Children of the Wastes (The Aionach Saga Book 2) (65 page)

“Yes, sir.” Depliades saluted and left.

Merrick went purple again before he emerged from his office
and entered the conference room. “Hopefully by now Mr. Depliades has informed
you all of the changes,” he said. “I’ve decided to listen to your plea and
close the borders. Muties, zoomheads, gangers, knee-scrapers… I want everyone
out. Round them up and ship them back where they came from. Anyone who causes a
disturbance, or anyone who commits a violent crime, Mobile Ops and the Sentries
have my express permission to use deadly force. Also, cripples, invalids, those
with mental health problems, and anyone who refuses to work, is hereby banished
from North Belmond. We’re paring down, gentlemen. Desperate times, as you’ve
wisely pointed out. Make it happen.”

The captains nodded their relief and rose to do their new
Commissar’s bidding.

“Hold on. Just one more thing. Captain Buckwald, I want two
Mobile Ops platoons dressed in full gear and mustered in the south barracks
yard in one hour. I’ll need a set of fatigues for myself as well.”

Natter’s mouth twitched. He was a twitchy sort of fellow, a
habit which often gave him away when he least wanted to be figured out. “May I
ask what for, sir?”

“We’re going on a field trip. During my brief time with the
Gray Revenants, we discovered an inhabited church next to an old plaza called
Union Park. The Revs believed the people who lived in the church were hiding
some kind of huge holdover from the days of the Ministry. We staged a big raid
against the place, but we didn’t get very far. If nothing else, I saw some
livestock wandering around inside. They’ve got to have some way to survive in
there, being that they make only limited contact with the outside world. Even
if we don’t find a huge score, it’s a food source that might help us hold out here
a little longer while we wait for the caravans.”

“You’re referring to the Order of the Most High Infernal
Mouth,” said Ibrahim Newhook, the broad-bellied commander of the Signal
Division, stroking the gray patches beside his pointed black beard.

“That’s them. Yeah.”

“Commissar Wax had a standing agreement not to interfere in
their affairs,” said Newhook.

“Why?”

“He didn’t tell us. His orders were to leave them alone.”

“Well, the Order doesn’t have that agreement with me,”
Merrick said.

“You want to march through the city south and knock down
their door for a couple of goats and some chickens? We have thousands of people
to feed, even after we deport the southers.”

“There’s more there,” Merrick said. “I know there is. I’m
going to find out what they’re hiding.”

“You’re… going with them?”

“It’ll be just like I used to do with Mobile Ops in the old
days. I’ll lead the mission myself.”
Wax never did that when he was in
charge
, Merrick thought proudly.
Wax never put himself in danger; never
risked life and limb for this city he claimed to love so much
.

“As you say, sir.”

“That’s all. Now get going. I want that border sealed by
midnight and the city cleared out over the next few days.”

“Am I to understand this is only a temporary closure?” asked
Dietmar Wohrman, the Artillery Division’s straight-laced, shaved-headed
commander.

“That’s right,” Merrick said. “Someday Belmond will be
unified. At the moment, we can’t afford to let a bunch of rabble roam the
streets, making things unsafe for the rest of us.”

Wohrman inhaled through his nose and gave a slow, delayed
nod.

“Shelder is in charge while I’m gone,” Merrick said. “He’s
not to make any decisions or take any action whatsoever unless it’s entirely
necessary and can’t wait a few days. By the way, Captain Buckwald. I’m a size
forty-three waist and a size forty-one chest.”

Natter Buckwald looked at him blankly.

“For my uniform.”

“Right. Got it. What was that again? Forty and thirty-one?”

“Forty-three and forty-one.”

“Okay. Was that chest, or…?”

Merrick clarified one last time, then dismissed everyone. He
returned to his office, got high again, packed a bag for the trip, and
descended to the Hull Tower’s lobby with a complement of Scarred bodyguards,
intent on meeting his excursion force at the barracks. He’d tried to come down
here at least once a day to heal as many people as he could, but he hadn’t
gotten around to it as often lately. Without frequent trips to the power
station, he’d been forced to limit his activity.

