There was only one way to find out.
“Target one is in range,” Cherry said, but he already knew.
Nolan raised his rifle in the prone position, took aim, and fired. The driver of the first Loop lost his head in a shower of gore that streaked back from his body. The Loop began to wobble, then bit into the rocky ground with a towering spray of dust, grit, and moss.
Before the others could react, Nolan’s second shot was on the way. This time, the ground was not a friend to his aim. An unseen dip under the moss lowered the Loop. . The round went over the driver’s head and tore into the spinning interior band a meter behind their chair. The effect was astonishing, with bright metal and sparks erupting from the Loop, which came apart in a kaleidoscopic unraveling that sent the driver hurtling forward into a boulder. His body folded inward, spraying blood in a halo of scarlet mist, and like that, Nolan was down to one target, one driver, and one thought.
The driver bailed out at full speed, rolling with the grace of a cat as the Loop sped on with uncomfortable accuracy. Right at Nolan.
“Can he steer that thing into me?” Nolan asked.
“Looks like it. Better make a plan—but don’t jump. He’s pulling a weapon,” Cherry said, and a momentary focus of his augmented eye told him she was right. The rider, clad in dark leather and a mirrored helmet, was already aiming in Nolan’s general direction despite being a bit wobbly from rolling across the ground, but then he dropped to the ground again, pulled a small mirror, and angled it toward the star.
“I don’t think so,” Nolan said.
The rider was less than a hundred meters away, but downslope and sheltered by a boulder festooned with lichens. When he lifted the mirror again, Nolan understood.
“The bastard’s trying to send a signal,” Nolan hissed.
That meant two things—he didn’t have radio or a ’net, and he wasn’t alone. Nolan sent a round through the back of the rider’s hand. The mirror shattered, and a high wail of pain split the air as he began to turn. The fight wasn’t out of him yet, despite having lost most of his left hand.
Nolan began a sinuous descent, fast and erratic, and the rider—still mad enough to fight—fired twice with a pistol. Both rounds caromed away into the clear air, and then Nolan was vaulting his hiding place and grabbing the rider’s vest collar. With a savage jerk, Nolan tore him upward, a look of shock and horror on the man’s angular face as they began to roll downslope, Nolan’s right arm rising and falling like a piston as his fist crunched ribs into powder. The man tried to yell, coughed, and tried again, this time spraying Nolan with spit and dust as they slammed into another rock some thirty meters down the incline.
The rider’s hand was a ruin, and the pistol was gone, spun away in the fall. He grabbed for Nolan’s face, got an ear, and succeeded in scratching a long, shallow gouge as the two men broke free in a torrent of cursing.
Mounting his chest, Nolan pinned the rider, then slapped him with a cold anger. His brown eyes narrowed in pain, but he rounded his lips to spit in Nolan’s face, and Nolan slapped him again, hard enough to ring his bell. The rider slumped, the urge to fight back leaving him as Nolan tightened his powerful thighs around the ribs that were already shattered. The effect was instant. The rider began to wheeze in raw agony.
“Who were you signaling?” Nolan asked.
All the man did was shake his head, and for an instant, Nolan wondered if they had a language barrier.
“How long have you been on Janusia?” Nolan’s tone was like iron.
Again, the rider shook his head, but there was a flicker of something at the use of the name Janusia. Interesting.
“The prick understands you, all right,” Cherry said.
Yup, Nolan answered.
“Okay, last chance. You came for me, guns out, and now—”
“We came for the wreck, idiot. Not for you. Didn’t even know you were here,” he grated. His voice was deep but rough. Nolan’s weight on him couldn’t help his singing voice, so—
Nolan eased up but pulled his pistol and put the barrel to the man’s exposed temple. The rider’s eyes went round with true, naked fear. Cold metal works wonders, especially when applied to the head of someone who has valuable information.
The rider’s eyes cut to the gun, then back to Nolan, who raised a brow as an invitation to talk. The man sighed. The fight in him was well and truly gone.
