The Engineer ReConditioned

  “Fast,” Eric breathed.

  “Perfect,” said David, his observation analytical.

  Cheydar had no words. His mouth was dry. He looked from the scene to see one priest soldier running away just as fast as he could. He levelled his air gun, adjusted the sight for the extra distance, fired. The man sprawled then crawled on for a little while, his back rapidly soaking with blood. He tried to haul himself up by the hard dark green leaves of a cycad, then he fell again. Cheydar turned to his sons.

  “Go down, see that they are all dead. Get their supplies, weapons, all we might need.” There was nothing in the Code against looting the dead.

  Steeleye was the name of the third moon, or the Still Moon, for since the time of its cataclysmic arrival it had remained stationary in the sky above, day and night. In appearance it was a polished ball of metal, and there was something ominous about it, something attentive. It had appeared in the time when Cheydar had trained for service, causing floods and earth quakes. It stood vigil in the sky when he learned bladework, unarmed combat, and the maintenance of dart guns. That time was exciting; change was imminent, things would happen…But the years passed, the tides settled and the ground ceased to shake. And the only change had been the growth in the power and oppressiveness of the Cariphate. It seemed like a betrayal to Cheydar. The moon just became ordinary. He turned his attention back from it to the conversation.

  “He would not have allowed it. He would not allow the Cariphe to do the things he does. His Proctors would stop the killing. His Proctors would enforce His law.”

  He could see Suen regretted the outburst the moment she finished. She shouldn’t have said that, but wasn’t it true? All that her husband had believed: a better time, a golden age that would come again. Suen closed her eyes and shook her head. Her anger was always greatest when she missed him most, but in Cheydar’s experience railing against injustice only brought it down on you.

  “Why did the Proctors go away?” he asked, embarrassed and clumsily trying to move away from the subject of Tarrin’s execution as he poked at the fire with a stick. He wasn’t really interested in why the Proctors had gone away. He wondered if anything about those indestructible monsters of the past and their ten-thousand year old demigod master could have anything to do with him and his life.

  “They did not go away. They are sleeping,” said Sheda with that certainty only a teenager can have.

  “Daddy said they sleep in the Forbidden Zone and that they can be woken.” As she finished speaking she looked at David and flushed at her own boldness.

  Now wouldn’t that be something, thought Cheydar, and shivered. He stared through the flames at Dagon. The man had been very quiet and still. Eventually he spoke.

  “Why should you want to wake them?” he asked.

  “Justice!” spat Suen, but she sounded suddenly unsure.

  “The only justice they bring is the Owner’s,” Dagon replied. “They enforce only his laws and his laws say nothing about you people killing each other.”

  “‘You people.’ You do not consider yourself one of us?” Suen asked. Dagon looked briefly annoyed. “A manner of speech, nothing more. But I tell you this, I have read the Agreement.”

  Suen snorted her disbelief.

  Cheydar said, “It is etched into a metal pillar around which the Ompotec temple is built. Only select members of the priesthood are allowed to see it.”

  Dagon smiled mildly and shook his head. “Wrong, there are in all fifty-eight of the message pillars and every death post around the forbidden zones has the Agreement etched in its surface. Anyone prepared to take a bit of a walk can read it. I’ve seen it many times.” Suen and Cheydar stared at him. They did not know how to refute that. He continued, “Understand that the priesthood uses any and all methods to gather power to itself. Like all religious organizations its greatest power stems from the claim to forbidden knowledge, the ability to intercede with the divine, all of that, though the Owner is hardly divine.”

  “What does it say?” asked David, speaking for the first time that evening, uncomfortably aware of Sheda’s attention firmly fixed upon him.

  Dagon glanced at him. “It is quite simple: No one to enter the forbidden zones, no building in or corruption of the Wilder zones, no more taken from them by a human than a human can carry without mechanical aid. There is also a population stricture, but that is hardly necessary as the population here is in decline.”

  “There has to be more than that,” said Suen.

  “There is not. The Owner is a great believer in personal responsibility. Beyond preventing damage to his property he doesn’t have much more interest in planetary populations.”

  “You are an Owner expert all at once,” said Suen.

  “I’ve studied him all my life.”

  “Like my husband.”

  Dagon regarded her very directly, “No, not like your husband. My research was into original materials, not the wishful thinking and distortion that came after.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Owner has fascinated scholars for centuries and a great deal has been written about him, and a lot of what has been written is simply not true.”

  “How do you know what is true?” asked Cheydar.

  Dagon showed annoyance again, quickly repressed it. “Simple research. Consider the entire mythology that’s arisen about the Proctors. To some they are saviours, and their enforcing of law will bring about Utopia. To others they are demons and this is perhaps closest. They enforced the Wilder laws. If someone used a cart to haul wood out of the Wilder a Proctor would turn up and smash the cart. They simply prevented the law being broken. But it was the population stricture that inspired terror of the Proctors. The population here is set. at two billion and must never go above that number. When it did, about two centuries ago, the Proctors turned killer. For every child born at that two billion limit a human was killed. It was completely random. It might have been a baby that died or an octogenarian on his death bed.”