Despite his many marathon healing sessions, the crowd hadn’t
lessened in size by any discernible measure. Whereas citizens’ original
complaints had included things like hernias, cancers, venereal disease, broken
bones and bacterial infections, people were coming to him now for things like
pulled muscles and sore throats.
You give them a miracle, and they want an
extra helping
, he thought sourly.

His bodyguards guided him out the door and began shoving
their way through the crowd. The people swarmed him, crushing him inside a ring
of muscled soldiers. They got stuck for a few seconds as the bodyguards in
front dealt with the press in their path, and Merrick felt the brief, panicky
sensation of drowning.

As they retreated from the building, the crowd moved with
them. That was when Merrick knew he had no choice but to stop. He screamed for
everyone to clear away, that he’d heal them if they calmed down and gave him
some room. They calmed, but no one wanted to give up their spot, so they stood
around like cattle, able to hear but too dumb to move.

Merrick healed them two at a time, until he was so tired and
disoriented he’d need to get high again to stop himself falling asleep. Before
leaving the crowds behind, he told the unhealed citizens to come back in a
couple of days when he returned from his trip.

After escaping the throng, Merrick told his bodyguards to
wait around the side of a building while he went into the alley to take a shit.
Instead he hid behind a dumpster, lit his pipe and went purple until he was
cross-eyed.

He was soaring by the time they arrived at the barracks gate.

“Commissar to take command of First and Second Mobile
Operations,” announced one of his bodyguards.

The guards opened the gate. One broke away from his fellows
and came toward Merrick as he was passing through. “Merrick? Merrick Bouchard?
Is that really you? I can’t believe you’re the new Commissar.” Goose-necked
Keller Henderthwaite fell into lockstep with him, a look of astonishment
plastered across his face.

Where was this dway when Wax was announcing my
inauguration?
Merrick wondered.
Or when I decapitated him? Probably
guarding the gate
. It was odd to think there were still people who didn’t
know he was the Commissar.
Some people don’t pay attention to politics, I
guess
. “Hey, Keller. Yeah, it’s me. How you been?”

“Good. I’m really happy for you. This is so… unexpected.”

“Can’t complain,” Merrick said with a shrug. He tried not to
notice the way Keller winced when he caught sight of his scarred, disfigured
face. Wax’s bullet had only mangled his appearance further. He was hideous now;
he hardly looked like the same person as a long year ago. The cheekbone had
healed well enough, but there was no telling how sound the brain matter behind
it might be.

“What brings you to us today?” Keller asked, affecting his
best flattered sycophant impression.

“Unfinished business.”

Keller nodded, as if Merrick had just given him a
dissertation in a single breath. “Let us know at the gatehouse if there’s
anything you need.”

What could the gatehouse possibly have that I need?
Merrick almost said. “Okay.”

Keller fell out of step with him and locked his heels in a
rigid salute.

Merrick gave him a half-hearted, two-fingered flick in
response.

The First and Second Mobile Ops were two perfect rectangles
of neutral color lined up across the south yard, sweating beneath their caps.
Merrick wiped his own brow as he walked the line, surveying his troops.
His
troops. It felt good to say that to himself, though the majority of the Second
Platoon were his former cohorts, men he had trained with and run missions beside.

Merrick picked out Coker Reed and Jettle Trimbold, two of the
close friends who had helped him home the night he’d first encountered the
shepherd. They had no idea what fate had befallen Admison Kugh in the city
south, he realized. He thought of Kugh drowning in that barrel, a sacrifice to
the followers who had propelled him toward the place he was today. Now those
followers were criminals in this promised land, fated to be rounded up and
exiled.

Several men in the Second appeared to recognize Merrick
despite his disfigurement. They were too well-trained to break formation or
smile, but he could see it in their eyes, a sort of
who-does-this-dway-think-he-is
glint coming through their stoic expressions. Merrick ignored that, inspecting
the men as if for the first time.

