Читать книгу The Puzzler’s War - Eyal Kless - Страница 8

 Initializing.

 Date and time are not known.

 Reporting full physical functions and health.

 No specific orders embedded in my surface memory.

 Vessel is of a middle-aged woman showing Asian heritage, dark skinned. Height and weight under average for women in this hemisphere.

 Vessel has been grown for reconnaissance and infiltration, not combat. Normal physical limitations and only basic damage resistance. Pain dumpers fully functioning, and standard combat capabilities and reflexes. ESM active.

 No internal equipment is detected. For security reasons, I will not use external equipment to contact headquarters.

 The sterilized compartment contains basic gear, light clothing, nourishment pills, rapid hair growth salve, and such, but no weapons or other equipment. Therefore I conclude this is an emergency bunker and not a normal operation-level hub.

 Initiating silent mode, dictating events into the organic internal drive. I will continue to do so until I run out of space or find an opportunity to upload.

 The bunker is running on a minimum power level. I have detected a second vessel, a female combat breed, but it has sustained some kind of damage or malfunction and is ruined beyond repair. Perhaps this is why I have awoken in this vessel.

 Since my orders are unclear and the bunker is in some sort of malfunction, I am initiating survival code Alpha.

 Switching to personal, internal briefing.

I knew something was wrong the moment I opened my eyes. It wasn’t just the physical state of the place—I’ve woken up in worse conditions—or the fact that my vessel was a middle-aged Asian female. From a muscle-ripped warrior to a nine-year-old child, I’d occupied all kinds of vessels on my past missions. Yet this time, something bothered me on a more fundamental level.

I knew who I was and I knew my assignment. I was to locate and find a young woman, Emilija, and bring her safe and sound to a rendezvous point—but that was it. No details on the girl—not even what she looked like—no threat assessments, no extract team, not even the exact location I was supposed to bring the girl to, only that she should not be harmed and that I should head to Tarkania, the City of Towers. I can’t say this scared me—I’ve been through too much to become unhinged by the absence of ideal circumstances—but I took note of the fact that headquarters was not responding; this was not a usual situation. At least the mission was a simple “find and retrieve,” not an assassination or my specialty, mass sabotage. I wondered who the girl was. She seemed to be important enough for command to deploy someone of my rank and status.

I also had an overwhelming, inexplicable desire for a peach. This, too, was not out of the ordinary for a hibernating agent. Sometimes during the transition into the new vessel some odd quirks would take hold. You might wake up hating milk, or wanting to wear clothes in the colour of blue or, like me right now, dying for a peach. It was not a big deal, but this sort of thing usually happened when the hibernating agent was shelved for a long period of time, more than a month or two, for sure.

There were too many unanswered questions, too many variables, and with all signals from the outside world blocked I could not see what was waiting for me outside, or even where I was on the globe.

There was just enough air being recycled in the small bunker, but it was not of the best quality. It made me queasy, and so the first order of the day was to get out of the place. It proved to be more of a problem than I expected; I soon found the exit tunnel had collapsed and my way was blocked by debris. I had to improvise some tools and work several hours to clear the tunnel, sustaining some minor damage—mainly bruises and cuts.

When I eventually managed to reach the sealed door, I had to manually unlock it, brace against the wall, and push away a heavy slab of concrete that lay on top of the door. This was a good thing as it meant no hostile welcoming committee was waiting for me outside, yet I found out soon enough how dire my situation really was.

At first I thought I’d emerged on a wooded hillside of some sort. I climbed up to a vantage point, a slab of broken concrete laden with rich moss, and began slowly surveying the premises, concentrating on each tiny detail and trying to piece them into a bigger picture. It was a vast, unrecognisable city that had sustained heavy damage of catastrophic proportions. I’d seen a lot during my course of duty, but this took some time to sink in.

With the exception of several small animals—birds and squirrels, mainly—there was no indication of any living beings. My body detected residue of nuclear waste still lingering in the air, but not at a health-threatening level so long as I left the contaminated area in a week’s time. Assuming there was cleaner air elsewhere.

Despite the destruction, or maybe because of it, nature was slowly claiming back the land. In fact, only the most elevated parts, which could be seen in the distance, were not covered with thick foliage. By the condition of the ruins and the fauna I guessed this city had been in a ruined state for a long time and there were no visible efforts of recovery, which ruled out an accident or natural disaster. Yet if a large city remained levelled for so long, it was a sure sign of a larger conflict, perhaps a destroyed civilisation. I just had to figure out which one. At least I knew that since I was awake, my side still existed.

