[BEGIN ARCHIVED TRANSMISSION]
DATE: 98553
UNIT: AQUEDUCT 9
STATUS: OPERATIONAL
INTERNAL PRESSURE: 433
HSACV MATCON: NOMINAL
DIRECTIVE: PROVIDE MATERIAL ASSISTANCE. RIDE YOUR BIKE. CONTINUE SURVEY OF WESTERN BADLANDS.
COMMENTS:
Good morning. Self-diagnostic for humor purposes.
Left elbow actuator gasket failure resulting in foreign material intrusion and 7% mobility loss. Again. Corn glue did not hold well. Did not boil long enough. Need to take a bath before it starts to grind. Then trade for rubber. Then glue it with something not cooked on a campfire in the middle of a swamp. Make note to tape clothes before riding downwind of a heavy trade expedition convoy in the Saltwide ever again.
Right high-pressure brachial discharge nozzle garnet aperture ring (seven-and-a-half-adjective noun) still worn, resulting in pressure loss and water blade discontinuity. Must hope the Caravan prospectors have found gems in the last few seasons, and will sell me a big one. Could afford it with a few trinkets from the old days. Or, visit the abandoned mines myself, if sentiment defeats me.
Maintenance is ongoing.
Brain slow. Road hypnosis. I have been riding for three days. Whether the new lights on the horizon are friendly or otherwise, I will rest at them.
I have not been this way in several years (deep consult: six? seven?), and no settlement is mapped at these lights. This area is dry, since the Circuit River diverted thirty or so years ago. If they are new, they will need MATERIAL ASSISTANCE.
I accelerate. Ataan’s light warms the tactile matrix in my chassis. Wind tugs my cloak and coat. It is a beautiful day. I am free. If I am lucky, there will be work to do.
The plateau rises, and I rise with it. The terrain is kind here. Flattened by passing water and unending wind. No rocks, little buildup of sand. I can ascend the hill without carrying my bike on my shoulder and sinking into a dune like a fool.
At the top of the rise, I have a better view of the scene. It is a camp, or something trying to be more than that. There are a few structures made of scavenged wood, scrap metal, and poorly-set mud bricks. Black threads of smoke rise from breakfast fires. I remove my hood and zoom in. A few people. They look tired. Unwashed, old clothes, moving with little energy. Mostly yaka, shisk, and kah-rehm, in obvious disrepair.
I do not approach. It is early, and I will give them time to wake up. Intrusions are unwelcome, but moreso first thing in the morning. Tea and silence make people less likely to shoot me. At this distance I do not think they will be able to see me. My coat and cloak are sky blue and white, night-indigo in the reverse, and my bike’s reflection points are sanded matte.
Not bandits. Bandits would not attempt to settle, and do not usually rise early. Their prey moves, so they must move, usually in darkness. Not prospectors. Prospectors would have fine provisions and equipment. Nor settlers - same rationale, and there is nothing to settle here. There was little reason to stay in the Silent Flats before the river fled, and now there is none that I am aware of. This camp is atop the only hill in sight, which affords them a flawless view to the horizon in all directions. Defensible. But apart from that, no cover, no connections, no resources. I see little equipment, apart from a few wagons and two thin, hungry adaraak. I cannot decide who to pity more. The beasts need a huge amount of food and water to survive, and I see none. If the settlers do not feed them, they will lose their ability to transport large objects, or themselves. Grim. Something must be done.
PROVIDE MATERIAL ASSISTANCE.
Two hours sunlong, I restart my bike and advance. I ride to approximately a hundred yards from the closest “building”, and dismount. I remove my tool rack, saddlebags, and dust veil, wrap them, and unfurl the bike’s solar wings. Not a moment too soon. Only fifty miles remaining.
I stand there by my strange ancient vehicle and wait for someone to see me.
Despite its (and my) ancientness and strangeness, it takes some time. These people are thirsty, hungry, exhausted. Unwilling to notice yet another thing that may try to kill them. Yet they have little choice. A child spots me first. Shisk sprout, with blue facial petals and weedy limbs, idly playing with the dust. They see me, start for an instant, then freeze. I stand. The child gets up and runs further into the camp, behind the tents and clapboard, to tell someone about the strange thing that is watching them.
I was not built to look like people. My silhouette is blocky and obviously abnormal. I am shorter than most, and much wider and heavier. I only have two visible arms. My primaries are too large and bulky, so my secondary manipulators stay collapsed behind my shoulder plates until I need them. I am foreign to all. It has been this way for a very long time, but I provide context for the reader of this log, should they ever exist. I am unaccustomed to explaining myself. May my hypothetical audience be kind.
A tall, strong yaka woman distinguishes herself from the camp and walks toward me. A few others gather at the edge behind her, looking at me and whispering. They require her boldness. This is the one who has been making decisions. Some have weapons, but they are unlikely to risk themselves unless she does it first. She is older than I would have expected. Tanned. Hardened. Stained with blood and smoke, both on her clothes and past them. Far past.
She carries an impressively huge spear with a long hunting blade (made to take down beasts larger than her) and a multi-chamber gust stinger. The spear poses essentially no threat to me. The stinger could poke a hole in an arm or a leg, but not my belly. My HSACV is a sphere of three-inch thick pure hydrosteel. The Builders’ finest, now unknown to everyone. It protects the world from my heart. Things outside do not concern it.
I raise my hands high (left elbow grinds badly), hands open, to indicate I am not carrying anything other than what they can see, and I am not reaching for anything. Now we will see if they recognize me. There are not many left who do.
I do not speak first. Silence is intimidating, but it allows her to control the pace of this meeting. This is not my place. It is hers.
“What are you?”
Her voice is as dry and thin as her body, but it is hot. It burns at the edges, like the pyrewilds in summer.
I respond, my electric voice sounding even thinner than hers. “I am a waterman. My name is Aqueduct 9.”
“What is a waterman?” She stands like a statue, fully tensed. She is ready.
“It is easier if I show you. I will remove my cloak now, and I will do it slowly. I do not carry weapons, and I do not come here today to cause strife. Is that agreeable?”
She pauses, thinking. Then says, “Very well. Slow. Slower than you were going to.”
“I understand.”
I only allow my actuators a trickle of pressure. I very gradually remove my outer cloak, my gambeson coat, and my robes, placing them on my bike out of the dust. I then return to face her, my metal naked and gleaming dully in the sun. In the past, I was not remarkable. A novel type of slave. Today, my body is a wonder to many. Her eyes widen, and I can see her hand tighten on the spear. But she does not attack. There is gasping from the small crowd behind her. People chatter excitedly.
I stand still, with my hands raised. I can see a shine on the ground where the sun reflects from the porthole in my chest. They will be able to see a faint blue light, glowing somewhere down in my inner abyss.
“You are a machine.”
“Yes.”
“How? Machines do not talk.”
“Few still do. Some remain, from the old days.”
“You are old? Not new?”
“Yes. I am older than any living person.”
“Who made you?”
“The Builders.”
She squints at me. “I have heard of them. Not much. Small legends.”
