Fire, Ruin, and Fury (Embers Saga)

by Matthew Taylor

  When Shay shook Dorian awake the next morning, Dorian had only vague recollections of what had happened. He said an ashamed “thank you” and promptly left with Shay.

  “And that was it,” Emily chimed.

  “What do you mean ‘that was it’?”

  “I guess Dorian talked it all out with Shay after that and looked over all our work on the site. He came back the next day and welcomed us more properly. Next day I became his apprentice. Two months after that, our application to move into the township got approved.”

  “Lee and Shay?” Paul asked, knowingly.

  “It just takes time,” Emily repeated with a smile. “I’ll never forget that day. Dorian came by before work, like always. But than he handed each of us a badge and our entry code to the gate and a cottage in Community Sector 7. It’s smaller than what we had back home, but we got steady electricity. Hot water in the winter. And it felt safe.”

  Paul felt guilty about the jealousy that was creeping into his mind.

  “It ain’t perfect, by any stretch” she added. “I mean, for starters, it wasn’t a random accident the way we came up on Dorian in the street.”

  “Dorian’s brilliant and a patient teacher. But he’s prone to bouts of drunkenness and drug-induced disappearances. He’s own survival story, and his own set of scars. Lost his wife to sickness on the trip from Asia. His kids died violently shortly after they arrived in San Francisco. Dorian’s damaged, like pretty much everyone else.

  He took some comfort in pharmas. Ended up with nothin’.”

  Paul shifted in his seat, the faint heat of distrust and anger rising up his neck.

  Despite his addiction, or maybe because of it, Dorian Lee knew that he needed dependable and capable partners if he was to survive for long. His reputation sank his skills, costing him contracts and money and edging him closer to the vicissitudes of life in the Wilds. He sobered up as much as he could and somehow found Shay.

  Emily learned through rumor—Dorian never mentioned it—that he had paid almost everything he had earned with his time with Shay to get Emily and her family their residency passes in Troy Township.

  The small and gentle man with the brown crow’s feet that crinkled with every smile, who had risked and lost everything to cross the ocean, had placed his last gamble on Emily and her family. In exchange for stability and prosperity, they would be his safety net, concealing his stumbles and keeping the business on track.

  Dorian became Emily’s instructor, work companion, and responsibility. He would be her benefactor—and her burden—probably forever.

  Now, sitting in the dirt plaza next to his cousin, choking down another rejection from the township, Paul thought he would willingly accept a burden like Dorian Lee to get his mother and sister into the township. Worksites were temporary, regardless of the promises of follow-on contracts, and the roads between them were harrowing. They were still only a couple of bad turns away from living in the shanties—or returning to the Wilds. Paul’s frustration with the delays in township’s admission was wearing on him. He knew his uncle, Dorian Lee, and Shay were lobbying to get them in. But the idea that Dorian had nearly bankrupted himself to bribe township officials to admit the Goldblooms fueled his pessimism.

  Chapter 19: A Contract

  (Benjamin Holland)

  Ben Holland charged into the garage at the Consortium estate in Albert Lea, his heart racing.

  “On me, people,” he called. His crew dutifully stopped what they were doing and made their way over to take his direction, anxiety and resignation already on their faces. They’d been hoping for another day of much-deserved rest.

  And you haven’t even heard the worst of it, he swallowed.

  Since leaving Sherman’s base almost a week ago, they’d spent hard days in the Wilds. First past Billings, its own emotion challenge for Ben, Billy and Felipe. Then to the construction and church site in Buffalo, Southern Rocky Mountain Territory. Sioux Falls and then Albert Lea. 1,200 miles of noise, mind-numbing boredom, and the demand for constant vigilance taking its toll. Each cargo load of contraband adding to the risks and racking their nerves.

  Now, after only a brief respite, they were off again—an emergency rescue mission and a rush into the jaws of God-knows-what.

  Ben understood his crew’s misgivings all too well. It had been almost three years since he, Felipe, and Billy had joined Farid Sherman’s private army of mercenaries. They had decent food and clean water to drink. Shelter (sometimes). Proper bedding (occasionally). Basic medical care (when necessary). Steady pay. And most importantly, liberation from the sex trade.

