PATCHER

by Martin Kee

  Veerh pauses. “Shouldn’t there be more people?”

  He’s right. Bex looks around. Nothing moves except for the dust blown across the walkway. A few insects have set up nests in crevices along the wall and in the orifices of the statues, flying out of a nose or an eye.

  “Maybe we just showed up at a bad time,” she says, stepping towards the unguarded gates that stand between them and the massive dome in the distance.

  Veerh’s hand stops her. “I wouldn’t.”

  “You said you wanted to see the Matron. I want to see the Matron.”

  “I worked the gates of the village for years,” Veerh says. “Even a village that small we had guards. This place is deserted or worse.”

  “But—”

  “If there was something to guard, then maybe they’d have somebody here. A Preserver or another Tender. Look around, Bex. There’s nobody here. You know what sort of building you post no guards around? An abandoned one.”

  Bex looks around. Maybe he’s right. The place seems empty, deserted. Bex almost gives in to his pessimism, then pushes past it. “We have to see for ourselves.”

  The gate opens easily, making a slow, ancient creak, grinding sand and grit as it swings. Scrub and trash weed has overgrown much of the walkway, sprouting up between cracks and fissures as they step between columns and massive ivory horns. Bones line the structure, tribute to the fallen animals that have passed through the gates. It’s a museum to some, a place where things can be appreciated, learned. But learning is a luxury now, the museum nothing but a hoarder’s trove. Now leaves blow across the walkway.

  The paddocks are empty, the breeding labs, the holding stables. Gone. All the animals, all the specimens, all the samples and stock.

  “It’s been completely cleaned out,” she says, hearing Veerh and Bindo enter behind her. Bindo nuzzles her hand and she pets him. Veerh moves past her and inspects the great circular floor.

  “Recently too, by the looks of it,” he grumbles. “There are wheel tracks here and what looks like fresh kills in the corner over there.” He points to where the stone is wet and dark. Chains hang with damp hooks, curved blades along the floor, the smell of blood and death.

  Bex can feel her hands shake. “How could anyone have done this?”

  “Pretty easily it seems.”

  “But… how the temple… the guild hall was sacred.” She walks over to the great throne where the guild Matron would have sat, overseeing the new emergent discoveries. This was where Bex would have brought her egg. This is where she should have brought Scoop.

  Instead the egg is gone and Scoop is gone, and now that girl is dead because of me. I went into the wrong career.

  “How could anyone do this?” she asks, trying to quell the rising fear. She feels as if someone has reached into her chest and gripped her heart. “Why would anyone attack the guild hall, the Tenders’ Guild of all places?”

  “Who says they attacked it?” Veerh says.

  She turns to him. He stands over a small platform where eviscerations would have taken place. He holds up a broken tool then puts it down.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said: What makes you think anyone attacked anything?”

  It’s one thing to have him tell her she sucks at her job, or even that she was incompetent as a Patcher. That’s something she can accept. It wasn’t a job she’d signed up for, only the job she fell into. But this is sacrilege.

  “Are you suggesting that the Matron simply surrendered?”

  “Do you see much of a fight?” he asks. “Do you see evidence of scripts burned? Bodies flayed? Arrows, darts, and spears lying about? Broken bone blades where Tender guards clashed with—with whoever was here? Assuming anyone was here at all.”

  “They would never surrender,” Bex says. “Theirs is a sacred duty. They’d never lay down their weapons.”

  “I’m saying that maybe they never were attacked in the first place. Look at the shelves, the tool drawers. They packed up and moved. Nobody attacked them. Your Matron didn’t surrender. She sold out.”

  Chapter 29

  KENDAL FINDS it difficult not to think of the tablet as they hike. He expects Chaz to mention it, but that moment never happens. As they set up camp, Kendal waits for Chaz to set up and leave—presumably to torture more small animals—so that he can look at the device in private. The wait seems to take forever.

  “Gonna go hunt for food,” Chaz says. “Watch the camp?”