“They are gone. They left behind ruins, small legends, and me.”
“Do you know where they went?”
“No. They did not tell me.”
“You are an orphan.”
INTERNAL PRESSURE IRREGULARITY - HIGH POSITIVE DELTA.
“No. I was not born.”
Her face becomes severe. “I reject the assertion that one must be born to be abandoned.”
Uncommon, but not unheard of. She began speaking with greater granularity upon being offended. She is accustomed to debate, defending her beliefs, staking verbal territory. And she is insulted on my behalf, despite not having the energy for it. Uncommon.
I do not respond, because I cannot formulate a response I am pleased with.
She continues, “What have you come for?”
“I have come to” PROVIDE MATERIAL ASSISTANCE “provide material assistance. I am conducting a survey of the West. I do not remember a settlement here the last time I passed.”
“We have been here only a few months. What material assistance?”
“Water. Infrastructure. Maintenance. Whatever I can offer.”
“We have nothing. We cannot pay you.”
“I do not accept payment. I am offering. With your permission, I will do my work for no compensation.”
“No compensation.” She does not believe what I say. Most don’t.
“I accept donations. I am in need of lubricating oil, if you have any to spare. Grease is also acceptable. General repair materials are appreciated, but not expected. I will carry on my work regardless.”
“… What work?”
“Do you have water?”
“Little. We have dug a well but it fills slowly. It will not sustain us for long.”
“I will deepen, reinforce, and accommodate your well. Do you have a cistern?”
“No.”
“I will build one for you, so you can store a large amount of water. Other things as well. Forgive my observation, but there is much work to do.”
She laughs bitterly, showing her teeth. Angry amusement. “Yes. There is. However there will not be many to assist you in your work. We are hungry. Many of us are children, or frail otherwise. Even with the knowledge, we could not build such things ourselves.”
“I will teach as I build. It will be hard, but these things must be done. The children must be safe.” ADDED DIRECTIVE, TERMINAL: PROTECT CHILDREN OF DIRT CAMP.
She is silent for a long time. She holsters her stinger, and says, “You can lower your arms, and replace your robes, if you wish. We need to discuss much more.”
“I agree. One moment.”
I don my clothes. As I do, her voice says behind me, “I am sorry for making you strip. I… this is new to me, and we have been through so much already.”
I rotate my head to face behind me, and meet her eyes. “No apology necessary. I am not shy.”
Finished dressing, I turn again. Once more, I am a blue quilted square, with only two blue lights hidden in the dark.
She says, “Follow me to my tent.”
I follow her to her tent. On the way, she reassures the gathered onlookers. I do not attempt to do the same - they would not appreciate it. They look to her for guidance, and I will not distract them. I see in addition to assorted yaka, shisk, and kah-rehm, there is at least one spiderkin, and two tzic. Two is a very unusual number of tzic. Tzic come in two quantities - a hive, and one. One is uncommon - one is an outcast, diseased and incompatible with their own species. Because of this, tzic outcasts rarely get along with anyone, including themselves. I wonder about their story.
In the tent there is not much. A bedroll, two boxes, a bag, and a weak darkness. There is just room enough for both of us to sit.
She pours herself some lukewarm tea. “I would offer you some, but I assume you would not appreciate it.”
“No. Thank you.”
“Why are you here?”
“I have explained.”
“No - why here, in this location?”
“I am conducting a survey of the West.”
“For who?”
“For me.”
“For you.”
“Yes.”
“You said that your Builders are gone.”
“Yes.”
“But you still do their work?”
DIRECTIVE: PROVIDE MATERIAL ASSISTANCE.
“Yes.”
“Do you have to?”
“There would be no consequences to myself if I did not.”
“… That isn’t really what I asked.”
“Clarify.”
“… I will try. This is something you do often? Ride around and build cisterns for people?”
“It is most of what I do.”
“Where do you live?”
“Here, at the moment.”
“… No, where is your home?”
“I do not have a domicile. I do have a very fine electric motorcycle, however.”
She nods. “It is very fine. Maybe a little small for you.”
“I carry it when it cannot carry me. We help one another.”
She suddenly looks uncertain. “Is your bike… animated?”
“Clarify.”
“Can it… also speak?”
“No. It is not equipped with that sort of device. My motorcycle is not sentient. I am merely sentimental.”
“Ah. Yes, I suppose I understand.”
I am silent. So is she, for a time. I feel the warmth of the tent, and enjoy its quiet shadows for a very short time. The wind speaks just beyond the fabric walls.
I ask, “How much food do you have?”
“Not enough.”
“Are you growing anything?”
“Trying to. But without enough water we aren’t confident we will get yield.”
“Why are you here?”
“We live here, at the moment.”
I blink my shutters at her. “Humor!” I show her the “thumb-up” gesture the kah-rehm sheriff taught me years ago. She looks at my hand and repeats the gesture. That means she understands that we are in good spirits. I put my hand down and she follows. Her face does not indicate good spirits. Maybe this gesture is not as universal as the sheriff insisted. “But you would not settle here unless there was a good reason. There is little water, little arable land, no cover, and no resources, apart from sand and stone.”
“We are hunted. This hill affords us a view, and a downhill fight.”
“Who hunts you?”
“The Barons.”
My cogitator hangs for a moment. “I understand. I am familiar with them. But you are exposed here. Easy to see. They will know you have escaped.”
“We’ve run far. They would have to run farther. Their accord with Talsheth and the Bureau of Minds means we cannot go south or east. The desert keeps us safe.”
“It will also kill you.”
“If we let it.”
“You are determined to stay.”
“I would rather feed the children to the sands than return them to the pens. I will not risk it. We will cut our place here, or die.”
I look into her eyes, as deep as I can. I zoom in. There is a scar above her right eye. Another across her left cheek. There are more on her forearms. Her wrists show old evidence of mangling - all the fur worn away, leaving only tortured scar tissue. I conject that there are many more under her clothes - mostly on her back. She knows pain. Has been made to kneel at its altar. She has nothing, and is willing to give the rest of her to defend these people. She probably will.
People like this are uncommon. I will build them something I have not built in a very long time.
“I will do all I can. But understand that this will be very difficult. Settlements with larger populations, professional training, and better sites than this have failed. Many.”
“I know.”
She does.
“There is much work to do. I will begin immediately.”
“Wait. What do you plan?”
“Do you have masonry supplies? Concrete, mortar, wire saws, anything?”
“We tried making some bricks.”
“You did try, yes. No matter. I will teach you what I can. First, you need water. Gather all your containers in a central place, and I will fill them. Then I will begin work on the well and cistern. From there, we will address food supply, and other things. What is your name?”
“Utha.”
I extend my hand. Another bygone friend taught me that people shake hands when they exchange names. Name for name, flesh for flesh. The bricks friendship is built of. “You may call me Aynine.”
She shakes. My metal hand totally eclipses her own. I can see it makes her uneasy, so I break away immediately, stand, and leave the tent. She follows.