An aide handed him his fatigues. They were the wrong size. He
should’ve expected it; a man doesn’t acquire a nickname like “Natter” by being
the standout intellectual among his peers.

“Take these back and get me some size forty-three pants and a
large jacket,” he told the aide.

“Sir.” Dust chased the man’s footsteps to the armory.

Merrick turned back to the platoons. Something didn’t feel
right. He took a quick head count. The Second was lined up by squad; four rows,
but only nine men to a row instead of ten. “Why are we four men short in the
Second?” he asked no one in particular.

The Second Platoon’s first squad leader stepped forward,
spoke, and stepped back. “Wartime losses, sir.”

“What losses? We’re not at war.”

The squad leader was silent.

“What are you talking about?” Merrick said. After another
moment: “Okay, at ease. What’s this all about?”

“Prefer to speak privately, sir.”

Merrick gave an exasperated sigh. “Alright, get over here.”

“There was a mission, sir,” the squad leader whispered when
they were out of earshot. “A mission to take you out.”

Merrick feigned surprise. “Oh there was, was there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And?”

“They never came back.”

“Wax sent some dways to kill me, and you never heard from
them again?”

“That’s right, sir.”

Merrick stared the sergeant in the eye. “We’re going to be in
close quarters for the next few days. You, me, and all your men. Any of you
gets the idea he doesn’t like the new dway in charge, you just remember the
ones who never came back. We understand each other?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re in command, Sergeant. Get your dways ready to march.
I want four-by-tens—or… nines, in your case.”

“No briefing, sir?”

“I’ll brief the men when we’re closer. We’re headed south
toward Olney Street. That’s all you need to know.”

Epilogue

The stranger came to town on a shimmering tide, the
hottest weather the people of Bradsleigh had seen since the start of the short
year. It was supposed to cool down over these months; new things that hadn’t
sprouted since last year were supposed to grow in the scrublands and in
backyard gardens all across town. When the stranger came, the long year seemed
to dwindle on the air like the last vestiges of pink on lightburned skin.

For days now, Savannah Glaive had seen the stranger every day
when she went riding. She found him standing in a different spot each day,
though he never came within half a horizon of the town proper. He was wrapped
in heavy cloth that covered everything but a few inches of his face. He never
moved, as if willing Bradsleigh to come closer to him instead of the other way
around.

And always, there were the dogs.

Every mutt and mongrel in town had been going nuts since the
stranger showed up, howling and baying and barking at all hours of the day and
night. Probably it was the stranger’s canines that had them going, little
wasteland critters which looked half-fox and half-coyote. Jackals, she thought
they were called. While the stranger stood still, the jackals never stopped
moving. They were like a whirlwind around him, a tornado of fur, red and gray
and brown.

Savannah was convinced something needed to be done about the
stranger. She told Arnie about him, but Arnie said unless the stranger came in
past the town line there was nothing he could do.
Bullshit, there’s nothing
you can do
, she thought.
You can be a coffing man and ride out to ask
the dway what he wants
. But Arnie wouldn’t budge.

With the Decylumites gone and this stranger watching the town
day and night, Savannah began to regret her harshness toward Raith and his
friends. She was alone again, and that made her sad. Her sadness had pulled her
into a miry depression she couldn’t seem to shake. She felt less safe than
ever, though feeling unsafe didn’t strike her as such a big deal anymore. There
was no color in the world. Nothing interested her; nothing excited her. Her
depression began to weigh more heavily each day, and none of her chores or
responsibilities around the estate took her mind off it.

Savannah was used to running the estate on her own, but it
felt worlds different with both her parents gone. Since the day Lethari Prokin
brought her father home in a casket, she’d become increasingly aware of how
alone she was. Never again would she hear Daddy coming in the front door after
a long trip abroad, stomping the dust off his boots, smelling of daylight and
sweat, to wrap her in a big hug that was gross and stinky and made her laugh
all at once. No one would ever come back—except maybe Uncle Toler. If he showed
up, it would only be to take the shipping crates and leave for Unterberg again.

