Lotus Blue Page 4

  The objects he was searching for could be IDed by code. The mesh implanted in his arm had been fed with approximate coordinates and other intel vital to his mission.

  Quarrel’s memory was riddled with gaps. Lots of them, as though the rats and bugs had gotten inside his head and made nests and meals of all his thoughts and dreams. He was hungry, ravenous after decades of being peg fed nutrient paste. He yearned for sensations half remembered: brittle buzz and dirty highs. A taste for chemicals lingering in his veins.

  Quarrel walked. He liked the crunch of his boots on stony sand. Little creatures darting out of his way. Bigger things watching from secret places. The sun on his face—once he got used to it—felt so hot and good.

  Those Nisn priests had been right to lock him up, because now that he was outside, he was never going back. Whatever ailed him once had surely passed. Sickness of body, sickness of heart and soul—all gone. Not that he could remember much—or perhaps the problem was that he remembered far too much? Too much to handle. Too much for one old soldier’s mind to bear.

  His memories came in random blasts: Running fast across uneven ground, bullets grazing naked skin, superficial wounds self-healing, sweat and blood stinging his eyes.

  Whenever he became distracted or dropped his guard, a flood of visual fragments superimposed themselves in one almighty flash, like a bomb bright enough to blind the sun. Best not to think too hard about anything. Best to keep on walking. The rhythm of his footfall gave him peace.

  Those priests had done a number on his skull cache, that much he could tell, had scrubbed him clean of a multitude of wars. He only remembered bits and pieces. Mushroom clouds and sonic booms. A woman’s face staring up at him, concerned.

  An itch alerted him to the mine. Six feet under, aural trigger combined with pressure pad. His mesh tapped a nerve, recalculated. He swerved, walked right across the dead mines without flinching. Mere relics, all of them. Relics, much the same as he.

  His spirits lifted when he spied a bird, an ugly black thing scouting carrion, thin and scrappy. Yet it was alive and free. Just like him.

  He swerved to dodge another mine lurking below the sand, a half-life pulsing in its core.

  He’d been walking several hours before the woman’s face resurfaced. All such memories had been banned from Temple, but Temple was a long, long way from here. Receded into the farthest distance, so far that he’d almost forgotten what he’d been doing there in the first place.

  What the hell had been her name? Of all things to have forgotten. He started running, just because he could, even though his core temp was elevated and he knew he was wasting too much water. Itchy sweat trickled down his backbone, but still her name wouldn’t come.

  No name, but he could see her face, pale like the moon he hadn’t seen for two long centuries.

  That General—the fat one with the lisp—had told him some of the Sentinels still functioned, even though their data streams were corrupted and only reported back in garbled fits and starts. He still possessed an encoded set of master files, mashed in somewhere with a bunch of other data. Battlepod schematics, a blueprint for some habitat that looked like a nest of giant spider eggs. Self-recharging laser cannons, a bunker that could dig itself in deeper when the shelling got too fierce. That song he liked, the one about meadows and daisy chains.

  Quarrel stopped to piss against a corroded chunk of metal. Fluidic systems up and running—always a good sign. The sun had stripped the metal of all colour and purpose. Shade for skinks and baby lizards, that’s all it was good for now.

  “You’re dead, aren’t you?” he said out loud, remembering that woman’s face again, not certain if he liked the sound of his own voice. Not certain of anything much at all anymore.

  His mesh began to nag at him, intruding upon his thoughts. He recited a prayer. The one about green pastures that made him happy. Last green he’d seen had been scraped off the underbelly of a rock and consumed with desperate relish by his own starving platoon. Further details remained out of reach, consumed by a blast of mental static.

  Quarrel shook his head to clear it. Nisn telemetry was now coming through loud and clear. Search and possibly retrieve: An Angel brought back down to ground after Temple-knows-how-many years up there. Come back too late, after everything good had gone. He’d sensed that Angel feeling its way back onto terra firma. Much firmer than when they’d blasted skyward and left it all behind. There were no pastures green in living memory.