  “Sure.”

  Chaz flashes that smile and limps off. Kendal waits, listening to the recession of footsteps. He forces himself to count down from a hundred just to make sure Chaz is well out of range before pulling the device from the backpack.

  He holds it as if it were a precious gem. It feels cool in his hands. Kendal stares, marveling at this technology that doesn’t exist anywhere for light years. This is the sort of thing you’d show medieval knights to make them think you were a god—or kill you as a witch. Either way, it’s undeniable just how strangely magical such a mundane thing seems now. Even more amazing is that this is possibly the last one he’ll ever see.

  Not unless Chaz really does have a plan. Of course, Chaz could be full of shit. Kendal is well aware of that possibility. But Kendal isn’t sure Chaz would even keep him around if there wasn’t a possibility the plan would work. Suppose there is a low-orbit beacon out there, waiting for a signal. What then? How long does the signal take to reach a probe? A ship? How long before they change course? Ten years? Fifty years? What’s the point of being rescued when there’s not much time left to enjoy the freedom anyway?

  He gives the device a few solid minutes in the diffused sunlight before turning it on. Even at full power during the day, it’s still a drain on the battery and the tablet is clearly using more energy than it gains from the weak, diffused sunlight.

  Despite the fact that he would like to read a comic book or even an old classic, he’s drawn to the VIDEO and PHOTO folders which seem to have the most recently updated files in them.

  The PHOTO folder falls under ownership of V.P. which he assumes is Valerie, the woman he never met. Inside he finds clusters of photos, the sort one might find in social media spools: parties, walks on the beach, sunsets, a calico cat staring up into the camera with mild curiosity, horses, more beaches, seashells. It’s the sort of thing his friends used to always post, the pictures he’d scroll past, Like, Upvote, Friend, He4rt, Plus-1, all the while wishing it was him on the beach, or rock climbing.

  There was a time when he had follow Jess’s pictures. She used to go out with friends, go dancing. She’d accepted his connection request, but he was always afraid she’d think he was weird if he actually Liked any of her pictures.

  Looking through Jess’s pictures was a lot like looking through the window of some strange alternate reality with Jess, always laughing, dancing, playing music. Jess always smiled in her pictures, always happy it seemed. He wonders now how many other pictures never got taken, the ones where she was crying, or sitting alone, thinking. But then, those sites were never for anything other than showing off your highlights.

  He skips to the next cluster marked FAREWELL. The first image is a white cake with Congratulations! We’ll miss you! printed on it in blue frosting.

  Valerie is a petite woman, in her late twenties—dark wavy hair, glasses, a tasteful honey bee tattoo on her neck, smart business suit. Professional. She stands over the cake surrounded by people and a man at her side. Chaz. It takes Kendal a moment to recognize the guy without his beard, but the eyes are undeniably his. Valerie smiles, hugs, kisses, laughs, blows out the candles, cuts the cake—with Chaz holding her hand—and it’s like watching wedding photos. Captions like Off to your new life and Best of luck on your journey and We’ll never forget trail underneath each picture as he scans through.

  They knew in a way this was a death sentence for her as well, Kendal thinks. They knew they’d never see her again. Her parents giving her away not only to Chaz, but to
the void of space, tears in their eyes, pride on their faces. One picture shows her mother crying and hugging her. There’s her father in a heart-to-heart conversation with Chaz in the background.

  He wonders if they’ve received the news of the Luxemburg’s demise yet, or if that information is still traveling at the speed of light, being routed and rerouted before it reaches Earth. How old will they be when it reaches them? Eighty? Ninety? Will there even be anyone alive to learn of her fate? Or will her legacy simply be that of hopeful absence, a woman off to see her destiny as the people back home clap their hands together and move on with their lives?

  She’s nothing but a memory now. We all are.

  He finds more photos of her and Chaz in the album, pictures of them walking along a beach, holding hands. He skips back to the VIDEO folder. There’s a short video entry just of her, looking into the camera.