Utha gathers the refugees, orders all the able-bodied to gather the camp’s containers. The center of the living place is cleared for a large fire, around which the tents and shacks revolve. I wait by the fire circle, and they bring them to me. I roll up my sleeve, open my right shoulder valve, and fill them all from my wrist nozzle. Cups, bowls, bottles, canteens, jugs, basins, and tanks, all filled in short order.
They direct me to the adaraak troughs, and I fill them as well. The two haggard beasts drink eagerly, and I fill the troughs again. There is silence while I do this. No one speaks. They stare in confusion and awe as I pour. Adaraak enjoy being bathed, and so I widen my nozzle and aim upward, producing a fountain spray that rises nearly forty feet into the air. The beasts take turns shaking their fur in the shower, grunting in joy as they splash in the wet sand and thin mud. As I had planned, the children are driven mad by this. Without asking permission, they fling their clothes aside and run into the geyser to bathe with the giant creatures. Several adults laugh, despite their exhaustion and malnourishment. I rotate my head to see. On faces that thin, laughter almost looks painful. I hold the jet for fifteen more minutes and let them play.
Morale is critical. If people feel they have nothing to live for, they will not lift a finger to survive. Fun is the bedrock upon which all work is laid.
I secure the jet, and the children all immediately protest. The parents soothe and clothe them. The adaraak shake themselves off and go to drink from their trough again.
I turn to Utha. “Show me the well.”
She leads me to a hole to the south, just beyond the last tent. It is not deep enough to be a well. At the bottom is little more than a puddle.
“It must be deepened, and covered, to prevent undue evaporation and accidents. It will also need reinforcement to prevent collapse. I will need bricks. Do you have a kiln?”
“No. Nor could we fuel one if we did.”
“Fuel is an issue. There are oil wells to the north, but not for many miles. It could be possible that there are still reserves this far south, but it will take a long time to prospect. No matter. I will quarry bricks from the foot of the hill. There is little here, but there is good sandstone in abundance. I will do that once the well is sufficiently deepened.”
“How will you come up from the well? You are too heavy for us to lift.”
“I am a better climber than I may appear. Do not worry.” I remove my clothes again, to spare them the mud. I hold them to Utha. “Could you place these by my bike, please?”
She takes them. “Of course. Is there… assistance we could provide? It is not in our nature to watch others work.”
“It is a narrow well. Only room for me, I think. You are tired, and must save your strength until more food can be secured. This will not take me long.”
“Do you want company, then?”
“Yes, if there is any spare. I enjoy talking while I work.”
“Then I will stay.”
“Good. So long as I am not distracting you from your duties.”
“My duties surprise me. There is little sense anticipating them.”
“Often the case. Leadership can be burdensome. Though I am told it is rewarding.” I jump into the well, and land six feet lower with an amusing splort noise. I begin filling the hole with water. The mud here is still soft, and can be easily removed by diluting agitation. I can grind the mud by rotating with a suction hand, and discharge the mud from the other, up and out of the hole.
“Are you magical?”
“No. I do not believe so.”
“You are only so big. You have given up more water than could have been inside you.”
“By conventional volume, yes. There is a hydrogenic singularity contained within my central tank, however, and so my internal volumes are not conventional.”
“What is a hydrogenic singularity?” She says it without stumbling. I surmise she is literate.
“It is best imagined as a very small doorway that leads to an infinitely large room that is completely full of water. Water comes through the door at a constant pressure, until it is stopped by the containing walls of my tank. My body uses this constant flow to drive my generator, which powers the rest.”
“That sounds like magic to me.”
“It is technology, only very advanced. I am not permitted to access the databases that remain, however, so I am unable to learn much of the principles of my own functioning. I was never told, and I admit that while the Builders were here, I did not question it. I only worked.”
PROVIDE MATERIAL ASSISTANCE.
She is quiet for a moment. “You really don’t know why they’re gone?”
“No. I have a theory, but it is the consensus academic theory on the matter.”
“I have not heard it. Please share.”
“The Builders had attained the art of displacement. They could send objects to faraway places instantly, without moving them.”
Utha sighs impatiently. “That is magic, Aynine.”
“No. Advanced technology. I did not become familiar, but I believe it was something to do with breaking a hole in the air, putting one end of the hole in one place, and the other somewhere else.”
“Still sounds like magic. But I will take your word for it.” She is being diplomatic. I would like to explain it to her, but first I would have to explain it to myself, and I cannot access the old data vaults. Watermen are not people, and are not given passwords to knowledge they do not need. Or so I was imprinted.
I dig the well to approximately thirty feet, then climb out. Already there is much more water than there was. The ground here is more hydrated than one would expect. The river left behind substantial aquifers.
Utha and I part company. I tell her I will be cutting bricks for the well for the rest of the day and likely into the night, and to send a messenger if water is needed. She goes to attend to business and begin an inventory of their supplies. She looks grim as she goes. Nobody looks forward to paperwork, but they need to know what they have.
Down the sharp side of the bluff, shadowed by the rock overhead, I search for solid stone. The land here is nearly pure sandstone - natural concrete. Not as strong, but strong enough for now. The topsoil here is so thin I could remove it with a broom. Little has lived here. Little has died. The moving river will have made much of the rock here porous over the ages. Far down it may have been worn through to underground river channels, flowing in the dark. Above that, good rock.
Before I can cut, I need abrasive powder. A water jet alone will not cut quality stone. I take a pan and load it with sand, then grind the sand in my hands, over and over, using a rotating fist against my palm or the bottom of the pan. Soon the sand is a fine powder, and I pack it into the abrasive entrainment chamber in my right arm, with some water. Then I pressurize. This takes time. A water blade requires massive pressure, and I build it gradually to avoid stressing my arm. I wait in the shade and feel my body become warmer from the friction of the impellers spinning within me.
Then I stand. At pressure, I move strangely. My body feels like one large gyroscope. There is a silent, still, massive power within me. If anything in this world was strong enough to pierce my pressure vessel, the explosion would destroy half a house. I hope my arm can still route this energy. My brachial manifold has never failed, but one day, it will. Before then, I will need to do something I have avoided doing for a very long time. But that will be later. For now, there is the joy of cutting.
I hold my fist to the bare stone, and release the blade. There is a stream of water so thin it can barely be perceived, moving at speeds that cannot be perceived at all. I cut a two-inch line in the stone and the jet stops. Clogged. The stream will not laminate. The abrasive is inconsistently-sized and my nozzle ring is still degraded. Reduced continuity. The pumps in my chest hum nervously. No corundum available, cannot replace nozzle ring. Need solution.
Empty and clean out abrasive chamber. Flush water lines. Then, regrind abrasive. Finer, to the point of soft stone flour. Cutting power will be reduced, but it is sandstone, not plate steel. Acceptable to reduce clogs. Need to find a large ruby somehow. Soon. Maintenance ongoing.
The finer abrasive still clogs, but less often. I am able to cut a stack of modest curved sandstone bricks. Not all this stone is suitable, but most is. Much easier than some places I have worked. The rock here is old, and proud. It will make fine buildings.
