by Craig Zerf
‘Ten hours shore leave, gentlemen,’ he shouted. ‘And then I want you back here tomorrow at first light to begin offloading. Mister Hogan,’ he continued. ‘A word before you go.’
Nathaniel waited for the crew to disperse and then he walked over to the captain and saluted.
‘Captain.’
‘We shall be sorry to see you go, Mister Hogan,’ said Captain Tobias. ‘We all owe you a great debt of gratitude. Without your martial skills we may very well have lost the Gwendolyn.’
‘Only doing my job, sir,’ countered Nate.
Tobias smiled. ‘No, Nathaniel,’ he replied. ‘You far surpassed that.’ He handed over a small cotton pouch. ‘Your pay,’ he continued. ‘I’ve had the purser throw in a small bonus for you. It’s the least that we could do for the hero of Cutter’s Pass.’ He held out his hand and Nathaniel shook it. ‘I have a feeling that we shall meet again, Mister Hogan,’ said the captain.
‘I hope so, sir,’ replied Nathaniel. ‘And I thank you for your generosity.’
‘One last thing, before you leave us for good.’ Tobias pulled an object from his coat pocket and handed it to the marine.
Nate studied it with interest. It appeared to be a lightweight gas mask of some sort.
‘It fits over your nose and mouth,’ instructed Tobias. ‘Tie it behind your head.’
‘What’s it for?’
Tobias laughed. ‘As an Outlander you’ve never been inside a citadel before. If you think that the air is rank outside the walls, believe me, you shall need that mask when you get inside. The air is so thick that it’s like walking through soup. Keep the goggles, you’ll need those as well.’
Nathaniel nodded his thanks.
They shook hands once more and the marine turned and walked away, disappearing into the sickly yellow smog.
Chapter 5
The sun peered weakly through the swirling smog, its wan yellow light almost embarrassed to show itself amongst the nightmare of filth and pollution that saturated the air in the citadel.
The streets were narrow and congested with crowds of people, stalls selling doo-dads and trinkets. Steam driven buggies coughed and spluttered their way erratically over the cobbles.
Even through his mask, Nathaniel could smell the stench of unbridled industry. Coal smoke, sewage and tanning chemicals. The unpleasant mélange overlaid with the deeper, cloying smell of burning the fish oil that powered the street lamps. And there were many street lamps; their smoky orange flames turned high in an attempt to supplement the weak quantities of sunlight that struggled through the smog.
Above him, multi-storey buildings disappeared into the fetid mist, their upper floors lost from view in the swirling stink. Stained glass signs, backlit with yet more fish oil lamps, advertised the names and functions of the various establishments.
Nate walked for a while until he saw a sign that read “Vacancies”. Below that sign hung another, “Parkville Inn”. He opened the front door and went in. A bell tinkled and a stiff spring pulled the door tightly shut behind him.
He took his mask off with relief and raised his goggles up onto his forehead. The room was lit by a row of gas lanterns that burned with a bright white light. Above the door a large ventilation fan drew in the outside air via a filter, cleansing it of most of the smoke and dirt and some of the stink.
At the far end of the room stood a small reception desk. On it a bowl of wax flowers, a carriage clock, a ledger and a brass hand bell. Nate walked up to the desk and inspected the wax flowers. They looked odd. Not only were they obviously false but they looked like a replica of a child’s drawing as opposed to a facsimile of reality. As if the modeler had sculpted the flowers from a second hand description instead of an actual viewing. Nate realized that the artist had probably never seen a real flower. This caused him to wonder when he actually had. He delved into his memory and flashes of green came to him. Lush woodlands, meadows covered in wild flowers, clean white snow. Herds of cattle. He shook his head in confusion but before he could dwell on the images, a woman entered the room from a door behind the reception desk. ‘Can I help?’ She rasped. Her voice a gravely stage whisper.