I had to admit that despite the utter shock at what I was seeing and its implications, having had my predictions—filed in numerous postassignment reports—come true gave me the tiniest spark of professional pride. I’d seen it coming, I really had. Over the course of two decades, my assignments had gone from subtle to almost crudely aggressive. I told myself each time that I might not be seeing the big picture, that Central Command found the missions worth the risk despite knowing their actions created enormous enmity and suspicion. I guess we were all wrong. Nothing was worth this.

A light rain began to fall. I got up and began moving cautiously towards the more visible ruins on higher ground. I passed under a ruined bridge and climbed up another only to have to backtrack. At some point I reached a huge trench, at least forty feet deep and thirty wide. The surface of the bottom, which was not covered in mud, glistened as rain bounced off it. It was hardened, dark blue glass. Something very hot had crystalized the earth it touched. The walls were charcoal dark but had the same reflective effect as the bottom. The trench went right and left for as far as I could see, as if God had decided to carve his initials on the city’s surface with a very hot knife. A combat vessel would have been able to clear the gap with a running jump, but I had to spend an hour searching for a fallen tree with which to create a bridge for myself.

The drizzle was getting heavier, and my canvas boots were not meant for this sort of hiking. I was wet and cold, and despite having consumed a nourishment pill I felt a growing pang of hunger for real food. I decided not to spend time trying to hunt as I was weaponless and any source of sustenance would most likely be contaminated.

Night was cold and wet. Rain was falling constantly and I hugged myself into a light doze, taking shelter inside a crumbling ruin. From the height of the ceiling I guessed it used to be a building of giant proportions. Now only a corner and a far wall remained. Before I let myself rest, I spotted a flicker of a bonfire in the distance but decided against treading in the slippery darkness for the chance I might meet a friendly face. I suspected anyone sitting around a bonfire in these ruins might not be the most accommodating of individuals.

It was the right decision.

The next day I managed to track down the bonfire. There were the chewed remains of four small mammals, most likely squirrels. By the look of the foot imprints and the amount and trajectory of the urine I concluded there were at least three people, probably all males.

Half a day later I spotted one of them climbing a pile of crumbling stones. He was a young man with long and unkempt brown hair, carrying several items hanging from a large belt which suggested he was some kind of a trophy hunter. The most interesting item I could tell he was carrying was a short sword strapped to his belt.

He had his back turned to me, so I had a moment to decide whether to keep tracking him from a distance, hail him in the hope of a peaceful conversation, or incapacitate him and take his gear. I gave the encounter a 60 percent chance of being resolved peacefully. This time I was wrong. My decision-making process was cut short when I heard the rustling of leaves and a stern voice saying, “Don’t you rusting move, bitch.”

I turned my head to see a man standing on elevated ground, dressed in a worn army camouflage uniform. I couldn’t tell which army, as the insignia had faded. What I could easily detect was the hunting bow that he had aimed at my chest. A real wooden bow, with crude but effective-looking arrow tips that would rip a large enough hole in my vessel to cause an inconvenience.

The young guy in front turned. “Bukra’s balls,” he said, the intonation suggesting this was a swear of sorts, “where the fuck did you come from?”

“From behind you, dumbass,” the man holding the bow answered, without taking his eyes from me. “She’s been tailing us for a while, but your head is too full of moonshine to notice.”

“I’m just lost.” I heard my own voice as I spoke out loud for the first time in this existence. It came out weak and high-pitched. I hated it.

“Balls you are, there’s no one living here for miles.” Another man walked out from behind a large tree trunk, halfway between the youngest man and myself. I figured my chances for a peaceful resolution went down another significant notch. From the three of them, he looked the most dangerous. Almost double my height and definitely triple my weight, his oversized bald head was full of scars, but I didn’t pay attention to the rest of him since I was concentrating on the sawed-off shotgun that was levelled at me. It was an antique, the sort that had to be manually pumped and shot metal bullets. I was not about to find out if it actually worked.

“Where’s your crew, bitch?”

“I … I have no crew, I’m just …”

He raised the shotgun as he walked slowly towards me. From the way he moved, it was obvious he was an experienced warrior.

“This is no-man’s-land. The only creatures here are two-headed lions and Salvationist crews tired of Lizard hunting in the valley. You are no lion, old bag, so I’ll ask this again before I’ll start inflicting pain: tell me where’s your rusting crew, right now.”

