Ecko Rising

by Danie Ware

  The knock came again. Still flickering with the last shreds of his antagonism, Ecko took three steps across the rug and banged the door open. He snarled, “What?”

  Karine stood outside. With her was an older guy, slightly stoop shouldered and only a little taller than Ecko himself. He was in his fifties or more, with a worn, sun-leathered face and brown eyes flecked with an odd orange-gold.

  Tiger’s eyes.

  Behind him, there was a low-ceilinged, brick-and-beam passageway that hinted at more doors and some sort of stairway. There was a small, moonlit window, but nothing else.

  Karine elbowed the brown-eyed man forwards.

  “Ecko, this is Kale,” she said. “Kale’s just started with us, he’s still finding his – ah – feet.”

  Ecko said nothing, didn’t move. He watched them, his oculars in overdrive and a peculiar, nebulous wariness starting to prickle at the back of his neck.

  Kale’s core temperature was wrong, too high.

  And as he met Ecko’s empty gaze, it jumped.

  It what?

  Ecko resisted the instinctive, wary urge to back up. Instead, he stood poised on his toes, blocking the doorway, waiting for the assault, the change, the demon, the dragon, the manifest deity, the whatever-the-fuck it was...

  Yeah, you just bring it the fuck on...

  Right now, he’d welcome the release.

  But the man said, quite affably, “Ecko. How was the food?”

  “Fan-fuckin’-tastic.” Ecko didn’t budge, didn’t back down. His adrenaline shivered, eager. “So what the hell’re you? Security?”

  “He’s downstairs,” the man said, smiling. “I’m the cook.”

  “You like vindaloo?”

  “What?” Kale didn’t get the joke. They watched each other, unspeaking.

  “Ecko, get out of the doorway, for Gods’ sakes.” Karine chuckled and slithered with remarkable dexterity around where Kale was standing. “If you’re going to be all bristly and paranoid, at least retreat far enough to let me get the dishes.” She flicked an eyebrow, all pert indignance. “Unless you want to clean them yourself.”

  Ecko blinked.

  Karine’s brusque affection apparently gave her an uncanny ability to take charge of a situation – before he’d even realised it, she’d slipped past him and was picking up the tray. “How you coping, anyway?” She winked at him. “Has Roderick started pontificating yet?”

  Huh? Ecko was getting overwhelmed, confused, he didn’t need this. Keeping both of them in sight, he retreated from the doorway. There was a whole new set of social rules and shit going on here...

  Chrissakes, this just wasn’t fair!

  Their inability to understand his banter bewildered him. And they hadn’t reacted to his appearance – it was like they hadn’t even noticed. His enhancements had been deliberately crafted, bought with pain and endurance beyond human limits – he’d given everything to look the way he did. On some level, it was supposed to give him space, for chrissakes, emotionally and physically...

  Yet neither Kale nor Karine seemed to give a shit.

  His oculars still working, scanning, searching, watching around him, watching Kale’s every move, every flicker, he reached for something else to say.

  “Yeah, he’s crazy. I’m crazy. We’re all fuckin’ crazy. An’ you didn’t answer the question.”

  Kale replied, quite calmly, “Why do you have no scent?”

  “Chrissakes.” Ecko was lost, he was out of place, he was baffled, his adrenaline was hovering on the edge of a full-on ass-kicking – there was a smouldering volcano of pressure under his skin and these two were just bumbling the fuck about like there was nothing the matter. His oculars targeted the tray, the cook’s eye, ear and heart in four successive seconds.

  He snarled, “Look –”

  “Ecko, ease down before you strain something,” Karine told him. “The Bard’s gone to sort out a place for you to sleep – a space of your own for as long as you need it. And I’m here – we’re both here – to help you. This is The Wanderer, and you’ve landed on your feet, well and truly. If you’d calm down for two ticks, you’d realise that.”

  He glared at her. “Don’t fucking patronise me.” The moonlight gave her hair a bright brown shine. She was exceptionally pretty, but he could never think like that, never go there, never again.