Nate looked up from the pretend flowers. The woman was tall and thin, her hair pulled back into a gray bun on her head. She wore a set of eyeglasses that were so thick that her eyes appeared to bulge from their sockets like a fish with pop-eye disease.
Nathaniel smiled at her and bowed. ‘Indeed you can, my lady,’ he said. ‘I am looking for a room for a few days, do you have any vacancies?’
She simpered and smiled back, her mouth a nightmare of pink, shrunken gums and broken, black stained enamel. ‘I have a free room, sir. One of our best. Running water, a fireplace and gas lighting. It even has a window looking out onto the street.’
‘How much?’ Enquired Nate.
‘Two steels a night, minimum three nights, payable in advance.’
Nate took six steel units from his pouch and laid them on the desk. ‘Is there a bath?’
‘I can have one brought up to the room, sir. That will be another steel.’
Nathaniel placed another unit onto the desk. ‘Thank you, my lady. Please do so.’
She smiled again and handed Nate a large brass key. ‘It’s up the steps, third floor, first door on your left.’
‘My lady,’ said Nathaniel as he bowed again and left to find his room.
He was pleasantly surprised; the room contained a single bed, two wooden chairs and a table, a cavernous fireplace and a large, filthy window that allowed a dirt-obscured view of the street below. The walls had probably been white or cream at some stage but were now a nicotine color, stained from the sulfur given off by the fumes emitted from the ever-burning, low grade sea-coal. But, apart from that, the room was clean and vermin free and much larger than the few square feet of living space that Nate had occupied onboard the Gwendolyn.
He stood at the window for a while, staring at the murky atmosphere outside and attempted to draw out his past memories. But the harder that he tried the less he seemed to recall, as the flashes of memory slithered away from him, parting like shoals of fish before a predator. He glanced again at the pink scar on the back of his hand. The flattened number 8, and wondered where he had gotten it.
Eventually a knock on the door disturbed his ruminations.
‘Come,’ he instructed.
The door opened and a man carried a steel hipbath into the room and put it in front of the fireplace. He was followed by a boy pushing a large wheeled contraption that turned out to be a portable boiler. The boy stoked the furnace until the boiler started to hiss and splutter, then he opened a valve to flood the bath full of steaming water.
The man placed a cake of soap on the side of the bath and laid a large towel on the bed, then the two of them doffed their caps and left the room.
Nathaniel stripped off his Shieldman battle gear, laid it out on the bed next to the towel and carefully lowered himself into the hot water.
It was the first bath that he had come across since he had awoken so many weeks ago and it felt like bliss as the heat soothed his tired muscles and stiff tendons. Unfortunately the air in the room now stank of coal smoke from the boiler but it was a small price to pay for the luxury of a bath full of hot, clean water. After soaking for a few minutes he took the soap and washed his hair and beard before standing up and lathering himself. By the time that he had rinsed off, the water was the color of weak tea and the bar of soap had been worn down to half its original size.
He stepped out of the bath and toweled himself down before dressing and leaving the room. He took the key but didn’t bother locking the door as his axe was his only possession and he carried that with him at all times.
Once he was out on the street he simply wandered aimlessly for a while, partly looking for a place to eat but also simply sightseeing. After an hour of walking he decided that he had seen enough. The citadel was a dingy, filthy nest of humanity. Visibility was such that neither the end of
the street nor the tops of the buildings could be seen with any clarity. As well as that, the consistency of the smog meant that, no matter what time of day it was, it appeared to be twilight.
Nate started to become irritable, he found his mask restricting and he had to constantly wipe his goggles as the coal dust settled on the lenses obscuring his already foreshortened vision.
He glanced up at a particularly lurid stained glass sign that read “Food” and decided that perhaps a good meal would take the edge off the squalid morass of the city that these people called home.
He pushed the front door open and entered a small waiting area that seemed to act as some type of airlock between the city and the interior. There was a hiss of expelled air and he felt the rush of a fresh, uncontaminated breeze flood the chamber, then the second door opened.