  But nothing comes free, and the vagaries of their vocation had left its own psychic scars. Since the day Ben snapped the neck of Sam Kron in the Billings Home for Children—the day they were made re-useful—Ben and his friends had survived more violent episodes than he cared to recall. Shakedowns. Beat-downs. Kidnappings. Assassinations. Shootouts with rival gangs, preppers, and even occasionally territorial militia forces. They had shot their way out of ambushes in the Wilds, and they had cleared Sherman’s booby-traps of their human catch—sometimes delivering a merci-bullet.

  Ben and his friends had made good use of their skills from the orphanage, proving their worth to Sherman whenever vehicles broke down or equipment needed jerry rigging. Accustomed to little, they were low-maintenance workers, and with every mission, they learned more—foraging, stealth, weaponry, camouflage.

  Sherman had taken note of his purchase’s potential, though Ben didn’t realize it until Sean Burger, one of Sherman’s longest-serving captains, cast a menacing barb at him.

  “His new pets usually die in their cages.” Burger was an angry offspring of the badlands. Ben had made a point of avoiding his blood-shot eyes, blackened teeth, and the scowls on his tattooed and leathery face.

  Although the comment sent a shiver up Ben’s spine, it called his attention to the truth of his steady rise through Sherman’s ranks. Sherman had assigned Ben ever larger crews, bigger assignments, and larger bonuses. Even leniency, its own reward given Sherman’s ruthlessness. When Ben lost his first crewmen and retreated from a shootout with the bodyguards of a hit-list target, he expected swift punishment. But it never came. Later he lost two vehicles and five crew members on a routine mission transporting sex workers from the Nautilus in Park City to the Salt Lake City MAC. Again, Sherman’s reaction was muted, almost indifferent.

  Ben now managed three crews, which crisscrossing the Commonwealth, only seldom with bloody objectives. Sometimes just protective details—babysitting Ellies. More often, smuggling trips. That meant miles upon miles on the unforgiving road and the hurried unloading and re-loading of cargo in one shit-hole place or another. But even that was becoming easier as they became familiar faces in the shanties and migrant camps on the routes they frequented. They passed most checkpoints without issue and with minimal bribes.

  At least until this trip. Ben’s convoy had only been through the gates of the Buffalo site, unloading their unmarked crates for their contact, when a group of Territorial Militia troopers encircled them, weapons already locked and loaded.

  Ambushed, Ben sighed. Fuck.

  “No manifest,” their sergeant mused, eyeballing their crates. “Must mean they were never here, eh? Pop one open.”

  Ben struggled to place the face of the sergeant.

  That can’t be Officer Hernandez.

  Hernandez or not, Ben knew that if he went for his weapon, he and his crew would be gunned down on the spot. He also knew better than to open any of Sherman’s crates unless it was part of his orders. This sergeant and his team were here for the spoils, not law enforcement, but there would be no such distinction if Ben’s crew killed a single one of them. So, he offered the sergeant a knowing look and backed away slowly.

  No one wants a shootout here. Not my boss. Not your boss. …And like you said, we were never here. You take the crates, and I’ll take my crew. We’ll be gone before you open the crates—no attribution.r />
  Dissonance fell over the sergeant’s face as Ben took a few more steps back and then nodded to his team to return to their vehicles.

  “You know who that was, right?” said Billy.

  “Couldn’t’ve been him,” Ben replied.

  His heart hung heavy and low in his chest when he called Sherman on the V-plat to give his boss the news. Sherman rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration and let out a deep exasperated breath.

  “A sergeant of the Provincial Militia . . . you’re sure?”

  “He was in uniform,” Ben answered.

  “Alright,” Sherman sighed again. “We’ll send you some mug shots, so you can identify him.”

  Ben looked at Billy, who nodded as if certain.

  “Start with a man named Carmelo Hernandez.”

  “OK. We’ll take care of it. In the meantime, get outta the worksite. We’ll transmit coordinates to your next assignment.”

  “We’re not coming back to base?” Ben’s question met an incredulous look from Sherman, leaving Ben feeling stupid and a little insecure. Sherman let the feeling stew for a moment before proceeding.