  “Oh all right, enough,” she said. There was an edge of irritation in her voice. “No one’s going to stop you leaving, if that’s what you really want. But you need to understand, acclimatise. And let’s face it – where better than the pub?” She flashed him a grin. “Where else can you explore without having to sleep in ribbon-town inns; eat the best damned food in the Varchinde without having to hunt it yourself? Where else can you find every luxury traded by tithehall and marketplace? Where else can you see something new every morning? You stay here, Ecko, you’ll see the whole world – and the road-pirates won’t pick on you and the beasties of the deeper plains won’t think you’re lunch.” She winked at him. “And you’ll get to drink in your local every night.”

  “Answer the fucking question.”

  Karine said, “He told you – he’s the cook.”

  Kale’s core temperature jumped again, it seemed to flare like rage, almost like Ecko’s adrenaline. Ecko snorted. “So – what – you cook dinner with your fiery temper?”

  That made them exchange a glance; something passed between them that Ecko couldn’t begin to fathom. His adrenals shivered again and he found himself on the balls of his feet. He’d touched something – but if they didn’t fucking cough this shit up, whatever it was, then he was outta here.

  He’d take his chances.

  The cook shrugged, seemed almost resigned. his shoulders slumped further, then he said, “Will you trust us if I do?”

  “Sure.” Ecko glared, tasted stew, swallowed.

  Kale nodded, slowly.

  “Please understand,” he said, “that I was born like this. When I was younger, it was a jest, a game. And then I got older, and it wasn’t funny any more. I won’t hurt you, but...”

  Born like this...

  The heat started in Kale’s skull, in the back of his neck, ran like liquid fire into his face and down his spine. Patchy fur burned his skin as it spread. His shoulders hunched, his face twisted around his elongating teeth. His arms gnarled, strengthened, his toes and fingers knotted and claws tore through his flesh. His knees bent inside out and he crouched forwards, the end of his lengthening spine burst from his back, lashing furiously.

  There was a snarl that sounded like pain.

  The transition took seconds. Then a feral, savage thing with asymmetrical green eyes and fangs as long as knives bubbled pure hate into Ecko’s face.

  Holy fucking shit!

  Despite himself, Ecko was retreating. His adrenaline shrieked but he didn’t know whether to scream, puke, run like fuck or kick the thing’s head clean out the fucking window.

  What the hell..?

  And then it was gone and Kale was standing there, scratching at his neck where fur had melted into skin. He was shuddering violently, steadying himself on the wall. He said, “Pain is a stern teacher.”

  The phrase was a like a friend.

  A stern teacher.

  Ecko knew... knew what that meant, how it felt...

  But Kale was still speaking. “If you ever need to stop me, you need white metal. It upsets the balance of the beast in my blood – the wounds don’t heal.”

  Karine said softly, “Kale came here to find help, Ecko. And we can help you too –”

  “Just wait... wait.” Inundated with impossibility, swamped by everything that was happening around him, Ecko’d backed right up to the wall. “What’re you, some kinda werewolf? With those moons? How the fuck does that – ?”

  “It’s not the moons,” Kale said. “The beast... gets away from me. I came here to find help, to learn control before...” His expression twisted, but not with anger. “I suppose we’re all cr
azed, in our own ways.”

  Karine said gently, “Believe it or not, you’re among friends.”

  Ecko said, his mind still reeling, “Shit, this place is a fucking loony bin.”

  She grinned. “Kale’s a beast. I’m a political outcast – small matter of an – ah – admirer I really didn’t want to marry. Sera, downstairs, is a Games Champion – he killed nine opponents in a bout he was told to lose. Silfe’s a runaway. Everyone here has a history.”

  “I feel so much better.”

  “Look, we’ll leave you in peace for a bit longer,” Karine said. “You’ve got a lot take in. I’ll go see how the Bard is doing with your room. In the meantime –” she went to lay a hand on his arm, but he backed up “– trust us. Whatever else happens from this point on, this can be your home. If you want it.”