He walked through into a brightly lit, high ceilinged room filled with long tables and benches. A girl of about sixteen approached him.
‘Looking for a seat, sir?’
Nathaniel nodded and she ushered him to the end of one of the tables.
‘What’s on the menu?’ Enquired Nate.
The girl laughed and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Why, sir’ she exclaimed. ‘You are funny.’ She grabbed a mug and a stone jug from a serving table next to where Nate was seated and she placed it in front of him. ‘Two steels, sir. Water is included.’
Nathaniel took out two steel units and handed them over. The serving girl rushed off and was back in under a minute with a large bowl that she set down. Nate stared at it.
Soy protein porridge.
With a deep sigh he shoveled it down, chasing each bland mouthful with a slug of tepid water. As soon as he finished he rose from the bench and headed back to his room, hoping that things might look better after a full ten hours of uninterrupted sleep.
But it was not to be.
Chapter 6
The steam driven buggy labored up the steep hill as it headed deeper into the interior of the citadel. Nate stared out of the grimy passenger window and watched the world go by.
When he had got back to his room there had been a messenger waiting for him. The messenger had been accompanied by two heavily armed guards and he had instructed Nathaniel to follow him to the buggy.
When he had asked why, the messenger had simply told him that he had to attend a meeting.
Nate wasn’t concerned that he was in any danger because they had let him keep his axe, and he assumed that they would have surely disarmed him if he was being taken in for any nefarious reason.
After a while the buggy pulled up outside a massive, senatorial looking building, complete with marble pillars, gargoyles and huge steel-riveted doors.
The messenger alighted and beckoned for Nathaniel to follow him. They walked up to the front door where the messenger pushed a large brass button on the door. He heard a hiss of steam and then a whistle sounded inside the building. After a minute or so the door was opened by a man dressed in a black suit. He bowed as Nate and the messenger walked in and then he closed the door behind them.
The interior of the building was even more impressive than the outside. High, vaulted ceilings, polished marble floors and a sweeping staircase that dominated the center of the hall. The messenger mounted the stairs and Nate followed. At the top of the flight of stairs was a long corridor that stretched into the distance. They walked for what seemed like ages but was probably only a minute or so and when they reached the end of the corridor the messenger ushered Nathaniel into a small, bare room and closed the door. He heard the turning of a key as the door was locked, trapping him inside.
Nate circled the small room a couple of times but there was nothing much to look at. The walls were clad in steel plate, the floor was stone and there were two doors, the one that he had entered through and another on the opposite side of the room. The second door had no handle. Nate gave it a push, found it to be locked and so he simply stood at ease in the center of the room and waited.
After half an hour the second door hissed open. Nate didn’t move, electing instead to stand his ground and see what happened.
Eventually a voice called from within.
‘Enter.’
Nate adjusted his axe on his belt and walked in, senses on high alert.
The room was large and sparely furnished. A floor to ceiling window looked out onto the street below and gas lights were ensconced behind smoked glass panels, filling the area with a gentle, diffuse light.
The walls were lined with book filled shelves and a large desk sat in the center of the room. Behind it stood an eight foot pole, supported by a trio of sturdy legs and angled slightly backwards. In front of the desk, another two such poles. They all had leather padding wrapped around them.
A man stood at the window. Nate guessed him to be almost two feet taller than he was, meaning that he topped out at around eight feet tall. Probably the tallest man that he had ever seen.
The man wore snug fitting white clothing that accentuated his svelte build and disproportionally long arms and legs. His hair was pure white and it hung straight down his back reaching almost to his belt.
He remained looking out of the window, not acknowledging Nathaniel in any way.
The marine decided that two could play that game and he stood at military ease, hands behind his back, fingers extended, thumbs interlocked and eyes straight ahead.
After a few minutes of silence the man turned. And it became immediately apparent that he was not human.