  “I know this is sort of frowned upon,” she says. “I just wanted to take a personal diary of this little adventure—It feels naughty, knowing that this secret journal is going with all the other contraband. Chaz doesn’t even know it’s here, but he says nobody looks in the storage once we leave. So I think it’ll be safe…”

  Kendal skips through the videos.

  Valerie had an implant, different from Chaz’s implant. Hers was one of those retinal capture devices, makes it easier to scan documents and file legal paperwork. They were also handy for making home movies, streaming the data directly into a personal device, the same device Kendal holds in his hands now.

  He’s looking at Chaz, sitting in a lounge chair, waiting for the shuttle that takes them all up to the Luxemburg. Chaz is clean cut, short hair, large, confident chin, sharp eyes—a little less crazy than now, but they still have that intensity. Shuttles and movers float along the windows in the background.

  Valerie: Say it again.

  Chaz: Why, you recording?

  Valerie: Maybe.

  Chaz: Fine. Okay look. Remember how we said we never actually had to get married, and I was an ass about it.

  Valerie: Yes. You were an ass.

  Chaz: Well, I wanted the time to be right. We talked about it and I told you I wanted it to be special. We’re starting our life together anyway, but on another world. I want it to be there, so we can celebrate the destination, not the launch.

  Valerie: That’s not what you said.

  Chaz: Oh yeah?

  [Valerie giggles in the background]

  Chaz: What did I say?

  Valerie: You said that your life is ending anyway, so might as well get hitched.

  Chaz: Well, you have a better way with words.

  Valerie: You just said, like, the nicest thing ever. Now you’re taking that all back?

  Chaz: How many drinks have we had?

  [Valerie laughing]

  Chaz: I mean, this isn’t a vacation. The corporation’s going to wonder why we love our jobs so much.

  Valerie: Just tell them you feel lucky.

  Chaz: Well, I do.

  A boy walks by, tall, gawky. Kendal realizes with a jolt that it’s him. He sees himself with his duffel bag, passport and ID in hand as he checks in. It’s impressive, he thinks, how he doesn’t even look all that nervous. But then, this is a corporate flight, not a commercial flight. It’s not like people take these journeys to hijack and blow up corporate shuttles the way they do with commercial craft. If it were an intercontinental flight, he’d be patted down, blood-scanned, face-scanned, finger-printed, and X-rayed. Instead he just checks in and sits down while Valerie and Chaz flirt in the foreground. It’s such a distraction he almost misses the conversation. But it’s over before he can backtrack.

  Footsteps.

  He shoves the device back into the bag as Chaz hikes up over the rocks, panting and huffing. He stops before reaching Kendal, taking a few labored breaths from the mask.

  “Boy, the air here… it’s really thin and deceptive, isn’t it? You don’t realize it until… you over exert yourself.” Chaz walks to his side of the camp and collapses, grabbing a canteen and drinking from it in great gulps. “At least there’s water.”

  “Did you find anything to eat?” Kendal asks.

  “Naw. Things don’t get up this high in case you haven’t noticed.” Chaz takes another drink, wipes his mouth. “Not even any birds.”

  “Yeah.” Kendal looks at the backpack again, thinking about those pictures. “How did she die?”

  Chaz looks up, surprised. “Who? Val?”

  “Yeah.”

  He looks back down at his feet, his face a mix of emotions. “Those—whatever they are. The natives.”

  “They killed her?”

  He nods. “Ragdolls took her down. She had gone out to get some water and I was sleeping. I heard a noise, woke up, followed it and discovered they had her—well, they don’t take any captives.”

  “Sorry.”

  Chaz waves the comment away and drinks more from the canteen. When he’s done, he wipes his face and Kendal thinks it’s like he’s wiping the grief away.