“Came for the wreck,” he said.
“Yeah, I got that part. What about the others? Scouts? Raiders? How many and who the fuck are you people?” Nolan asked. “People of the Clock, right? Bit melodramatic for my taste, but at least you didn’t call yourselves the Supreme Order of Evil or some bullshit like that.”
“They’re not evil,” the man said.
“They? You mean they as in not me, but a different group of people who kill other people? Like that kind of they?” Nolan asked.
“Yeah, like that. We’re the scouts. We scout things, find things. Sometimes we break trails, but we don’t kill people. Usually,” the rider said.
“Ahh. Usually. That’s quite a distinction. Ever think that sometimes killing people means you’re a killer? Never mind, we’ll save that for another time. As I was saying, where are your others? These friends of yours who don’t usually kill people?” I asked. When he hesitated, Nolan pushed the pistol forward, just to refresh his memory.
“Across the plain. Not sure. Not my team, and the client didn’t tell us everything. We only know so much when we’re hired, and this time was like any other.”
“Except for the killing part,” Nolan pointed out helpfully.
“Except for that.” He grimaced, and his face went slack.
“We’re not done yet. I need to know—oh, shit.” A massive red stain began to color the ground next to them, flooding from his left side to just below the armpit. A small hole in his vest told the story—a mirror fragment, probably in his lung, and that was it. He was dead.
“So now I’m a killer,” Nolan mumbled, and there was more sadness there than he imagined possible. It—murder—wasn’t his natural setting, and especially not up close and personal, where it hit harder.
Nolan rolled to the side, watching the man’s still face, then he began to search him. He pulled two knives, a tool kit, and everything else of value from the corpse, because the rider would have done exactly the same thing.
Nolan lifted his head, sniffing, then spotted smoke spiraling skyward across the plain.
“Cherry, I think we found the other scouts.”
Drone Download: Report 2
Nolan felt the tickle of contact, even in his relaxed state. Proceed.
Regent Corra survived the attack. Political situation uncertain. There is a curious lack of knowledge about technology in general. The population is subject to war, infighting, and power struggles centered around control of the river transportation system.
Who built the system? Nolan asked. This drone was Jack, collecting data far to the north from Diane’s position.
Unknown. The system is primitive, being comprised of cables, pulleys, and lines that do not register after examination with spectrograph.
Can you secure a sample? An unknown material meant money, and Nolan liked money. He liked answers more, though, on his shipwrecked home.
Attempt was made, but the material can not be cut or debrided with any tool I possess. There is an archaic form of government surrounding the system. The Cabler’s Guild appear to be disliked by many, if not all, of the other organizations.
Interesting. Guilds were a lot like organized crime, but with better branding. Command: find out why the river area is devoid of most technology. Top priority.
Understood. Do you want continued video?
Yes. Got one?
Playing now.
The video came to life inside Nolan’s eye, a sweeping image of the river—huge beyond comprehension, and the cable, and what looked like waterwheels turned sideways, spinning and throwing spray in the early
morning light. Barges of all shapes and sizes plowed through the current, pulled inexorably by the taut cable.
Then Nolan saw the men on the island. It was a small island, no larger than some transport ships he’d been on, capped with low trees and a stone building—out of the outer wall, the massive waterwheel rotated, it’s spokes some twenty meters across. A small barge was tied to the dock—or at least, its captain was attempting to loop a line over one of the mossy green posts. He was a hulking man with a sword in his belt, arms akimbo and a sneer on his wide, ugly face.
Enlarge that man, Jack.
Done.
The scene drew closer, and in the few seconds of video, Nolan saw a sailor, a dock boss, and one of the oldest hustles in the galaxy. A bribe. A shakedown.
Crime.
Nolan’s lips twitched, and he exhaled deeply. A tale as old as time. This, I recognize.
Shall I continue to record guild members like this?