  “We’ll talk again before you arrive. This is a big one, so don’t fuck it up.”

  Ben and his convoy were a few miles down the road from Buffalo when Felipe pulled up the coordinates on GEO.

  “La Crosse?” Felipe muttered, perplexed.

  “Oh, shit-yeah!” Nanner chimed excitedly, leaning over Felipe’s shoulder. “That’s a Consortium Estate. This’ll be tits!”

  “Don’t get excited,” Ben cautioned, though he could barely contain his own enthusiasm. There was nothing like staring into the rifle barrels of crooked cops to make him crave a job in the opulence of the Ellies.

  “What’s the job?” Felipe asked.

  “Something about a new contract deal,” Ben answered confusedly as he read Sherman’s note. “I’m supposed to rep Sherman at the estate.”

  “Ehhhh, Sherman knows your just a scrapper, right?” Nanner looked at Ben searchingly. Felipe gave Nanner a nudge. “I mean, you don’t know anything about contracts. …I mean—”

  “That’s enough help, Nanner,” Felipe interjected, seeing Ben stare gobsmacked at the message.

  “Alrighty then! To the estate!” Nanner cheered. “Ready positions,” he grunted into his comms-mic.

  Ben knew that Nanner was right. He was out of his depth. He’d seen enough “friendly” meetings go south that there was no stopping the anxious pit from forming in his stomach. So, he passed command of the convoy over to Nanner and climbed into the back seat to study the prep materials Sherman had transmitted to him on the trek from Buffalo to the Ellie estate.

  Though they were all exhausted after more hours on edge, they were nearly ebullient when they finally pulled onto a cobblestone road leading through a clearing to a high-walled compound. At least until aerial assault drones emerged from behind the wall, headed in their direction, and the silhouettes of armed guards took positions in the watch towers.

  “All units, slow to eight kph,” Ben ordered, realizing they had arrived. The order defied all his natural instincts, but it was essential protocol. The aching pit in his stomach swelled into his throat.

  Four aerial drones floated into position on his convoy’s flanks. Two descended in front of the lead vehicle. Two behind. Two hovered overhead.

  Again, his instincts begged him to fight or punch the accelerator and get out. He squeezed his door handle to steady himself.

  “Stay at eight kph.” He forced his voice to be as calm and soothing as he could. “Fingers off your triggers. Weapons down.”

  The wall’s massive steel double doors swung open, disgorging three armored assault vehicles. Any notion of fight or flight drained away as he realized they were lopsidedly out-gunned.

  “Ehhhh, they know we’re coming, right?” joked Nanner, nervously.

  “They’re just taking precautions,” Ben muttered.

  “S’pose so,” Nanner exhaled, fidgeting in his seat.

  Ben signaled Felipe to transmit their visitor codes and travel passes. He then exchanged uneasy formalities with the holograph of an irritable guard floating on his console’s V-plat. A drone descended to his window, telescoping a camera toward his face.

  “Please submit to Iris scan,” Operetta’s voice demanded.

  “No idea why they use that bitch’s voice for everything,” Nanner quipped.

  Ben gestured for him to be quiet as he leaned forward to submit to the scan.

  “Identity confirmed,” her voice chimed.

  “All personnel must be seated and strapped,” the gruff guard croaked. “Locker your weapons. Confirm compliance. Then follow the tank at your front. Do not exceed eight kph.”

  This guy’s seen the same shit we have, Ben thought. He’ll have no qualms about firing first.

  “Roger that.” Ben waited for each person in his convoy to confirm their weapons were stored before replying. “Weapons and crew secure.”

  “Jesuchristo. We visiting the Goddamned Chief Regent?” Nanner mumbled.

  Ben gestured for him to proceed forward. “Slowly,” Ben insisted.

  Inside the walls, the guard ordered them to halt. The drones hummed away over the treetops, and the tanks rumbled to a stop. A nearby guard opened Ben’s car door with the demeanor of a servant, but the men in the towers kept their weapons trained on his convoy, as two well-healed officials with Consortium badges emerged onto the mansion’s stoop.