  * * *

  Ecko’s room was high under the vaulted beams and looked like something off some medieval film set. The wood was warm and rich – floor, beams, an old table and bench. There was leather on the seat coverings and pale, wax candles. Wooden shutters covered the window and an old rug covered the floor. Between the beams, the walls were brickwork, decorated with old pictures, and with hooks where the Bard had taken down his “souvenirs”.

  Half enchanted and half scathing, he checked it for hiding places, verified and listed his equipment, swung himself onto a beam and waited.

  As soon as this place settled down, he was gonna get some fucking bearings, case it from penthouse to basement. He needed understanding, needed to know what was out there. And he needed equipment. Currency. Weapons. Food. Maps. Kit to flee with – or to build a cache.

  Too many surprises. He wasn’t being caught with his kacks down again.

  Carefully draping the folds and curves of his cloak, he dissolved silently into the room’s darkness.

  And he waited.

  * * *

  It was warm.

  Locked into his stealth position, he remained still as the building slowly softened into silence around him. He heard doors opening and closing, voices laughing outside. After a while, feet moved up and down the creaking stairs and Ecko labelled them mentally – the implacable stamp that had to be Sera, Karine quick and light footed, Kale unhurried. The Bard’s boots were easy to identify – though heavier than he might have guessed.

  Upstairs, doors banged. One by one, the tavern’s staff returned to their rooms and settled for the night.

  As the quiet swelled, his throat started to close with rising pressure. He began to doubt, pointless fears dancing at the corners of his awareness. Am I dreaming? Am I fucking dead? He told himself it didn’t matter either way – he was here and he’d better just get on with it.

  Food. Weapons.

  Understanding.

  The doubts laughed at him again, in the darkness they sounded like Eliza, like Lugan. Chances of successful adjustment increasing: 34.74%

  Would he even recognise what he needed? He was lost, betrayed, naked in the field once more. He was missing the cornerstones of his existence. No plastics, no metal. No communication, no information. No drugs, no pharmaceuticals. No branding, no packaging, no labels. Where did they get clean water? Where did they go to the john?

  Mockery rang increasingly loud in the hush. The room’s very simplicity became unsettling. He clung to his beam as if everything else would fade into nothing around him.

  Where the fuck was he?

  A feminine voice cursing made him start. He heard the Bard’s rich, distinctive chuckle, and the faint glimmer of light beyond his room went out.

  Sudden, utter blackness.

  Silence.

  He was swallowed by them, abruptly alone, so fucking alone – an illegal alien in a crappy backwater culture. He froze, stock-still. Childhood fears – he dare not move or speak or turn, because if he acknowledged the beast of the darkness, it would pounce...

  He was holding his breath.

  His heatseeker showed him only infinitesimal, subtle shifts that made the darkness deep as nightmare – there wasn’t enough illumination for his starlites.

  He couldn’t even see himself. Only the wood under his fingertips told him he existed, that Eliza hadn’t flicked the big red switch marked “OFF”.

  Was she watching him? Out there in the darkness? Could she feel what he felt? Was this... was this supposed to teach him a fucking lesson of some kind?

  Yeah.

  You.

  Bitch.

  The snarl of defiance was reflex, it rippled through him like the first whisper of the tsunami. His expression twisted, he inhaled and his adrenals kicked. The lightning thrill of energy slashed a sudden, whetted grin across his face. Challenge him, would she? The muscles through his back and legs coiled, anticipating.

  Were you fucking laughing? At me?

  Sudden, sharp focus. Comprehension. Sartori.

  There was no fear here!

  The blackness was home, it was his and he understood it – he was the beast in the fucking darkness. It had been his cover, his cloak, his friend, his best weapon. One more thing to add to the list of shit he’d left behind...

  ...ohhhh yeah, the fucking light.

  No streetlights, no aircars, no hoverdrones, no cameras, no fucking electricity.

  He found himself trembling, elation and adrenaline making the corners of his vision spark with realisation – a realisation of total, unmatched ability.

  He was unique; he was all-powerful, superhuman. He could pull shit this world had never even fucking heard of. All the dark, Bogeyman dreams of his childhood were here. They were in the darkness round him.

  Only waiting for him to take hold of them.