Those shipping crates, and the old office building in the
shipping yard, had been a constant source of worry for her lately. She often
had nightmares about windy nights where the gusts came so strong they sucked
open the doors and windows, letting tachylids scuttle out through the darkness
to devour the town and its livestock like locusts. That dream wasn’t
far-removed from reality, she knew. The high fence and the shipping crates
might keep the tachies contained for a time, but she was fairly sure the
creatures could vault over those obstacles with little effort.

There soon came a day when Savannah found herself believing
she should solve this problem with the stranger herself. She tried to be
afraid, but she wasn’t. She tried to care about her well-being, but she
couldn’t. Her livestock were important to the people of Bradsleigh, but someone
would take over the estate if anything happened to her. She didn’t matter. Her
life wasn’t worth worrying over. She was alone, and there was no one in the
world who cared whether she lived or died. Everything was gray.

Savannah stopped to say hello to Jerichai on her way to the
stables for her morning ride. “Is that stranger still out there?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Jerichai. “Hasn’t moved all morning.”

“I’m going out to talk to him.”

“You sure you want to do that, ma’am?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe I could come with you.”

“Sure, if you like.”

Jerichai, though already mounted on his own horse,
accompanied her to the stables. He was nearly ten years older than her, but he
was still one of the closest people to her age in Bradsleigh. There weren’t
many of those anymore. There never had been, really, except when she was very
young. All the older men who came around to woo her were close to her father’s
age.

She found it a wonder that none of the hired hands had ever
made a pass at her. Jerichai and the others came to work every day when they
were supposed to, reported in, and took shifts to watch at the pastures by
night. Maybe they weren’t as interested in her as the other men because they
knew how small the Glaive fortune really was. All she had left to pay them with
was fresh slaughter from the herds. The meat of the Glaive cattle was the best
around, but it was far from a boudoir overflowing with gold and Savannah’s
fertility, as was the rumor.

Her grulla cob, whom she called Johnny Strong, got a whiff of
the stranger and his dogs as soon as she led him from the stables. The horse
shook his mane and sidled off a few steps.

“It’s alright. Hey, it’s alright, kid,” she said, giving his
forehead a good rubdown. Savannah had always liked the way Toler called his
horses
kid
, like they were his children instead of animals. Her dad had
always treated them like commodities, useful only for riding and eating and
working the fields.

Johnny Strong did okay with being ridden, but he was still
learning. Savannah mounted and came alongside Jerichai, whose mare Koba was
well broken-in. Jerichai was good on horseback and could handle a carbine. She
was glad to have him with her, though she would’ve gone without him just as
easily.

They rode out into the scrubs together until they could see
the stranger through the
mirari
, a watery black streak in a sea of
golden brown. The jackals were circling him like children waiting to be set
free. Savannah had never seen anyone take jackals as pets before. She’d never
seen a pack of wild desert dogs acting so tame and docile either. They were
slender and scrappy, with long perked ears and a wolf’s coat and jowls. The
thing she noticed most of all was that they looked hungry.

Johnny Strong protested as they came close, giving her a
snort and a shake as she urged him forward. “There, there, now,” she said,
stroking his mane. “Anything goes wrong, we’ll take off in a hurry, you and me.
Don’t you trouble yourself about that.”

“I’ve got you, ma’am,” Jerichai added, tapping the butt of
his carbine, holstered beside his saddle. The poor hands were there to chase
away predators and scare thieves, but they rarely saw any action aside from the
occasional prowling wolf or wandering brengen. Savannah was sure Jerichai’s
trigger finger must be itchy by now.

Infernal was high and sweltering, though she could feel the
short year through the heat and was all the more relieved for it. She’d be
outside more often when the winter growth came in—if it did come in this
year—storing up for another long summer. This long year had seemed the longest
yet, often driving her to the basement to escape the midday temperatures.

“Excuse me, sir,” Savannah shouted, hailing the stranger with
a wave as she approached. When he failed to move or reply, she reined up
several yards off. “Is there something I can help you with, sir?”