Not unless they’re in your path. Command as follows: find out who rules each area, compile names and alliances if possible. And highest priority on this, but find out why no one knows about spaceships. Or the galaxy. Or—hell, find out why they live like medieval peasants, okay, Jack?
Command is clear. I will find out.
Good. And Jack, one more thing. Stay out of sight. Not all of them might be unaware of our presence.
Jack sent the electronic equivalent of a nod. It was a limited AI, but within that framework, damned smart. Understood.
Princeling
“You reek of animals.” Count Vondaar Marlivay sniffed as Marchwarden Balant came to a halt, looming over the boy like a wall of muscle.
“Incorrect, lordling. I reek of plants and life, two things to be found in abundance if you were to visit one of the greenhouses.” Balant granted the petulant whelp a chilly smile, brushing dirt from the sleeve of his hide jerkin. Despite the cold, his bulging arms were left bare to the winter, pink but none the worse for wear because he was a North’r, and frigid weather was his natural habitat. He towered over the slender Count, each muscle straining against his casual battle gear, which he never removed. Ever vigilant, the North’s chief soldier was always armed, always ready, and never in the mood for the whining presence of a teenager who thought far too highly of himself for the Marchwarden’s tastes.
Peering down under his black brows, he fixed Vondaar with a pair of icy eyes that missed nothing, but the boy had some steel in his sickly body, along with a clever mind and boundless ambition. His parents were much the same, but Venessa and Turgos were banished a year earlier for behavior that went far beyond the simple machinations of parents who wanted their child to wear a crown. If Balant was honest with himself, the Marlivay family seemed like performers, their roles that of social climbers with endless ambition and no morals. Cloaked in secrets, Venessa and Turgos only secured a place at court for their son because he was too weak to travel, and thus, no threat to the stability of the Snow Kingdom.
Balant regretted that decision daily, waiting for Corra to return and, with the guidance of her parents, assume a seamless transition of power so the north could continue as always, holding back the winter with walls of glass and stone and endless hard work. The frigid mountains were no place for humanity, unless you counted the North’r, who fed their empire from an array of long, low greenhouses that filled ancient stream beds along the face of the soaring peaks. Covered by roofs made of colored glass, each was a work of art, with thousands of small panes fused to metal, creating a kaleidoscopic riot of sunlight. Hundreds of greenhouses dotted the mountains, filled with crops, and fruit trees, and even ponds where fish and prawns grew to maturity under the watchful eye of seasoned experts.
Outside in the howling winter were the herders and their impossibly large beasts, fur so thick that only their eyes were visible, and even those were covered by membranes that could protect the animals in the most severe weather imaginable. The rock cattle, horndalls, and lethal razorbeaks provided the North’r with meat, milk, and fur.
The beasts provided, but at great cost, for their bounty was not free.
Herders were killed each season, thrown from the peaks by their beasts, frozen in storms, or even eaten by the razorbeaks, who were far from domesticated but too important to exterminate. A single clutch of unfertilized eggs could feed a family for weeks, so the brave herders risked life and limb to keep a relative peace between themselves and the snapping bills of birds that were twice the height of a man. Despite their enormous size, the relative docility of rock cattle and the leaping horndalls made them more attractive to keep, but less profitable for the kingdom, and only the bravest herders dared work the stony heights with razorbeaks. As such, their families were well paid and even more honored during their infrequent visits to court.
Vondaar sniffed again, unsatisfied by Balant’s explanation. “Birds. Eggs. Rotten peaches. It all smells the same to me. Common.”
“Then you should be right at home with it in your fine nose, lordling, given that you’re little more than a jumped-up cousin to the throne,” Balant replied, grinning broadly. He loved to taunt the irritating boy, though he was far too wise to assume that Vondaar’s family had given up trying to place him on the throne.