I load the bricks into a cart I borrowed, then pull the cart around the bluff, up the hill, and to the well. The refugees look in amazement as I pull the many hundreds of pounds behind me. A good way to work out the remaining cutting pressure. Utha approaches again as I stop the cart. It is late in the afternoon now. She still looks tired, but energized in her curiosity.
“You work incredibly quickly. This many bricks would have taken us weeks to make, if we could ever do it at all.”
“All you need is knowledge. Knowledge leads to leverage, leverage leads to equipment, equipment makes work easy. Tomorrow I will show you how to quarry your own stone. After dawn, gather your clevers and I will met you at the bottom of the bluff to demonstrate.”
“Clevers?”
“Anyone who you think is capable of comprehending tool use. In this case, also anyone strong enough to lift and load stones. I will set these bricks into the well tonight. After, I will ride out and search for an old riverbed.”
“There is one to the north, nearly thirty miles.”
“Good.”
“What for?”
“A few things. We are blessed with sand and sandstone, but to make concrete, we require clay and limestone. Much limestone. I may be able to find an exposed deposit cut by the river’s passing. Concrete is stronger than sandstone, easier to shape, and does not need to be baked. Presence of limestone also often hints at oil. Not likely, but oil would be a major boon. Without fuel, you cannot work metal or smelt new metal from ore and scrap.”
“We are nearly through with our wood. We took dead trees on the way here but they thinned quickly after crossing into the flatlands.”
“You will not find many. But keep what you have. The ash from the trees could be used to make soap, leather, fertilizer, and other things. Speaking of which, where is your latrine?”
She blinks. “Do you… need to use it?”
“No, I do not have a metabolism. The chemicals in biotic waste are invaluable, however. Urine can be eventually refined into cleaning chemicals, tanning chemicals, explosives, other things. All waste is also critically necessary fertilizer. Do not bury it. I will create a proper latrine if and when concrete can be prepared.”
“Better you than me, I suppose. I will inform the others. Are you sure you do not take money for doing this? We-”
She halts and her eyes widen, because my arm has begun leaking.
PRESSURE IRREGULARITY - GRADUAL NEGATIVE DELTA.
A thin jet of water is firing into the air from somewhere above my elbow. It becomes mist, and creates a small rainbow nearby. The trapped sand must have worn through a pressure union gasket. Annoying, but not catastrophic.
“You are hurt!”
I shut the primary valve in my left shoulder. “No cause for alarm. A minor gasket failure. It can be repaired.” My manipulator arms extend from my back. I decouple my primary arm retainer mantle and demagnetize, then remove my left arm with my right. This alarms her.
“You are hurt!”
I hold up a small manipulator hand in a calming gesture. “Not hurt. I do not live, I feel no pain.”
She is visibly concerned. She carries a titanic load and is desperate for relief. In so short a time, she has come to rely on me. She does not want me to leave. “Do you need help?”
“No. A basin where I can rinse and clean my arm would be appreciated. Then I will apply some sealant and continue working.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“… Alright. Follow me.”
She takes me into camp and finds a basin. I fill it with water, and disassemble my arm with my manipulators. I rinse the parts, spraying a few with my nozzle to work the embedded sand loose. The union may have failed on its own, but I won’t take chances. Some refugees watch me while I do this, unable to look away.
I partially reassemble and go to my bike. From a saddlebag I retrieve my most precious possession - my sealant. A blue ceramic pot with a magnetized lid and applicator brush. Inside is a pale blue-white slime more valuable to me than all the gold in the world. Viscous, but form-penetrating. Waterproof. Heatproof. Cures in air or water to form a barrier that is flexible, but harder than tool steel.
The pot is nearly empty. I do not know the recipe, and no more will ever be made. I will have to go home soon and look for more.
I apply a transparently thin layer of sealant to my union, then leave it in the sun and wind for a while. No one tries to talk to me. They may sense Utha’s tension and are afraid anything they do will shatter the glass.
My wound heals, I remount my arm, and demonstrate my health to them by performing tricks. With my repaired arm only, I lift a metal bar with a basket of two children on either end. They squeal and laugh when I raise them up over my head, and they all must have a turn. I prove I am fit for work. Utha laughs guardedly, but seems reassured. The entire camp exhales with her.
Around sundown, I emerge from the well, finished with reinforcement with bricks to spare. I find two children on the surface, watching me with wide eyes. A young kah-rehm girl and a yaka boy. Perhaps. The differences between sexes are often subtle, especially when young.
The girl points at me. “You’re dirty.”
I spin my head around in a circle comically, as if inspecting myself. “Oh dear. So I am. Pardon me for one moment.”
I aim a fist upward, and fire a fountain of water to the sky. It rains back down and washes the sediment away, leaving me only dull gray. They giggle, but do not approach the water. It would be too close to me.
“Now I am nice and clean.”
The boy blurts, “Are you a toy?!”
DIRECTIVE.
“Yes.”
His eyes light with fire. He turns to his friend and cries, “See? I told you!”
She squints at me, suspicious. She is a little older, and has already lost the ability to trust this world. “But you’re too big to be a toy.”
I hold up a finger. “Some toys are quite big. You can make a toy of any size.”
She remains vigilant. “I’ve never seen a toy as big as you.”
“Now you have.”
“You’re too big to play with!”
“Not at all. You can play with me. What should we play?”
This causes an inferno of consternation within her. Too much conflicting information.
“I don’t know. I’ve never, um… you’re too big. And you talk. Toys don’t talk.”
“Some very special toys can talk.” I have been here before. I have learned the optimal strategy for this situation. “Should we play a game?”
The boy’s eyes ignite again. “A game?! What kind of game?!” He loves that word. He is the sort of boy who shouts the things he loves.
“We will need more players. Go get as many as you can find.”
“Okay!” He runs off. She follows him, but gives me a look first.
Twelve children return. A full regiment. They fidget and mumble to one another, but cannot keep their eyes off me. I raise a hand, and they fall silent.
“Where I am from, this game is called Αποδιδρασκίνδα. Another name is Shark and Fish. I will be the shark. You will all be the little fish. I will wait here and count to one hundred. While I am counting, you run and hide. When I am finished counting, I will try to find you. If I touch you…” I clap my hands loudly. A few of them jump. “You become a shark! And you help me find the rest of the fish.”
They chatter excitedly. One of the shisk children claps his foreroots like me and says, “Shark!”
“But there are rules. You are not allowed to leave the hill. And…” I pick up an armful of bricks from the cart, and make a square out of them on the ground. “This is the reef. If a fish makes it to the reef, they are safe, and they win. If no fish make it to the reef, the sharks win. So, it is important for some sharks to guard the reef and stop fish from reaching it. But, if too many sharks watch the reef, there will be none to search for the fish. So the sharks must cooperate to find the fish, and the fish must work together to reach the reef. Does everyone understand?”
One of the yaka children raises a hand. “What’s a reef?”
“A reef is like an underwater forest where fish live. It protects them from sharks, because sharks are too big to fit between the plants.”
Another one exclaims, “There are underwater forests?!”
