hand across the stubble on his jaw. “Why is that? I have to be missing something here.”
“You are,” Downy said, but in a kindly way. “Call it cultural blindness. We have to farm and hunt to eat. It takes a huge amount of time and energy. Think of the simplest thing that was automated back in your Rez, and then remember we have to do it by hand. People just can’t afford to do it full-time.”
Hale nodded. “Don’t know that we’d really want them to, either. This way there’s no burnout from being in danger all day every day.”
Eshton couldn’t help being impressed. Beck might be the one who had an intuitive understanding of systems, but he had a better grasp on people. What the other men were describing wouldn’t be as effective as the Watch, but what could be? Instead of relying on a small pool of citizens dedicated to only one thing, Canaan had a population where a huge majority of the people were experienced and seasoned fighters.
Few of them would have the level of skill Eshton saw in his fellow Deathwatch members, but even one day every week or two added up to a lot of experience over the years.
“So I have to wonder what this has to do with me,” Eshton said. “You want me to defend full-time?”
Downy shook his head. “Not exactly. I’ve talked with the other elected officials and we’ve agreed a stipend for you would be worth getting to use your expertise. I understand you held rank in the Watch, yes?”
“I was a Guard,” Eshton replied, though using the past tense stung far more than he would have expected. “Technically a journeyman Guard, which is the unofficial middle rank. Probably close to overseer, if you need a comparison.”
Downy smiled wryly. “Oh, we know the rank structure of the Watch. You’ll do just fine. If you’re willing, we’d like to put you in the maze three days a week, and training people the rest of the time. Four classes a day, an hour each, with an hour break between them. How does that sound to you?”
Eshton blinked. “Training? For what?”
Downy looked at him like he was a slow child. “Training them to fight. Whatever you think will work best for our situation, whether it’s individual techniques or unit tactics.”
The earnestness with which the head of Canaan’s defense force framed the job in such general terms was disarming. At face value, the words left Eshton almost infinite leeway to decide what was best for the community.
Remnants didn’t trust easily, that much he’d learned from Andres and the others. Yet Downy gave no hint of subterfuge or dishonesty. He was asking for Eshton’s expert opinion on how to make their defenses better—how to make their people better at it.
What had the man said? The other elected officials. He was blinded by his own experience—in the Watch, meritocracy was the rule. You knew a Guard or Warden was going to meet a minimum criteria for skill and leadership because nothing less was allowed. Here it was different. This place was being guarded by honest people who had to make it up as they went along. Sure, decades of living out here had hardened their resolve and sharpened their skills, but there just weren’t the resources for the sort of dedicated and methodical work needed to create a truly effective military.
“I want to say yes,” Eshton told them. “I really do. But it’s already going to be a nightmare for me here without everyone hating me for acting superior to them about this kind of thing. I’d rather not be a pariah in my first week. Not more than I already am.”
In truth, he was probably going to accept, but wanted
to see how the men would respond.
Downy actually laughed. “Well, one thing most people here can agree on is you Deathwatch types are good at what you do. And we’re pragmatic. If it makes us stronger, most folk will swallow their pride and do it. I can’t promise it’ll be easy or that someone won’t take a swing at you, but I think this will help you build up trust in the long term.”
Hale snorted. “I do too, but in the short term you’re also probably right. Some people will definitely give you shit.”
Eshton raised an eyebrow. “If they do, you know the only way to maintain respect from others will be to handle it, right? A good leader deals with his discipline problems. I’ll talk it out when I can, but it’s almost guaranteed I’ll have to leave some bruises eventually.”
Downy nodded. “I’m okay with that. If it helps save someone’s life later on, treat them like raw recruits.”
Eshton actually thought that would be the entirely wrong approach, but he nodded. “Okay. I’m in.”
Later that night, he watched the stars.
It was far from the first time he’d done it, but Eshton couldn’t help but marvel at the freedom of it all. Just knowing he could wander out into the fields and not have to worry about a sudden dust storm or a Pale attack was almost impossibly beautiful. He stood among the rows of crops and took in the rich, earthy scents and the cool breeze blowing in off the river and stared up at the twinkling expanse above.
“It’s nice, isn’t it?” asked a voice softly from behind him.
He didn’t look. There was no need. “I used to do this as often as I could when I was a kid,” Eshton said as Beck moved to stand beside him. “Back home in Rez Zamek, before I lost them.”
Beck let out a soft sound of surprise. “I didn’t know you were from Zamek. That’s where Wojcik is from. Funny, you don’t look Polish.”
Eshton chuckled. “Nah. My family is Nigerian and Irish. But I was born there. Mom and Dad moved to Zamek just before I was born. I always thought it was funny that so many Rezzes were eventually settled by big groups of people whose parents or grandparents came from a single place. All those years stuck together in Manhattan didn’t break those bonds.”
“Suppose it’s because people cling hard to what they know when things get tough,” Beck said. “Well, usually. I chose the Watch because I needed a hard break from everything that happened.”
And like a bolt of lightning, it hit him. “That’s what the Cabal was counting on,” he breathed. “They’re keeping the Protectorate stagnant while pretending it’s order. They’re not letting us grow.”
“Maybe they think they’re just keeping us safe,” Beck said. “I’ve looked at the numbers. Awful as what they’ve done is, seems like they weren’t just picking random targets when blooms took out whole settlements. It’s population control, first and foremost.”
Eshton sighed. “I can always count on you to depress me. Sorry, I just can’t see any good in killing so many citizens just to keep things the way they are.”
Beck punched him in the arm, probably harder than absolutely necessary. “I didn’t say it was good. Just logical given the ends they wanted to achieve. I actually agree with you. I think they’re too afraid of losing power by letting us move past the need for all the harsh restrictions the Tenets put on us. It made them sure the only way to keep control was…extreme measures.”