Privately, he’d long wondered why the scheming rabble hadn’t tried to seize control of the middle kingdom between Snow and Salt, a vast stretch of grasslands and desert without a leader. The Kingdom of Silence was unkind to regents, having deposed no less than six in the past two decades. That kind of instability would keep away Vondaar, who was far too weak for the bruising task of statecraft. Among the nomadic tribes of Silence, he’d be considered an interloper no matter how many gilded lies his parents could spread. As to coin, the Marlivays had precious little, being rich in ambition but poor in all else, including morality and valor.
The last ruler of Silence was in the wind, leaving just ahead of a justiciar determined to hang her for dark sorcery and a dozen other mortal crimes. In the absence of the Desert Witch, Rukisa, the sweeping lands of Silence had fallen once again into open warfare, suspicion, and disorder, though even under her tender care those conditions were always a whisper away. Balant kept troops on alert for incursions from the roaming marauders of Silence, who would ride into Snow for raids designed to peel valuable beasts away from the North’r herds.
Vondaar looked surprised to see Balant still standing in his room, as if his leaving was a foregone conclusion. Everything about the boy was designed to impart an insult to the thick hide of Balant, who watched each imperious gesture with a curled lip.
“Yes, I’m still here,” Balant rumbled, smile growing wider. “My Count.” He leaned against the door frame, eliciting an ominous creak. The wood protested as much as the boy, but Balant wasn’t moved by either, having made his decision to ease from the room only after extracting a measure of enjoyment from the sullen boy’s discomfiture. He wasn’t malicious, but he knew that dangerous creatures needed their nose slapped on occasion, and woe to the soldier who let unchecked enemies gain too much confidence.
The boy stiffened again at such treatment but knew that further argument was pointless when dealing with the brute. Balant simply wouldn’t listen, which removed any tools Vondaar might have at his disposal. The Marlivays were good at talking; it was their primary method of survival. As to doing, their abilities were more modest.
Flushing, Vondaar turned away in dismissal. His room was barely adequate, but that would change once he was inevitably accorded proper respect for his rank and potential, and on that day, he vowed to see Balant turned out into the stony wastes, where he would end up as so much razorbeak scat.
“This isn’t a social call, though I do so relish your company, my fine-boned royal,” Balant added. “You’ve a quarter chime until you’re needed in the firehall. We’ll be toasting the royal marriage as it happens tonight, far to the south in warmer winds.” Turning light on his feet for so large a man, he began toward the tall, iron-bound door, its planks ru
bbed flat by polishing over the centuries. Everything about Sindelaar was old, including the adherence to water chimes powered by a falling stream that ran under the castle stones.
“Fine, I’ll be present, but not unless I’m properly dressed. I’ll meet you there.”
“I’ll be waiting.” Balant’s words were mulish but still curled his lip with pleasure. The Marchwarden could not appear to hesitate with anyone who could be a threat to the throne, regardless of their claim or abilities. Choosing carefully, he’d trust the child to keep his word this time, indicating his decision by flicking the heavy door open to expose the brighter lights of sconces placed along every third stone.
The air was cooler in the hallway, smelling of snow and candlewax, and to Balant’s sensitive nose, baking bread in the distant kitchens. That was incentive enough for him to move, so he made to take his leave before the boy could lash out and ruin what was going to be a day of celebration.
“You’re going in that condition?” Vondaar asked. He stood with a foot turned out, prim and judgmental to his elitist core.
Balant said nothing until the door was swinging closed. “One day you’ll learn that marriage and war often serve the same purpose, and you’ll dress accordingly.”
Vondaar muttered at his back as he vanished. “Don’t they just.”
Nolan
West
The third Loop hadn’t crashed.
It parked itself when the rider bailed, two metal fins extending into the soil like props. It was a meter and a half high, a circle, and the interior chair was deceptively simple, being a sling with stick controls and a small fabric pack for gear. Nolan nudged the vehicle, and it moved easily.
Lost Kingdom: Book 1 in the Lost Kingdom Series Page 6