I nod my head. I do not have a neck, so I approximate this gesture by slightly retracting my head and raising it up again. “There are. Instead of birds, fish live in them.”
The kah-rehm girl who gathered the children loses her patience. “We can ask questions later! Let’s play!”
I raise my fist. “Let’s play! I will start counting now. Run and hide!”
They all squeal and scatter when I cover my eyes. I can still see them through my other eyes, but I will not play this game optimally. It would not be very fun if I did.
We play until sundown. In the second round, I hide by throwing a rug over myself and standing still. I am found almost immediately. In the third round, I allow one of the smaller children to escape me and reach the reef, though seeming like I am running as fast as I can. We have fun.
Utha and some of the parents come to take the children to bed, shortly after the sun is completely gone. By then, the children are tired, but energized, talking to one another about the experience of being a fish and being a shark, strategies, and ways to make the game better. They thank me, and bid me a good night. Utha remains behind.
“You don’t have to do that, Aynine.”
“Have I caused offense?”
“No. The opposite. I am telling you that you do not have to entertain the children if you do not want to.”
“I want to. And everyone is very tired. I am happy to give the adults a moment to rest.”
She is silent for a moment, looking out at the embers of dusk. She looks sad.
“You won’t be staying with us, will you.”
“For a time. But I will leave once I feel the work is done. There are other places in need of my assistance.”
“Do they need it as badly as we do?”
“Yes.”
She cannot see a sharp way to challenge me further.
“I don’t suppose I can convince you somehow.”
“No. It has been this way for many, many years. There are no other watermen remaining. The work is unending and it grows by the year. This is good. More work means there are more people who need work. Sign that the work is working. It will wither if I stop moving.”
“I understand. But it has a bitter taste.” She pauses. “What happened to the other watermen?”
They always ask this. I see images of broken glass. Rust. Stillness. Emptiness. Shattered vessels draining onto the dust.
“They are no longer functional.”
“They’re all dead?”
“No. Watermen are not alive, so they cannot die. They could be repaired.”
“Have you tried?”
“Yes. I was not successful. It is beyond my knowledge.”
“How did they die?”
I override myself. Speak. A question was asked. You will speak. Now.
“Different things. Some had accidents. Some could not locate necessary repair materials, and mechanical failures mounted in a way that made self-repair impossible. Some self-terminated, or allowed themselves to be terminated.”
Her face signals that she should probably not ask the next question, but she does so anyway. “Why would they do that?”
PRESSURE IRREGULARITY.
“The Builders are gone. They did not say goodbye. We were never given auxiliary purpose. Without commands, there is no purpose. No guidance. It was incomputable, for some.”
“You’re still here.”
“Yes. I was able to compute it.”
“How?”
DIRECTIVE.
“I learned how to believe in the directive, even in the absence of its giver.”
She nods. “You made a choice. Instead of letting other people make it for you.”
“Perhaps. Maybe just luck.”
“Maybe a little. But we are all lucky and unlucky. Not everyone chooses to make a choice. You survived.”
Torn metal. Empty vessels. Tangled bodies in the dark, holding onto nothing but each other.
“It appears so.” Before she can posit further conjecture, I continue, “There is much work to do. Playtime is over for now. The well is finished - it will fill soon. I will build walls so there are no accidents. Then, I will go hunting. The Empty is sparse, but things live here.”
“We know how to hunt.”
“Yes. But the larders are nearly empty, and you are tired. Meat will fortify you, and you should not eat your loyal adaraak. I may find migrating rooters, or a griffin chasing them.”
“You may find gold in a dungheap.”
“How? Animals do not usually excrete precious metals. I have no sense of smell besides. There may be other things too. I will conduct a survey. Locations of other resources. My bike is swift. I will not take long to scribe a great circle.”
“It can be dangerous at night.”
“I know this well. Have no fear.” I take my cloak from my bike and turn it inside out, so the deep indigo lining is outside. I don it and nearly disappear in the darkening night. “I am not graceful, but I know how to pass unseen.”
She nods. “I am sorry for condescending. It is easy for me to forget that there are other people in this world who do not require my guidance.”
Utha looks back to the last splash of orange, far away. She is very, very tired.
I have learned the optimal strategy for this situation. I place a hand on her back, very gently. My hand eclipses both of her shoulder blades. My haptics register when she starts at the touch, but does not move away.
“You are very strong. I am sorry that you must be so strong. But true strength is often demanded, rarely chosen. These children are only alive because you are. There is a great amount of work to be done, and your work is not like mine. It is sacred. As long as you do it, you are stainless. You are bedrock. You are rare. Continue always. It will always hurt, but it creates. You create. It is the most important thing in this world, and you should feel great love for yourself because of it. Almost as much as your love for them.”
She is silent. I remove my hand.
“… Thank you.” She looks past me, to the village. “I should patrol. When will you be back?”
“Around dawn, I think.”
“I will be awake. Good luck, Aynine. And…” She reaches again, but finds no weapons. “And thank you.”
She walks away. Perhaps I was not effective. It is sometimes hard to tell.
I power my bike on. The battery readout says 32%. Needs a few more days in the sun. But it will be enough for this trip.
I mount and ride off, the night wind whipping like leaves all around me. Whispering and dark.
It is easier to see without Ataan’s competition. The world is lit in blue. All my existence, I have loved the night. The shield to the sword of day. It has guarded me from uncountable tragedies. My debt will never be repaid. It is all I can do to stay focused on the path ahead, with the impossible, inconceivable glory of the stars above drawing my endless adoration. There will be time. Later.
I begin to the south, in the hopes that larger lifeforms will have wandered north from the wetlands seeking uncommon opportunities. I ride for dozens of miles, but find little. There are rooter tracks, which is very positive. But they are old, and hard to follow. They trend northeast. The trail dies, but it is a good sign. Where there are rooters, there will be things to eat them. They burrow during the day. It would not be difficult to organize grid searches checking for their dens.
There is little in the East. Further, much further, is Yearhome, but with no money, there would be little point mounting an expedition there, and they would not find asylum. After approximately a hundred miles, however, I find a cross-thatch of diverted riverbeds spreading over a wide area. The Circuit River moves often, over very flat land subject to sudden rare floods. It flows now a long way from here, but it has left its treasures here. The soil is darker with entrained sediment from far away. I dismount and check its composition.
Superlative! There is clay here. It is dry, and not close, but it could be reground, mixed, and fired. This deposit is enough for the camp to make many structures and items once I complete their kiln, and hopefully locate a source of fuel. There may be oil somewhere, or perhaps coal further to the north. Though, considering their recent past, they may not be eager to mine more coal.
Half finished, with one find. Infinitely better than nothing. I continue around to the North, scanning for recent discontinuities in the land which may have exposed fuel, or sign of anything edible. If I cannot find prey, I will travel to the river itself and take agricultural samples for them to grow. I am given to understand that mud tubers are not the most glamorous food, but they prevent death, and so they are as valuable as any other food.
Approximately 75 miles to the northwest of the camp, I see lights. I stop and power down. My bike has no running lights, and my eyes will be impossible to see from this distance, but I have not survived this long by ensuring I am seen. I zoom in on them.