  He recited the hymn, as if talking up those flocks and pastures might raise them from the dead. Even their trace memory would be more than welcome here.

  He swore at his arm, made the necessary course corrections and a few other minor adjustments he wasn’t sure he was ready for at all. Told himself to forget the platoons and the faces of the dead-and-gone forever. They wanted him to check that Angel out. Bring pieces of it back to the white-coats and stunted generals. He calculated that he would reach a replenishing water source at eighteen-hundred, not too far away for replenishment of a different kind. He needed to know how the world had changed across two hundred years. Those stinking priests would tell him nothing, so he’d go shopping. Help himself. Jack in hard and suck on one of those Sentinel’s delicious juices, those impassive, unbiased stalwarts of the sands. There had to be a couple still left standing. What the white-coats and Five-star-Gs of Nisn didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. Quarrel planned to walk on through the cool of night. Two nights ought to do it, maybe three. Drain a Sentinel and then keep walking. Three nights and he’d be ready to take on anything.

  = Six =

  Broken Arch had no arch to speak of, just squat, weathered columns flanking either side of the road. A town had once stood here, assembled in the skeletal ruins of an ancient, pre-Ruin city. The Sand Road cut right through its heart of twisted steel. To the right of the wagons lay a forest of weathered iron pylons reminiscent of scorched tree trunks, bases littered with rubble and concrete crumbs. Less of it standing as each year passed. Red sand was moving in for good and chewing through the rust.

  No plants grew here. Not even cactus or hardy grasses. Everything had been eaten. White bones scattered, human mixed with camel. No one left to throw rocks at the Van.

  Beyond the columns, the ruins possessed a stark, haunted quality. Last time they’d been forced to pass this way had been several years ago. Star had seen no ghosts that time but remembered the large and hungry lizards eyeing off the Van. One of them had put a permanent dent in eleven’s side. Now riders scouted as a precautionary measure, flushing them out and driving them away with rifle shots before they got too cocky.

  The detour was making her stomach churn, as was the thought of a streaming tide of Harthstone’s displaced townsfolk. Steeling herself for the days and challenges to come would put an end to her daydreaming. Fallow Heel wasn’t going anywhere and neither was Allegra, that rich girl. Extra days gave her more time to plan, to think up plausible explanations why a relic foraging crew might agree to take her on. Star didn’t have a tenth of Nene’s skill or intuition, but she could dress a wound, splint a limb, brew up herbs that could quell a fever—every foraging crew could use a medic.

  A consternation began atop wagon four. With so little space in which to move, any argument had the potential to grow into something dangerous. Star, Nene, and Mara—Yeshie’s one eyed friend—craned their necks to see. Somebody up there was causing trouble.

  A male boomed across the chatter. “Why have we taken this detour? Why are we not pushing through?”

  Star’s eyes widened at the familiar voice. It was him. Golden Earring. Relief flooded through her. The three merchant princes would not have lasted long on foot across the Axa flats. Not even without the threat of mines or refugees fleeing the flames of Harthstone.

  Yeshie angled herself towards him, slapping at arms and legs until others shifted to g
ive her a clear view.

  “Young man, what is your problem?” she called out.

  Other travellers shushed to hear her words. Yeshie, with her amulets, dice, and bones, was always listened to.

  Golden Earring stared down at her from the wagon’s end, his friends close behind, gripping each other for balance. “We have urgent business in Fallow Heel,” he called back.

  “As do we all, dear boy. As do we all.”

  His lip curled in distaste as he cast his gaze across the ruined landscape. “What is this place?”

  “Arse end O’nowhere,” called out somebody from behind.

  Yeshie smiled. Everybody laughed.

  “You got that right,” added another man who sat with his legs dangling precariously over the wagon’s edge.

  Golden Earring was not amused. “Who lives here?”

  “Nobody lives here anymore,” said Yeshie. “Tis the realm of lizards, mecha-beasts, and ghosts.”