  “It’s history. People die. The universe is indifferent, I’ve decided. If that’s your word for God, He’s indifferent as well. I couldn’t tell you if Val prayed there at the end, but he sure didn’t give a shit.” Another cloud passes over his face. “I just wish I’d been able to keep her ring. They even took that.” He gestures at the backpack. “I appreciate you carrying her load, honestly, Kendal. I haven’t really had the nerve to look through it. Too many memories. That, and my implant just brings everything up, screaming that I haven’t backed up to storage.”

  Kendal decides it’s time to change the subject. “Are we still headed in the right direction?”

  “What?”

  “The ship. Are we still headed in the right direction?”

  “As near as I can tell, yeah.”

  “Have you gotten a ping from the ship in a while?”

  Chaz opens up with that grin again. It’s a feral, defensive look, breaking white and wide in a forest of beard. “What’s with all the questions all of a sudden?”

  “Nothing. I just wondered.”

  “We’re going the right direction,” he says. “Just do your job and I’ll do mine.”

  Chapter 30

  AK’KLIN PACES the great hall, watching his feet on the marble floor. One of these tiles could fund his troop on expeditions across the continent and here he is thousands of them. Disgusting.

  That’s the problem with the aristocracy, with royalty. Too many generations in and they forget that all things come from something. Now they are like blind old men, grasping with greedy birth-hands at the nearest resource. Far be it from Ak’klin to involve himself in politics, but it infuriates him sometimes at the blatant inequality. People in his old village go starving, eating their own limbs for sustenance and the lords and barons here eat their fill off the backs of people who slave to carry the food to them.

  He’s had time to think. Too much time. Since the Court Patcher fixed him up months ago with a few new grafts here and there—“Compliments of the Ameer. He appreciates all you have done!”—he’s had hours of restless sleep and recuperation to think about the politics buzzing through the royal corridors.

  “If the Deep King pushes out East again, the Ameer worries we won’t have the army ready in time.”

  “Isn’t that the point of recruiting?”

  “Hard to recruit when people cut off their own limbs to avoid fighting.”

  “So strap swords to their backs.”

  “It’s bad enough the lords won’t back him anymore, without sufficient resource contracts.”

  “You think they’ll join the Deep King.”

  “He does have substantial coffers, but they’d never betray the Ameer. Not with the kingdom watching. Unless there was a coup—”

  “Cut off your mouth for such speech. People know the Ameer is a smart man. He’ll think of something.” Voices lower. “I hear the poachers have signed on to work for him specifically.”
/>   “They’re part of the problem if you ask me. Razing the land of every living resource.”

  “You weren’t complaining when they fed your mercantile coffers a year ago.”

  “That was a year ago. What have they brought in since? Aside from those strange emergent creatures.”

  “The giants? Have you not seen one?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Impressive monsters. Huge teeth, long limbs. And the strength! You could load one up with cannons and still have room to wield axes. They can push over a building, uproot trees.”

  “What makes you think the Deep King doesn’t have something like this as well?”

  “I trust our spies. They say that the Deep King doesn’t even know of them yet. He’ll be in for a surprise if he tries to move in to our resource borders.”

  “You’re assuming the kingdom has any resources left to share.”

  “Shh. I hear someone.”

  And then Ak’klin would appear and the advisors would already be scurrying away, robes in hand. Except for that one. Milm. The subservient, obsequious one. He would always stay a little longer, always linger until he made eye contact with Ak’klin, always letting the poacher know that Milm knew Ak’klin would been listening. If he didn’t know any better, Ak’klin would suspect the advisor wanted him to hear it all. He was not a man to trust. Smart, clever. Perhaps a man to do business with, but only from one end of a spear. Certainly not a friend.

  Ak’klin never felt he belonged in the city. And yet, here he is.

  He bends to look at a broken section of tile. Reaching down, he wedges a finger between the shards to see if it’s loose.

  “You won’t get it free,” says a voice behind him. Ak’klin straightens and sees the advisor waiting in the shadows. How long has he been there?

  “You need better maintenance.”

  “And you need better manners.” Milm steps forward. “I invite you here on behalf of the Ameer, and you try to walk off with the palace itself?” He smiles.