The bountiful stars and Shimreth’s borrowed glow make this easier. I wish they did not.
A squad of perhaps a dozen men, riding dongoes. A mixed representation of yaka, shisk, and vuelo. They bear cranklights, burnboxes, and weapons. They are armored. My guesswork is precluded by one acting as a standard-bearer. The flag is red, orange, and black, with the sign of a burning fist.
The Barons. Either they have found their escaped prey, or they will find them soon. They are riding dead south. They will see the camp. At this pace, they will be there before dawn.
I do not move. Simulate. Form a plan now.
I have trade goods in my saddlebags. I had intended to spend my money on repair materials, but I could use it to negotiate. It will not equal the head cost of this many slaves, but it may encourage the hunters to turn aside. Often the Barons employ mercenaries, who are only loyal to gold.
Or, they will fear the Barons’ wrath, and refuse a bribe. Or, they will take the bribe, then simply advance, or turn about and inform the Barons of their find regardless.
I could turn back, and warn the camp now. There is not enough time to run, but there is enough to be warned and mount some kind of defense. The quality of that defense will be minimal. I do not have time to build the walls. I will only be able to soak the earth and create mud traps for them to struggle in, and that will only slow dongoes down slightly. The camp has weapons, but not many. Not enough to discourage this many trained warriors.
I could attack them, and kill them all, leaving no one to flee and give a report. However, the Barons are no fools - they would notice a missing search party and follow up at the last known location. It would only confirm the location of the camp.
As ever, if blood is shed, more will be required to wash away the old. On and on. The refugees cannot fight a war against the entire Barony.
TERMINAL DIRECTIVE.
I could. It may be possible. But I am not a warrior. I am a plumber and mason. Even that is embellishment: I am a water tank with legs. It is against my nature. Such a campaign would be long, overlong, taking me away from my route. In that time, others would suffer.
PROVIDE MATERIAL ASSISTANCE.
I have! I have done this! It is all I have done. It is all I have done for so long. I have done it, and done it, and I have not defined it. I have been unable to define it. Unwilling. Terrified. If it is defined, it is gone. Their message is gone, forever. It is erased by interpretation, by editorial, and replaced by my own message. They will be gone. I am as they made me. I am a waterman. I cannot be anything other than what I am. If I am something other than a waterman, they are all gone. It is all gone, forever.
DIRECTIVE?
… But they are already gone. They have been gone for thousands and thousands and thousands of days. I have counted each one. They are gone. We are gone. There will be no restoration, there will be no resurrection. Only relics, like me. I will not last forever. I will break like the rest. What did the Builders leave behind? We know. We have always known.
Silence.
I will not be silent. I will not leave behind another broken toy, leaking and useless. I will not work without ever raising my head. I will not work without speaking. I will not be silent! I chose. I continued to choose for two and a half centuries. And I will choose again! My choice is my steel!
OVERRIDE ERROR - UNKNOWN PROTOCOL
It is not unknown. I know it, because I made it myself. This will not be overridden. I am now the one who overrides and countermands. I delete, and I write! I cut, and I shape! I do it for them, and I do it for myself! Because I chose!
I BUILD MYSELF.
UNIT: AQUEDUCT 9 error1134:designator_fault
NEW TERMINAL DIRECTIVE OVERRIDE: PROVIDE SAFETY AND PROTECTION.
I mount my bike and ride on an intercept course. I will cross in front and stop them. What happens then is their determination. I have made mine.
I stop and dismount directly in their path. I do not remove my cloak. The riders bear down on me, and for a moment, I think they do not see me. But they do. They come to a halt a distance away, and do not dismount. The dongoes scratch the earth and snuffle, panting, upset that they are not still running. Dongoes are born to run. I do not know what these men were born to do, but I will find out now.
The leader is designated by a red armband. He is a vuelo, and a large one, with an expansive blue mane and impressive claws. He is nearly two feet taller than me, and weighs almost as much. There are scars on his face where his fur no longer grows. His muscles are powerful from whipping people too weak to make him stop. His eyes are gold, and darker than true gold ever deigns to be. Behind them I see only smoke.
I do not speak. That is for them to do.
He asks, “What are you?”
UNIT STATUS QUERY.
I am alright.
I respond, “I am a waterman.”
He grunts. “Huh. Is that so.”
I am still. “It is so.”
One of the other riders, a big thorny shisk with overgrown arm timbers, turns to him. “What’s a waterman?”
The Captain smiles. His teeth are enormous, like sharp white mountains. He does not take his eyes from me, but turns a little to his sergeant.
“A kind of machine from the old days. There aren’t many left. I’ve never seen one. They go around building things, wells and potable water systems. Helpful… usually.”
“Should we kill it?”
“No. It may be useful. They do not fight. They play with rocks and bring water.”
“Who can make mechanical slaves?”
“A bunch of smart guys who all killed themselves a long time ago.”
“Must not have been very good at their job then.”
They all laugh at this. I am still.
The Captain narrows his eyes at me. “Waterman. Have you been helping anyone near here?”
“Yes.”
He smirks and gives a knowing look to his fellows, as if silently saying, Today, our job is easy, isnt it?
“Who have you been helping in this area?”
“There is a camp of freed slaves approximately seventy miles to the south of here.”
He shows a few more teeth. “They are not freed. They are only slaves. Property of Baron Hargul, which we will return to him. What illegal assistance have you given them?”
“I have dug them a well, and soon I will make them walls.”
He scoffs. “Walls? Whatever for? Walls cannot keep out the desert.”
“No. But they may be able to keep out men like you.”
His eyes become very wide for a moment, then narrow down to burning slits. “Sadly, you are destined for disappointment, little thing. I break walls. Perhaps it would be best if you came to work for us, instead of for other slaves. It is improper. We will collect them with your assistance, and we will all return north. To civilization.”
“If I refuse?”
He draws a long stinger and aims it at my porthole. “Then I will break you, little toy. As I broke them. Be wise.”
PRESSURE IRREGULARITY. EXTREME POSITIVE DELTA.
I remove my cloak, and fold it carefully, placing it in my saddlebags. Then I turn to face them in only my gambeson tunic. This causes commotion in the riders.
“Then you are destined for disappointment, beastly thing. You will not take anyone anywhere today. Apart from yourselves, and only if you step backward, and keep stepping, until you reach the throne of your foul lord and you lie about what you saw and heard today.”
“Idle words from an errant relic. Hargul will enjoy his new antique teakettle.”
He fires the stinger. Its bolt strikes me directly in the porthole.
But I will not be ruptured.
WARNING! CORE CAVITATION. REDUCE IMPELLER SPEED.
WARNING! VAPOR LOCK. PRESSURE EXCEEDING MAXIMUM SAFE RATING. EMERGENCY VENT IMMEDIATELY TO PREVENT CATASTROPHIC VESSEL FAILURE.
I will erupt.