  “I do not believe this,” said Suen, but her voice was not firm. She turned to Cheydar. “I want to go into the Wilder. I want to read what is written on a death post.”

  Cheydar was watching Dagon thinking, simply a killer? He nodded, feeling his stomach clench. To actually go to the edge of a Forbidden Zone…He turned to Suen and saw something else there in her expression: a kind of set stubbornness, a determination to carry something through. He had seen that look before and it brought to him a feeling of hopeless dread. She nodded once as if by his look he had guessed her intention and she was confirming it. She reached into her pack and took out a leather-bound book. She held it up.

  “In the morning we head for the Forbidden Zone beyond North Forest, by the coast,” she said. Cheydar knew the book. It was one of Tarrin’s.

  “We will be caught and killed before we get there,” he said. “Any route will take us through the Cariphe’s lands. If we go South we can take the road to Elmarch and the Forbidden Zone there nearly touches on the road.”

  “We go to North Forest, by the coast.”

  There would be no arguing with her. She turned to Dagon, who had taken out one of his swords and was running a stone up and down the blade.

  “Will you be with us?”

  “Of course,” he said. He looked around at them. “Sleep now, I will watch.” Cheydar returned the look.

  “Wake me in two hours,” he said.

  Dagon took out a pocket watch, checked it, then nodded and moved off into the darkness. The sky was lightening, but the sun had yet to break over the horizon. Like a corroded coin the sulphurous moon Linx traversed the sky, one edge gilded by the approaching sun. Steeleye was a misty orb all but lost behind thin cirrus. There was frost on the boulders, layers of mist out in the scrub.

  “Father will be very annoyed,” said Eric.

  “Ah, but he will be well rested,” said Dagon. He stood next to a boulder, an air gun cradled before him. Eric did not recognise the design. He walk
ed up and stood beside this warrior.

  “Your weapon,” he said.

  Dagon flipped the gun around, handed it across.

  Eric said, “Valved gas cylinder…how many shots?”

  “Five. The darts are in that revolving barrel and are automatically presented.”

  “I’ve never seen its like before.”

  “They’re made in Elmarch and are standard issue to the army there. They’re the reason the Cariphe keeps to his borders.”

  “I’d like to go there. So would David. They say it is always sunny and the King’s navy is always looking for volunteers.” Eric handed the weapon back.

  “They’re normally volunteered with a club on the back of the head. Try the Border Legion, you’ll have better luck there.”

  Dagon turned and started walking back to the camp. Eric followed.

  “That’s where you’re from then?”

  “Yes.”

  Eric glanced back. He’s from Elmarch, he thought, staring at the ground. Something…He shook his head and halted. Yes. Where Dagon had stood there were two prints in the frosted ground ivy. No prints other than those Eric had just made coming out here and the both of them were now making as they walked back. There had to be a reasonable explanation. No man could stand as still as a statue all night, or fly, or just appear out of thin air.

  “I would say that if we skulked all the way to North Forest we’d more likely be caught than if we just travelled there openly. Head into Giltown, rent a carriage and take it right to the edge of the Wilder. Much less chance of getting caught,” said Cheydar. He felt that if they must make this insane journey it would be best to do it quickly.

  “I leave that decision in your hands. You are the soldier,” said Suen. Cheydar grimaced. Subterfuge was hardly soldier’s work. He turned to Dagon. “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re right,” answered the warrior. “The priesthood is geared that way: they’ll be looking for people who look guilty, who are trying to hide, they’ll always be looking for that kind. Best to go boldly, pretend to Lord Right, even priestliness.” The last word came out with a touch of contempt.

  “You don’t have much liking of priests do you,” said Suen.

  “I just don’t like the ignorance of faith,” he shot back at her. The coach house at Giltown was a sprawling affair with many attached stables and low buildings for the coaches and, because it was on the main trade route from Elmarch, the carts of traders. Even from a distance the bellowing of the titanotheres could be heard, and in the fields all around grew tree ferns; fodder for the great beasts.

  Beyond the coach house the rest of the town consisted of red brick houses with many storeys leaning precariously over a street leading down to a dock crowded with low black barges. It was on these that goods were brought up from the richer southern country and traded for metal ores mined around Ompotec.

  “The priesthood keeps to the agreement,” said Cheydar as he walked at Dagon’s side to the reception building of the coach house. “There is never mining in the Wilder, nothing like that.”

  “There has never been the need,” replied Dagon. “The established mines supply all the demand there is.” He looked at Cheydar. “If they did mine in the Wilder that would bring the Proctors back and believe me, that’s the last thing the priesthood wants. They have no wish to appear in any way powerless.” The main building of the coachhouse was ringed with a low veranda on which priest soldiers lolled and inspected passers by. Dagon and Cheydar ignored them as they mounted the steps and went in through the main door. Within, a fat bald official sat at a desk sorting through sheaves of paper. He glanced at them over half-moon glasses and continued with his work until Dagon, as agreed, walked up and addressed him.