  Oh yeah.

  As he dropped silently from the beam and carefully paced the distance to the unseen door, his blade-sharp grin cast a black reflection in his thoughts. This was it all fucking right.

  This was Living The Nightmare.

  * * *

  Turning through an approximate L-shape of ground, The Wanderer was too simple to even offer him a challenge.

  It slept oblivious – the only warmth a blur of feline, creeping on silent paws. The critter’s ignorance amused him. Navigating by heat, touch, simple mathematics, years of recon memorised the layout and brought him down to the bar.

  Pub.

  Taproom.

  What-ever.

  Yeah, like whoever designed this should’ve left neat, clearly labelled ration packs laying in obscure corners, plus hard cash and some sorta silent missile weapon that didn’t involve feathers.

  Hey – and how about a couple of handy medikits and a ten-foot fucking pole?

  He emerged through a door behind the bar and his antidaz flicked nanosecond irises. The taproom was bright, cross-hatched moonlight streamed through two front windows like the Bard had parked slap-bang in the middle of Leicester Square.

  His crouch was instinctive, but the room was empty.

  Motionless, he scanned.

  Wood. More fucking wood than a hot first date. Barrels, tables, benches, wine racks, floor. This place’d go up like a fucking Fawkes’ Night party. For a second, temptation gibbered at him, dancing like a lighted match... Then he got a fucking grip and shut the door.

  His adrenals were waning, unused by fight or flight, their fading left him cold and hollow. Shivers twitched his shoulders. The colours of his skin squirmed under the light and he swallowed nausea.

  The taproom was silent, flanked by a gazillion alcoves you could hide a fucking army in – but his heatseeker picked up only the fading warmth in the fireplace. Next to its faint glow, a table was scattered with paper, curled into rolls or weighted with oddments. His telescopics picked out tiny, intricately detailed brown writing – sketches, even – but no map.

  Remote sounds tickled the outer ranges of his hearing. Voices? Feet? Horses’ hooves again, somehow sounding wrong... Shouting and a sudden clatter that might’ve been a fight. More feet in a pounding and familiar rhythm.

  Oddly reassured, he
checked quickly for currency – gold, surely! When he found nothing, he snaked onto the bar top and crouched there, gargoyle still.

  But there was no cash, no glitter of coinage. No pumps or optics, but hey, that one was obvious. Still no fucking metal.

  He found wooden barrels and racks of pottery. And he found papers, loose rolls in differing colours of ribbon – they were off-white and rough to his touch. When he unrolled one, he found it was etched with some kind of tally marks, an elaborate record system he couldn’t begin to fathom. And under them, there was a squat, locked box – a box that his agile fingers took less than six seconds to prise open.

  Whaddaya know. I hit the Vegas jackpot.

  It was full of stuff.

  Fragments of bright stone, ceramics and wood, pinches of powder in twists of fabric, white stuff that might’ve been horn or bone, jewellery braided from thread and colour. And most common of all, a kind of solid resin that looked almost like amber, almost like plastic. It was oddly smooth to the touch.

  It wasn’t the only thing that he didn’t understand.

  He went through the box, carefully.

  Some of the resin was carved, or dyed, or both; some of it was just loose chunks. Some of it was crafted into more jewellery, or tools. Some of it had fibres running through it in eleborate patterns.

  Laying a pendant thing back in the box, Ecko looked up and around the room, a realisation suddenly crystallising.

  Jesus shit...

  Hung on the walls and pillars was a half-ton of local swag – swords, scythes, tools, big ol’ spears with heads like half moons and axes the size of his head. Reaching out, he took one of the smaller blades down.

  And it was the same.

  It was the same resinous, wood-warm, glass-smooth, metal-hard stuff that was in the box, incredibly light with a pattern of fibres running up its centre – reinforcement or decoration. It wasn’t sharp, though his sensitive fingers found old notches.

  What the hell was this stuff? Was it like their gold, or steel? Or both? Now he looked round properly, he could see that it made everything from weapons to rivets to cutlery – whatever the fuck this stuff was, it was critical.