  “Lizards? Mecha-beasts?”

  “Where do you hail from?” piped up Star. “The Sammaryndan coastline—am I right?” She spoke again before he could answer, uncovering her face so her words could be heard more clearly. “I’m called Star—may we know your names?”

  His unwavering gaze made her feel uncomfortable—but only for a moment. He took his time to answer. Determining whether to speak or hold his tongue.

  Eventually he offered a polite smile in return. “I am Kian. My associates, Tallis and Jakome. How long until we reach the nearest proper settlement?”

  “Vulture’s up next, though I’m guessing that won’t likely count as proper,” said the man with dangling legs.

  Everybody laughed again, with Yeshie joining in. “We’re likely a week out from Heel itself, if that’s proper enough for your liking.”

  Jakome’s voice was gruff, a contrast to his fine-boned features and neatly sculpted beard. “A week—how can that be?” he said. “The detour has only taken us round these rocks. By my calculations—”

  A murmur of tut-tutting issued from those close enough to catch his words.

  “Did nobody tell you? Harthstone is under siege,” said Star. “That’s why we’ve come the long way round the Fists.” She pointed at the ugly, bulging protuberances of rock towering above them on the left, casting welcome shadows across the Van.

  “Feels like we’re being watched,” said Tallis.

  Yeshie nodded her agreement. “That you are. Oshana watches over all of us.”

  The blank look on Tallis’s face indicated that he’d never heard of Yeshie’s beloved god either.

  “Broken Arch is haunted,” said Star.

  “Haunted by what?”

  “The dead of long ago. The ones who made this place their home, back when their buildings touched the sky. Sometimes you can glimpse them out of the corner of your eye.”

  Kian looked back to Yeshie. “Your caravan master, we need to speak with him.”

  “Your needs will have to wait,” said Yeshie. “Our Benhadeer has other things on his mind.” She nodded towards the tangled clutter of rusted pylons stretching over miles on the right hand side. “Gotta keep both eyes open in a place like this.”

  Kian looked to the ruined cityscape, as if it were the first time he’d laid eyes upon it. As if he hadn’t been staring at it already. “The delay is unacceptable!”

  A chorus of chortling broke out across the rattling wagon tops. Yeshie made shushing motions with her chubby hands. Everybody shushed.

  She nodded. “The long way round, we’ve come—it’s true. But don’t you worry. We’ll rest the beasts up at the Vulture till it’s clear the Harthstone tide hasn’t spilled out both sides. When the way is clear we’ll push on through.”

  “What is this Vulture?”

  “The safest place to camp until the dawn.”

  Kian stared at her with steely eyes. “It would be better if the wagons kept on rolling.”

  Mara laughed. “Better for whom? Our poor animals need rest and nourishment. This stretch of road has taken a turn for the worse.”

  Kian’s features clouded with barely restrained impatience.

  Yeshie sniffed. “You young are always in a hurry.”

  He flashed a smile. A thin one that wasn’t very convincing. “Perhaps your caravan master might be persuaded—”

  Yeshie’s voice took on a grim tone. “Tis not a matter for persuasion. ‘Cross the Axa flats, Benhadeer had an arrangement. Pay up coin, no questions asked. No questions asked at all. Round the back and across the open sand is different. No arrangements. No understandings.”

  “But you said nobody lives here.”

  “Nobody human.”

  One-eyed Mara nodded darkly. “Vulture has a Sentinel. The Sentinel will keep us safe,” she added.

  Kian attempted another half smile that looked more like a grimace. An expression that said, We’ll see about that.

  They travelled in silence for awhile, each of them contemplating the ruins, Star doing her best not to stare at Kian.

  “Off to try your luck out of Fallow Heel, then are you, Kian?” Yeshie tossed the small pouch of dice-and-bones in her hand, feeling its weight. She never travelled anywhere without that pouch.

  “That’s right.”