Johnny Strong was truly frightened now, breathing fast and
swinging his head side to side. The stranger was clad head to toe in a formless
shroud. He wore black leather boots and a dark cloth hood, which joined with
the thick brown-gray hair on his face to conceal his features. He made so
little movement that for a moment Savannah could’ve sworn he was a statue. The
jackals paced, circling him while they stared at her through pale yellow eyes.
There were dogs of all sizes, from pups to full-grown adults—at least a dozen
of them, by her count.

“We’ve noticed you up here for a few days in a row now,” she
said. “Are you hungry? Do your dogs want something to drink? I’ve got water and
food back in the stables.” She hiked a thumb over her shoulder.

The stranger shifted his head ever so slightly to look at
her. Peering out from beneath that hood and the snarls of beard within were the
most unsettling golden-yellow eyes she had ever seen. Eyes to match those of
the wild dogs at his heels, almost as if he were one himself.

“Do you need help?” she repeated.

Jerichai cleared his throat. “Hey. Mister. The lady asked you
a question.”

The stranger made no move to answer. His dogs were intent on
her now, watching her and Johnny and Jerichai and Koba, tongues lolling in the
heat. Savannah got the distinct sensation that they were on some sort of
invisible leash, barely able to restrain themselves but for the influence of
their master.

The daylight blazed. The dogs circled, the horses stamped,
and the stranger remained still. Savannah was so hot and tired and irritated
that what would normally have struck her as an insane idea seemed a viable one.
She didn’t care
why
he wasn’t responding—whether he was doing it to
scare her, or because he couldn’t talk, or because, for some reason, he was
afraid of her. All she wanted was to get some sort of communication out of
him—that, or get him to leave Bradsleigh alone.

She dismounted, putting herself between her horse and the
stranger. She drew her father’s long-barreled revolver—the one whose twin Toler
had taken with him when he’d gone off to work for Nichel Vantanible—and raised
it toward the black-cloaked man.

“Savvy—ma’am,” Jerichai said. “Careful now. I wouldn’t, uh…”

When even this blatant display of aggression didn’t garner a
reaction from the stranger, Savannah began to shout at him. “Hey. I’m going to
have to do something if you don’t clear out of here. Your dogs are scaring my
livestock, and unless you want my help, you’d best be moving on. This is Glaive
land you’re standing on, and we don’t take kindly to squatters.”

It was the bravest she’d ever felt. She knew she should’ve
been more afraid than she was. She
wanted
to be more afraid. That
would’ve made her feel normal. She knew her fearlessness was rooted in her
despair; she knew her depression was the reason she didn’t care more for her
own safety. It was liberating, in a way. Bringing herself to the brink of
danger felt more to her like living than anything she’d done in a long time.

“Hey. I’m talking to you,” she said, taking an exaggerated
step forward, trying to make it feel quick and sudden. She was still pointing
the revolver at the stranger. “What do you want? How come you’re here?”

One of the little wolf-dogs stopped in its tracks to growl at
her. The stranger didn’t move.

Even with a gun in his face, he won’t budge?
Savannah
thought with disbelief. This man was made of braver stuff than she. That was
the thought which shook her confidence. Had he drawn a weapon on her, she
would’ve run home and locked herself inside the house. Yet he was nowhere near
hostility; he was altogether calm and collected.

Now that Savannah was close, she could see the rising and
falling of the stranger’s chest as he breathed. A subtle thing, but a sign of
life nonetheless. He wasn’t a statue after all. She was within a few fathoms of
him now, the jackals running shallow gouges into the ground so close to her
that the sand was drifting over the toes of her riding boots.

She glanced back at Jerichai, who was still seated on Koba,
one hand on the butt of his carbine. She turned back to the stranger. A long
moment passed, jackals in motion, stranger motionless. Savannah’s heart was
pounding so loud she could hear it in her ears. “Hey,” she shouted, looking
straight into those golden-yellow eyes. “Hey, mister. What do you want?”

The stranger spoke. A word; just one. It crackled from his
throat like a dry leaf, violent as a hurricane.

Then he moved.