  “Welcome Mr. Holland,” offered one of the functionaries with a saccharine smile. Ben recognized him from the Nautilus event, but he faltered in recalling his name. “Gilbert Calden,” the man continued, a little annoyed.

  “Yes Sir,” Ben answered sheepishly. “Of course, Sir. Thank you for having us. I apologize for our late arrival,” he said.

  “Quite alright, Boy,” Calden said with the thinnest veneer of graciousness. “To that point, we are short on time. Mr. Wittenberg here will lead your team to the dining hall.” He looked past Ben at the dirty and disheveled crew and sniffed, “Will you be needing any of them in the discussions?”

  Since no one in his crew would be of any use, but Ben didn’t want to enter alone, he gestured arbitrarily to Nanner. Ben immediately realized his mistake, given Nanner’s propensity for crude outbursts.

  Why didn’t I pick Felipe?

  He couldn’t undo it without looking foolish. He took some small comfort in knowing Nanner would most appreciate the ostentatious luxury that surely awaited them in the mansion—buying Ben plenty of color commentary to liven up the long drive back to Sherman’s base.

  The walk to the dining room didn’t disappoint. Sparkling crystal chandeliers hung from the ornate gold-leaf ceilings, and Nanner was blissfully gobsmacked by the paradisiacal surroundings. They entered the extravagant dining room to find Ali Ibn al-Rashid, one of the Consortium’s most illustrious leaders. As Rashid approached to greet them, Ben became conscious of the dirt and dust caking his coveralls and his own odor. He hadn’t had time to shower or change. Nevertheless, Rashid welcomed him with the warm and disarming tone Ben remembered from the Nautilus conference.

  Ben’s heart then drummed at the sight of Alias Goodwell, whom he hadn’t seen since the Nautilus. He admired Alias’ new, elegant robes as the young man drew a sip of coffee from a porcelain cup and saucer before queueing up behind Rashid for a formal greeting. Ben summoned every manner he could to run the gauntlet of introductions. Colonel this. Captain that. Minister this. Lord that. He could taste his insecurity, while trying to take heart in remembering that Alias had been little more than an urchin from the badlands, not so unlike Ben and his crew.

  A better upbringing, for sure. But low stock is low stock to the Ellies. Now look how far he’s come.

  Ben followed Calden to a place at the table designated for Ben and Nanner, who could barely conceal his excitement at the cup of real coffee steaming before him. The evening sunlight poured through the tall windows, casting a
gentle orange hue on the room and everyone in it. Alias took the seat next to Ben at the table, speeding his heart and rallying him against the siren call of sleep.

  Be serious, he demanded of himself. Stay sharp. You can’t fuck this up.

  The next several hours were agony, though, as Ben’s attention shifted between Nanner’s childlike wonderment for the room, the seductive aroma of the coffee—three cups of which had already revved him up—and the scent of Alias, so unexpectedly close at hand.

  He strained to focus on the mind-numbing details of the business deal and tried to conjure Sherman’s prep materials, while he fiddled with the kluged computer application he was given to help him keep it all straight.

  Numbers of soldiers per place, per day. Kroners per head. Combat premiums. Equipment costs, per site. Re-supply rates and logistics costs. Interest rates. Contingency fees.

  22:30, Ben sighed, looking at the time on his wrist-plat. He was nearly spent, when Rashid announced that they would mop up the remaining details the next day after breakfast. To Ben’s astonishment, they had apparently come to terms, and his computer screen blinked green, Sherman’s built-in signal that the best alternative to no agreement had been met.

  Sherman would deliver security for 25 church facilities and round-the-clock protection for ten of the church’s ranking officials—including Alias. His boss would be even wealthier in a scheme that suddenly struck Ben as patently twisted.

  The Ellies’ll pay urchins to be religious puppets to pacify other urchins, and then hire more urchins as strongmen to protect their religious urchins from the other urchins until the other urchins get pacified. …Sherman’ll make crazy money on this.

  Though Sherman would never be accepted by the Ellies as one of their own—a secret desire of all the urchins—Sherman had made himself more indispensable and more powerful than some of the lower-rung Ellie families. The thought of riding this train filled Ben’s head with possibilities.