Eshton nodded agreement, but was happy to let silence reign.
Did the members of the Cabal ever do this? Just take five minutes out of their day to stop and truly take in the world around them? Did they sit on a market street and watch the vendors hawk their wares, or watch the new mothers cooing to their children haggle for better prices? Did they make any sort of effort to really see the society they were ostensibly protecting with their hellish actions? Did they try at all to understand the people who made it up?
No. Probably not.
People would make it far too real for them. Individuals could be cared for, loved, and therefore opened up the awful possibility in the minds of dictators that strangers might be more than just statistics. Then doubt would creep in. Hard questions would be asked. The sort no amount of self-delusion or false logic could prevent.
Eshton thought the Cabal must be deeply isolated from the people they ruled and killed. That was the only explanation.
Beck had the same basic ingredients as people like the Protector. Keene was known to be intelligent and methodical, a man who worshiped at the altar of practicality above all. He was a thinker who was not afraid to act.
Yet Beck, who shared those qualities, still held a fundamentally different moral code. As did Eshton, though he was unashamed to admit he lacked her brilliance. He wasn’t an idiot, was in fact above average in intellect, but Beck was a rare bird.
In the most important ways, he matched her perfectly. They held to the same bedrock beliefs about preserving life when at all possible. That was better in his mind than being able to effortlessly write code or fix a broken drone.
“This is what we’re supposed to be,” Eshton said after a long while. He gestured toward the open valley before them. “This is the kind of freedom we should be working toward. Not building Rezzes in hellholes to keep people down. Not preventing a cure for the Fade from coming into existence because we’re too afraid of what will happen to the human race if we suddenly have the freedom to move beyond walls. I’m not saying we should make a leap to living like Remnants over night, but we should at least be able to take the first step.”
“It’s funny,” Beck said, stepping close to him. “That was the whole reason Rezzes were built in the first place. Went wrong somewhere along the way, I guess. Someone high up got scared and the fear spread like a disease.”
She leaned against his arm and rested her head on his shoulder. It was, he thought, an almost unconscious act on her part. An instinctive need to be close to someone with shared experience.
He knew this because her presence, her touch, sent a gentle warmth through him. They were strangers in a strange land, but at least they could find a small piece of home in each other.
19
Finding work was frustrating for Beck. Five days in and the best she’d been able to manage was performing some small electronics repairs for a two different people, jobs she suspected were pity directed her way from friends of Andres.
The need to contribute was strong, but paled beside her need to be doing something. Anything, really. She had her trove of terminals set up in the tiny room Andres had given her, but the programs trying to chew their way through the encrypted information stolen from the Cabal worked without much need for her attention. The Brick she’d brought from the supply cache would power everything for a long while, but figuring out how to charge it again given the shaky infrastructure in Canaan was a problem.
Adding to her frustration was the morning’s announcement from Andres, who had taken a day trip out to the post where Scott was still waiting. Karen, who had been mostly away from home so far, was finishing up whatever project she’d been working on and would be home this afternoon. Scott and Andres would join her. Then they would be five—seven if you counted the giant dogs—and Beck the only one among them without work.
It wasn’t a state of being she was used to. Even as a kid she’d always had something to do. A project to occupy her time, and by the time she was in her teens she’d been working at the mine. Going from sweeping up dust to managing upkeep on all the drones was a long process by the reckoning of her limited years, but it was never boring. For the first time in her life, she felt like a burden on the people around her rather than a boon.
She had taken to jogging. Without the specialized training facilities available in a chapterhouse, she had to devise her own methods for staying in fighting trim. Today was, by the definition of the Watch, a light run. Twenty laps around Canaan with slight variations in the route. Every other lap took her around the long footpath circling the crops and running along the river.
; Each time she went this way, she saw the looming shadow of the submerged turbine in the water, waiting like some great aquatic predator. It was even similar in shape, with a gaping maw for taking in the flow and a narrower aperture on the other end to create a slight pressure differential.
Every lap she took that didn’t bring the turbine into view had her thinking about it anyway. She knew how the thing worked in general terms. She’d occasionally tinkered with similar equipment in the mines that took advantage of the constant breeze winding through the shafts.
At the end of her last lap, she decided to stop at the lone administrative building in Canaan, where all the functions of government were housed. The two-story structure wasn’t especially large by her usual standards, but she still didn’t want to barge into the wrong office.
After checking the small listing to figure out where to go, she padded up the stairs and to the right. The door she was looking for sat open, a small woman in a rumpled coverall entombed behind a desk covered with machine parts. She looked up as Beck tapped gently on the door frame.
The woman had dark brown hair streaked liberally with gray, and startling green eyes set in a dark tan face. “Help you? Oh, you’re the new girl. Don’t have a lot of time to waste, not for Deathwatch. So make it quick.”
Beck frowned, but only slightly. It was an attitude she knew would pop up. “Actually, I’m wondering if I can help you. I was thinking I might take a look at your turbine. See if I can fix it.”
A hand-carved plaque on the desk, pushed off to one side and clearly forgotten, read Anne Rossi. Rossi put down the disassembled water pump she was working on and regarded Beck with open dislike. “I think you mean our turbine, don’t you? Since you’re supposedly one of us now.”
“Uh, yeah,” Beck said, mentally kicking herself. “This is still new to me. Sorry.”
Rossi waved a hand. “Not like I expect better. Anyway, even if I were inclined to let some kid take apart our primary power supply just because she thinks she knows better than someone who’s been working on it for twenty years, I can’t. We don’t have a backup for it. Every time we haul it up, it takes days or weeks of planning so people don’t have to go without power.”