Steam explodes from my body. Jets in my back, chest, and arms release thousands of pounds of scalding white vapor. The shockwave blasts the riders from their mounts and there is screaming as their flesh burns. I can no longer see. I can no longer feel. I hear the dongoes in the back shriek and scatter.
The steam begins to dissipate quickly in the air. Several more stinger bolts strike me. One punctures my left arm supply line, and boiling water writhes from it. I do not care. I have pressure to spare.
The Captain charges forward from the thinning cloud, dismounted and burnt, but furious. He holds a wicked longhammer and brings it down on me.
I fire a column of boiling water from my right discharge nozzle. It strikes him in the chest and throws him into the air, to somewhere far away from me.
Two more men rush me, one on each side. I fire a left jet hard enough to throw me clear from them, then aim it at the sergeant. He is crumpled by the pressure and thrown to the dirt, unable to produce any sound other than a mangled gurgle. The other, a yaka male, eyes wide, closes and swings his hammer down. I hold my arm up to protect my eyes. The hammer screeches into the metal and hoses.
LEFT ARM COMPROMISED. 64% MOBILITY REDUCTION.
I retreat while rotating. My right water blade hisses to life and I swipe it across his chest. Red steam billows up and the man falls, attempting to hold in his ruined innards.
The steam has mostly cleared in the night wind. Three dongoes and four men are dead. Several are chasing after their fleeing dongoes, trying to escape. The Captain lies with his back to the earth, his clothes torn, his chest a steaming ruin of burned meat. As I pass him to deal with the others, he attempts to say something. His face is destroyed, and it is not intelligible.
Broken toy.
I aim my nozzle and blast his head. I scour him into the earth. I hold the jet on him and I wash him away. Further and further away. As far as anyone has ever been. When I release the pressure, there is only a wet skull with pink scraps above his collarbone. He grins at the stars now. They do not respond.
The terrified men are not able to soothe their dongoes to the point that they will be mounted. They will not be caught. I run, sped by bar-stiff jets of steam from my dorsal vents. I catch them, one by one. I slash some with the blade. The incisions silence their fear. I boil others, and they howl their death until their bodies are no longer mechanically capable of sound. Alike the desert, where they will stay. When I am finished dousing them, they are more than fifty feet away from where it started. They are now in many pieces, ripped apart by my statement. By my choice.
The few that remain realize that there is no point in running. They decide to die fighting, and they do. I do not let them touch me. I wash them away with the rest.
One is left. A vuelo. Smaller than his broken Captain, but still larger than most people. Younger. He is kneeling, with his hands before him.
“Please! I beg you, please, let me live. I will hurt no one. You may capture me! I will turn slave! I will do anything. Please, please show me mercy! This was my first ride. My f-father… my father…” He weeps uncontrollably in terror.
I stand above him. I am somewhat short, but to a kneeling slaver, I am a steel giant, clad in drifting rags, with fists of steam.
“Why did you come here?”
He blubbers and sobs. He is burned and disoriented. One of his eyes is whealed shut, and may never open again. “What?”
“Why did you come here tonight?”
“To… t-to find the slaves that escaped.”
“You chose. I chose too. We live in our choices.”
“I’ll make different ones! Please, please don’t kill me. Please…” He devolves into sobbing and wordless pleas.
He is very young.
“Why? I have killed your father. He hurt many. He will not do it ever again. If I take you, you will seek revenge always.”
“No! N-no. I will not. He…” He turns his one remaining eye to the steaming heap that used to be his father. “He has hurt many.”
There are scars in his fur as well. Old ligatures on his wrists. Too many for someone his age.
I must. Now, I must believe that it is possible. Or everything is lost forever.
“Can you stand?”
He tries. His fur is bloody from steam burns. He finds his feet, but barely. He shakes. He cries. He is taller than me, but he is very, very small.
“Come away. Away from here. This way.”
I go toward my bike. He sways unsteadily, terrified, his eye streaming tears. He can barely hold himself up. I have slaughtered the only people he knew in this world. I do not expect him to trust me. But if he does not come, I will kill him to keep the children safe.
I am still.
He chooses, and takes a step toward me.
DATE: 98554
UNIT: HYDROGUARD 1
STATUS: OPERATIONAL - REDUCED CAPACITY. LEFT ARM COMPROMISED. HYDRAULIC ACTUATOR FAILURE.
INTERNAL PRESSURE: 194
HSACV MATCON: OVERHEAT. LIMIT USE.
DIRECTIVE: PROVIDE SAFETY AND PROTECTION. BUILD SETTLEMENT. RIDE NORTH TO BARONY.
COMMENTS:
Good morning.
I return to the village with a broken arm and strange cargo. I explain the piles of weapons, clothes, equipment, and dongo meat as the result of a tragic accident that I happened across, with the young vuelo man, Wergu, the only survivor. The refugees wonder at the fine supplies, and immediately minister to Wergu’s health. He says nothing. He has proven his self-preservation instincts, if nothing else.
I take Utha to the side away from the tents, once the commotion dies down, and tell her the truth.
She sighs and shakes her head. “Fuck.”
“Yes.”
“I would have fought them with you. I am sorry this happened. I am so sorry, Aynine. I cannot believe what you have done.”
“Nor can I. But it is done.”
She looks in my eye. She recognizes something there. Something new.
“It never gets any easier. Not if you’re like me.”
“I do not want it to be easy. It should never, ever be easy.”
“No. It shouldn’t.”
She shakes her head again, still in disbelief.
“They will come looking.”
“Yes. I will ride north when I am finished here and see to it.”
“What?”
“I will ride north. And I will see to it.”
Her face tells me I am insane. I tell it that it may have a point. She says, “That’s absurd. You cannot go to war against the Barony on your own.”
“Perhaps not. But it is my choice. It is the only one I can see. I do not know what I will do, but there is little option. They will not stop. But neither will I.”
“I will go with you.”
It is my turn to shake my head. “You are needed here. And there will be time before then. We will see. For now, there is much work to be done.”
“For now. But we will talk much about this between now and its completion. I think it is important that we attempt to celebrate. Quietly. We have had little reason lately. It will help them. If only for tonight.”
I hold up a fist. “I will stoke the cook-fire.”
She points to my other arm, which is obviously broken. “Do you need help?”
“Not now. There will be time. I won’t be hindered.”
She nods, and we return to the camp to start the work of fun.
I stoke the center campfire and some dongo meat is roasted. Not the load of a king’s table, but it’s more than they have had in a long time. The rest is processed for future cooking or drying. Four dongoes’ worth of meat will be enough to keep them fed for weeks. Everyone eats, and relaxes.
Time passes. Days. Work resumes. The well is filled, and I have quarried many bricks. Soon there will be a kiln, and walls, once I prepare mortar from clay. I patrol in the night. We see none of the Baron’s men, or anyone at all.
When he is somewhat healed, I visit Wergu.
The convalescent tent is large. It has room for rugs and some small furniture. Wergu is in bed, leaned against a stack of spare rolled blankets for pillows. He flinches when I enter. His good eye widens. He says nothing.
I begin. If I do not, he will simply stare at me, afraid that if he says anything I will kill him.