Like his hair, his face was pure white, his eyes shone with a silver light and his gray lips were slightly parted, revealing two rows of needle-sharp, shining silver teeth. His appearance was decidedly alien.
He held out his hand and walked towards Nathaniel, his gait oddly disjointed, like a bird, falling forward with each step only to recover just before he unbalanced. He held his hand out as he approached.
‘Greetings,’ he said. ‘And welcome to the hero of Cutter’s Pass.’
His voice was deep and strangely modulated with a metallic timbre to it. Almost electronic.
Nathaniel shook the proffered hand but said nothing. The alien’s grip was strong but gentle, the skin smooth and the flesh like hard rubber. Nate could feel the strength behind the grasp. In fact he could feel that the being was deliberately holding back so as not to crush the marine’s hand.
‘So, Mister Hogan,’ continued the alien. ‘It is said that you killed a hundred Untouchables with your bare hands and laughed while you did so.’
‘It was only thirty,’ responded the marine, his face impassive. ‘I had an axe. And I never laugh when I kill.’
‘Still,’ he said. ‘A very rare feat.’ He stared at Nate for a few seconds. ‘You are different. I see power. Much power. Where are you from?’
‘Here and there,’ replied Nathaniel. ‘Nowhere, everywhere. And you?’
The alien smiled at Nate’s familiarity. ‘Somewhere else,’ he responded. ‘My name is Grah Alou. I am the chief Highman of the citadel of Sanfrisco.’
Nate raised an eyebrow. ‘A Highman. Cool. So, mister Alou, why did you call me here?’
A flicker of annoyance sped over the Highman’s face. ‘I shall get straight to the point then, Mister Hogan. I wish to promote you to Senior Hammerman.’
‘Why?’
‘Why not? After all, you are the Hero of Cutter’s Pass.’
‘To what purpose then?’ Insisted Nate. ‘Not even sure what a Hammerman is.’
The Highman stared at him again and Nathaniel struggled not to look away. The alien didn’t blink and his silver eyes seemed to bore into one’s very soul. He could feel waves of power emanating from the Highman and the urge to prostrate himself before the alien being was almost overwhelming.
However, with a great effort of will Nathaniel stood straight and held the Highman’s gaze without flinching.
Alou smiled and Nate could see that he was impressed.
‘Of late the Untouchables have become a problem. The in
cident at Cutter’s Pass is not an isolated one. In fact our convoys are being attacked on a regular basis. It is becoming inconvenient. Their constant attacks are harming the trade routes, they become more brazen every year. Their birth rates seem to be rising and, to be frank, I am worried that, unless we do something to thin their numbers we may soon be facing a force that would prove to be very difficult to stop.’
‘I am but one man,’ responded Nathaniel.
‘Yes, that is true,’ conceded the Highman. ‘But you are also a great warrior. And great warriors are, as I have already said, a rare breed indeed.’
‘One incident does not a warrior make,’ argued Nathaniel. ‘I may simply have been lucky.’
Alou smiled and his silver teeth glistened in the gaslight. ‘Luck is its own skill,’ he said. ‘But it takes more than luck to achieve what you did and we both know that.’
Nathaniel continued to stay at ease, standing with a parade ground stance. Unmoving.
‘It could be a very lucrative appointment,’ stated Alou.
‘Keep talking.’
Once again a look of irritation flashed across the Highman’s face but he quelled his feelings before they registered fully.
‘We pay a silver unit per proven kill. If you accept the appointment I would pay you for the thirty that you dispatched at Cutter’s Pass. That’s fifteen gold units. Enough to kit yourself out handsomely with a horse, armor and a good set of pneumatic weapons, plus much left over for carousing.’
‘I thought that I killed a hundred at Cutter’s Pass,’ said Nathaniel. Even as he did so he wondered why he was riding this Highman so hard. There was just something about him that made the marine’s hackles rise and he simply couldn’t stop himself being deliberately insolent. He grinned in an effort to soften his impertinence.