  She nodded sagely. “Then where’s your kit? Your lances? Those fancy skins beneath your galabeyas look finely stitched to me. From the coast then, are you? Which part precisely, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  Star could tell that Kian did mind—and so did his two associates. Everybody waited eagerly for his answer.

  “No such thing as luck, I always say—especially when it comes to tankers,” added Yeshie, intimidating Kian with her hard, sharp eyes.

  “He’s no tankerjack,” shouted Remy from his camel.

  Remy’s interjection startled Star—he’d been tasked with lizard patrol, but instead was now pulling his camel up alongside them.

  “Tourists, more like,” Remy continued, spitting into the dust. “Van’s crawling with them this time out.”

  He struggled to keep the animal alongside while remaining in earshot. An ancient rifle was slung across his back, and two dogs trotting faithfully at his heels.

  Kian looked him over from head to toe. Tallis muttered something quietly. Jakome nodded, appraising both Remy and his camel. Tallis flicked a cigarette end in his direction.

  “Go back to the coast—or wherever it is you’ve come from,” shouted Remy. “Your kind aren’t welcome here.”

  “Shut up, Remy,” Star called out, an uneasy feeling welling within her stomach. The realm of ghosts was unforgiving. Argument was tempting bad luck down upon their heads. They were not safe yet, and wouldn’t be until they could glimpse the pretty lanterns of Fallow Heel.

  “Look!” Tallis slapped Kian’s shoulder, pointed to the remnants of a doorway. Small figures stared up at the passing Van, vanishing into darkness as soon as they were spotted.

  “Ghosts!” People began crossing themselves in panic.

  “Refugees from Hearthstone, more like,” said Yeshie grimly. “Smart ones, quick enough to read the early signs and hit the road.”

  But Star wasn’t searching for figures in doorways. Something big was moving through the rubble, partly obscured by collapsed walls and fallen pillars.

  Remy took note of her line of sight and wheeled around, shouting to fellow point rider Griff. He gripped his rifle tight and chased after it, heading for a tangle of concrete and rusted steel. Threw Star a parting glance to make sure she was watching. Both dogs yelped and went to join the hunt, wriggling beneath a fallen beam, then ducking back out again when Remy whistled. Star caught another glimpse of their quarry—a massive creature with a leathery pockmarked hide. Jus
t a flash. A lizard, probably weakened by starvation, more scared of them than they were of it.

  Kian and his associates stared nervously at the ruins.

  “Lizards be timid creatures,” assured Yeshie. “Rarely attack a Van this size unless they’re desperate, but we can cast the bones if you’re feeling anxious.”

  But before she had a chance to take action, a volley of rifle shots split the air. Remy, atop his camel, charged out of the ruins at breakneck speed, a massive lizard hot on his heels. The lizard baulked as it neared the Van, changed direction, and ran full pelt at wagon five, slamming violently into its side.

  The folks up top screamed and scrabbled for handholds. Startled, the creature paused, then charged again, this time battering the side of number six.

  “More of them,” alerted Tallis.

  The lizards were much leaner than Star recalled. Hungry-looking. Definitely more aggressive.

  “Noise,” said Mara. “What we need is noise!”

  Prayer started up like the droning of a million bees. The lizard’s confusion intensified. Then the tail-end travellers chimed in—literally. An assortment of cooking pots and pans clanged and clashed together to make a din, loud enough to drown out rifle shots.

  “It’s working,” said Star. She’d been gripping tightly to one of the embedded rings that graced every wagon top. Kian and his friends crouched down and copied her. They only let go when she did.

  The noise upset the camels, but it did the trick. The hungry lizard spun in circles, before retreating into the tangled city ruins. The din continued until it and the rest of them were out of sight.

  “A clever people, are we, despite the poverty and hardships,” stated Yeshie.

  Kian wiped his brow with his sleeve. Both Tallis and Jakome were too shaken to do more than stare.

  “A close call, but we’ve had closer, haven’t we, dear?” Yeshie patted Star on the knee. “Your sister’s being awfully quiet, isn’t she?”