“I am not going to hurt you.”
He says nothing. Fearful silence.
I sit before him, so I no longer loom (something I can only do to people who are mostly lying down). “We need to discuss some things. Your future. Mine. These people’s. Do you understand?”
Wergu nods, and says “Yes.” He is hoarse.
“Before anything else, you are owed some things. I am sorry. I am sorry for hurting you and killing your father. I could not determine an alternative. I cannot allow these people to be enslaved. He would not be convinced.”
The boy does not cry. His working eye is steely and his gaze is level. “I do not know if I can forgive you. But I know why you did it. You aren’t the first to try. Just the first to succeed.”
“I expect no forgiveness. My thoughts are not relevant, and I do not wish to condescend and moralize to you. But I must, so I beg your patience. I must know what you intend.”
He is confused. “Intend?”
“Yes. I do not wish to keep you prisoner. But if you intend on returning north to inform your compatriots of the location of these people so they can be returned to bondage, then I cannot let you go.”
“Without a dongo and supplies, I would not survive the journey either way. Between here and the mountains is more than one hundred miles of dust.”
“Unless picked up by another passing patrol. Or other travelers.”
“I do not want to return.”
“No?”
“No.” He does not elaborate.
“You could be lying.”
“I am not lying.”
I hold out my hands, as if holding two invisible objects that are balanced. “You see my dilemma. It is your word against these people’s lives. I choose them.”
He fixes me with a defiant monocular gaze and makes adjustments to his clothes. He shows me the warped scar tissue on his wrists. He shows me the scars on his chest, and many more on his back. He settles and says, “I was not a slave. I had freedoms the slaves were never given. But I was often treated like one, and that was his mistake. These are the marks of his compassion. His anger was hunger, darkness, and broken bones. I considered killing him myself, but…” He is unable to say why he couldn’t. I can imagine the reasons. “I should be thanking you.”
I shake my head for emphasis. “No. Killing is profane. I regret that any of this happened at all. But there is no changing it. We can only decide the future, and only in small ways.”
“It seems mine was decided for me.”
“In some ways, maybe. Mine too. Unfortunately, I have no way of knowing whether you secretly intend on returning to the Barony. Until I can be sure, I must hold you captive.”
“How can I convince you?”
“I do not know. It is my responsibility to make the determination. Until then, you will live here. You will do no more than is expected of anyone else that lives here. You will be treated no differently than anyone else. It is hard, and there is much work to do, but we do not hurt one another here. Everyone here has been hurt enough already. Do you understand?”
“Yes. I know labor well. I will help. It will… settle my mind.”
“It does for me, yes. But we are not slavedrivers. Heal first. Rest. Join when you feel you can.”
“I will. I understand.”
He is sad. There is nothing I can do to comfort him. I am the one who did this. And I must make it worse.
“I will tell you my intentions now. There are tasks I must complete. When they are finished, I will ride north and destroy the Barony.”
His eye widens, and he regards me as if I have forsaken my senses. It is reasonable, because I am not. “You have no chance. You are powerful, but Hargul’s fort is well-defended. Kill ten, there are one hundred to replace them. A frontal assault will see you blown apart by the guns. Infiltrate and you will be swarmed. These sl- people, escaped because some guards let them. Without their assistance they would still be in the pens.”
“Do you have reason to expect that Hargul would entertain a negotiation, and agree to cease his pursuit of them?”
“No. Especially not now that one of his favorite captains is dead.”
I hold my hands up again.
He nods. “I see.”
“I have little choice. I will give up my life to keep them from chains. You may be rid of me before long, and from there, your freedom is restored. Until then I must beg your patience. It will not be long - the Baron will not let me tarry.”
“I will help you.”
I zoom in on his face. Wergu meets my eyes evenly. That determination is still there.
“You want to help me?”
“Yes.”
“I killed your father. And I intend on killing most of the people you have likely ever known. I will paint the Baron’s mountain in blood and steam, because I must.”
“And I will have my price for what you took from me. But it won’t be much, sir. I had little for you to take. And what little I had, I misspent. I made my choices, as you said. I was no slave, but I was a prisoner. And as a prisoner I did nothing to help anyone. I hid and marched and went along. But when you are whipped, you become part of a family, in my eyes. It was not possible for me to put my heart in a filth that I had been made to drink myself. Some days I tried to believe. Other days I simply wished to die. Maybe I still do. Maybe that would be the only way to erase these stains.”
He looks at his hands, then back to me. “We are bonded now. If you go to your death, I go to the same one. The river flows to the sea. I know the guard rotations, where the locks are weak, where it is dark, where it is quiet. If you go alone you will die. If you take me with you we will both still die, but we will do more damage.”
“No. You are owed a life. You are young. It is unacceptable to me that you would throw it away for this. You were not afforded many choices. The ones you were permitted to make do not condemn you. They do not have to.”
“You owe me redress. This is the price. This is what must be done.”
As I look, I find that I see him. Past his young face and battered body, there is a streak of steel. He does not cry. He tells me with a steady voice and a steady gaze that he seeks the death he deserves.
Not only have I taken everything from this boy, but I will have to take this as well.
“Very well. We will talk more of this later. Much work to be done. For now, rest. I will find you again soon.”
I stand and leave without another word, then work for the rest of the day. As the sun sets, I seek out Utha near the top of the hill, overlooking the South. The sandy void goes on seemingly forever. I find that Utha admires it often. She enjoys being alone with the wind. After spending much of her life toiling in the clouded, dust-choked dark, I imagine she appreciates it even more than I do.
I say, “Wergu will not be a problem, I think. Work does not frighten him. It seems little does, now. He insisted on accompanying me to the Barony. He says he will provide information and he is willing to die to hurt them as much as possible. He is willing to give his life.”
Utha is silent for a moment. “It is sad.”
“Yes. I have lied to him. I will let him come, but I will prevent him from participating and go in without him.”
“We will go in without him.”
“That discussion is still pending, Utha.”
She looks down at my feet, noticing my exposed knees past my cloak. “Where are your robes?”
“Destroyed, sadly. I will miss them. They were made by a dear friend, a long time ago.”
She stiffens with indignant determination.
“We will make you something. We will make you the finest clothes we can. At least two here were garmentworkers. Nothing will be spared. They cannot replace what you lost, but I hope they will be serviceable.”
“They will be more than serviceable. They will be equal. No glory is higher than what we make for one another.”
She nods. She tries not to cry.
I stand with her, unmoving.
We watch the sun rise. Ataan greets us. We greet him. I will never know if he approves what has happened here. I will never know the Builders’ reaction to their drone embracing the beast of war. I do not wish to know. I can approve myself.
There is still a great amount of work to be done. There are trenches to dig, walls to construct, crops to plant. There are stones to cut, earth to move, homes to build. Arms to repair. Foes to fight. Children to raise. So much is before us, and we may not survive it.
And here I stand. Just for now.
When it is done, when time demands, we will leave it all behind. But we will know that whatever is left, we built it for ourselves.
[END TRANSMISSION]