  “The Lady Vemeer requires a coach to take her North,” he said, and dropped a bag of metal money on the table. Cheydar contained his surprise; that hadn’t been in the game plan. The official delicately pulled at the strings of the bag and opened it. His eyes widened at what he saw inside and with a glance to the door he quickly slid it across his desk and dropped it in his lap.

  “We are in a hurry, a Metrarch awaits her presence.”

  “The gold phaeton would be best. I will take you to it.” He slid the money into a pocket, picked up some forms from a stack beside him and led the way to the door. Once outside he turned away from the priest soldiers and led the way around the side of the building. The soldiers inspected the trio with expected suspicion, but did nothing.

  “Will you be requiring a driver?”

  “No.”

  “Ah.”

  They shortly came to a man who sat on the edge of a water trough while watching some girls work at cleaning out the huge stables. The man looked bored. He held a short whip in one hand and was methodically slapping it against his leg. To one side, in a compound with fences five feet tall and made of tree trunks, a male titanothere ate from a huge basket fixed to the stable wall. The grey hide behind its head was goad-scarred and there were calluses on its sloping back and sagging belly, from the cart straps. A couple of the fist-shaped horns on its head had been broken off, probably in mating fights, and its small piggy eyes regarded the world with seeming indifference. It flicked warble flies away from its huge rump with an inadequate tail, twitched its mussel-shell ears. When it leaned its many tons against the fence the tree trunks bowed and looked as if they might break.

  “Feruth, the gold phaeton, how quickly can you have it ready?” The man pushed himself upright and gave Cheydar and Dagon a probing look. “What’s the hurry?”

  “A lady visiting a Metrarch,” said the official.

  “Ah.” The man made no move until the official tapped his pocket and the clink of money could be heard. He grinned, nodded. “I’ll have it ready in a couple of hours.” He moved off. The official turned away from him to Cheydar and Dagon. He met Cheydar’s look. “Yes, I know; shocking isn’t it?”

  Dagon said, “You’ll send for us when the coach is ready?”

  “Yes. Where will you be?”

  “The tavern. The lady waits there now. We shall have a meal there and hope to hear from you soon after?”

  “So it will be.”

  The official gave a little bow to them and they moved off.

  “They have no honour, these people,” said Cheydar, after a moment.

  “Money and power command respect. There are few people who can even be true to themselves. You should have realised that long ago.”

  “You are cynical, Dagon.”

  “I see things as they are.”

  “You believe so?”

  “Unfortunately, I know so.”

  Cheydar allowed that to sink in for a moment then said, “The money, did Suen give it to you?”

  “It was my own.”

  “You shall be reimbursed.”

  Cheydar just caught the quickly repressed smile.

  The tavern was similar in construction to the coach house; red brick and sagging, ringed with wooden verandas. The areas around the buildings were dry, as was the slabbed road. The verandas around most buildings were an indication that later in the year the combination of rain and traffic would turn the bald ground to a quagmire. Dagon stepped up onto the veranda first, and while waiting behind him, Cheydar glanced back the way they had come. That the priest soldiers from the coach house had followed them he gave no indication until he was inside the building.

  “We have company, five of them,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “What would you suggest? You seem more able at subterfuge than myself.”

  “I feel that should they seek identification from us subterfuge will be wasted.”

  “Even if we kill them all here, others will come after us riding titanotheres and catch us on the road.”

  “I will think of something,” said Dagon.

  The room beyond the door was like a thousand other rooms of taverns. Suen and the rest sat at a long table, sipping at goblets of orange wine while a yo
ung man laid out food for them. Cheydar noted with approval that his sons, though staring at the food wide-eyed, were waiting for Suen to break bread and offer them a piece. Ritual; the lady feeding her bondsmen.

  “Go and join them. I will go to the bar.”

  Cheydar made to obey then stopped himself. “You give commands very easily,” he said, his face grim.

  “Now is not the time, Cheydar. I can get us out of this.”

  “You are isolating yourself.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  At that moment the five priest soldiers came in through the door. Cheydar met Dagon’s look only for a moment then went and sat with Suen. From there he watched Dagon walk to the bar, a sudden arrogance in his walk, contempt in the glance he threw at the soldiers. The soldiers gazed around the tavern then followed him.

  “What is happening?” asked Suen.

  “I don’t…” Cheydar stared, then realised. Of course. He cursed then turned to Suen. “I think he’s going to force a duel. Even priest soldiers stick to some of the Code.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Win or lose the rest of them will not harass us, not immediately. One night must pass between blood-lettings else duel will degenerate into open brawl or battle.”

  “Can we be sure of that?”

  “With them, no, Lady. It is the best chance we have, though.” At the bar there was a sudden altercation. Dagon shoved one of the soldiers back.

  “Be prepared to stand by your words!” he shouted, as if angry and very offended. Cheydar noted that he had picked on the officer. He aimed to behead, perhaps literally. The officer regained his balance and said something more. Dagon struck him back handed across the face then stepped to one side as another of the men made a grab for him. His sword was an arc of light between. One of the men stumbled back holding his forearm. The others kept out of the way. Cheydar was on his feet, with his air gun in his hand, and coming up beside Dagon in a moment. His sons were behind him. Dagon glanced at him.