“Half a mile behind me,” I answered quickly. There was no point in trying to persuade him otherwise. “We found an old emergency bunker and I was sent to scout.”

He paused. I could see the bowman relaxing a bit. I was not an expert on medieval weaponry but I figured there was only so long you could maintain an aiming position with such a bow before the strain on your arms became a problem.

“You lie, we know this place well. This area has no bunkers.”

“It was well hidden under a large rock.”

The youngest male climbed back down and was heading our way. “I know,” he declared enthusiastically, “let’s fuck her.”

From my peripheral vision I saw the bowman twisting his face in disgust. “Ooh, Malk, look at her …”

“Hey,” the younger man called Malk protested, “when was the last time you had better?”

The bowman seemed to consider this and finally shrugged. “You might have a point.”

“What do you say, Dun?” the enthusiastic rapist asked the shotgun-aiming man, who smiled.

“Yeah, we’ll fuck the bitch some new holes, but first we need to interrogate her.” He moved forward with intent and I backed away, raising my hands.

“No, please—”

“I take dibs,” Malk declared.

“You go last,” the bald man grunted as he stepped towards me.

“Oh man, Dun … I always go last …”

Dun lunged at me and caught my arm, his oversized palm completely enveloping my forearm. He held the shotgun with his other hand, but once he caught me he felt secure enough to raise the muzzle to the sky, probably planning to hand the gun to the younger man.

My vessel was a noncombat type, but every vessel has an ESM—emergency survival mode—when you pump your vessel with enough adrenaline to kill an average elephant. Once it passes, it leaves the vessel in a weakened state, but for just a little while you become a killing machine. I was proficient in three dozen martial arts to a fifth dan or equivalent degree, and the fact that my bones had hardened to metal strength and I moved at nearly double my normal speed made the whole affair almost easy. With my free hand I punched the bald man in the chest and felt, as well as heard, his ribs crack. He was not feeling the damage yet, but his mouth gaped open from the shock of the impact. With all my senses heightened, I heard the stretching sound of the bowstring as the man to my right began to react. Moving the brute once my second punch dislodged his jaw was as easy as throwing a rag doll. My timing was not perfect but I still managed to place him in the path of the incoming arrow. It buried itself in his back with a satisfying thud, causing him to arch backwards with a guttural howl of pain. I plucked the shotgun from his loosened grip and rolled sideways before his collapsing girth buried me.

Kudos to the archer—he had a second arrow already cocked when I rose to my feet, but I pulled the trigger and shot his leg out from under him before he could release it.

He screamed and toppled forward, losing the bow and flailing his arms, then hitting the rock below face-first.

The younger man was already charging at me, sword in hand, as I turned, pumped the gun, and pulled the trigger again. The weapon jammed. Antique or not, poorly maintained weapons are a menace. I only had a split second to raise the shotgun to defend against the coming sword slash. It should have blocked a normal sword. The faint blue colour surrounding the metal told me, too late, that this was a power short sword. I stepped back just as it cut through the barrel of the shotgun, throwing enough sparks for a children’s fireworks display. The ease with which my attacker cut my weapon was also his demise. He overreached and momentarily lost his balance, then tried to recover with a low backhand. I broke his left knee, hand, arm, and nose before he hit the ground.

I stood in the dwindling silence for several heartbeats, trying to figure out if the combat had attracted attention. When no one else came out of the woods I went and looked at the archer. He was still alive, but half his face was broken and his lower leg was almost entirely blown off. He opened his healthy eye, coughed out some broken teeth, and moaned.

I went back and retrieved the power short sword. It was worn, torn, and patched up, but it still was, I must admit, a thing of beauty. I powered on the sword, then bent down and grabbed the bowman’s left leg. He twisted and moaned, then screamed and passed out when I sliced his lower leg off with two bloody hacks. I am not a sword master, but it was close to a clean cut and, basically, a fair deal. There was the smell of meat searing itself shut. The archer might live, and I’d gotten my nourishment. I went and picked up the bow as well but the man’s fall had cracked the wood. I kept it anyway for firewood. There were a few crude looking metal coins in his belt pocket, a water skin filled with the most terrible wine I had ever tasted, and a lethal-looking skinning knife with a chipped blade.

Dun was dying fast, and I made sure he got there by cutting off his head. He had a heftier coin bag. I opened it and spilled some of its contents into my hand. Dark metal coins, mostly half the size of my hand but a few smaller ones. It took me a few seconds to remember what their use was, and if I needed proof of how far humanity had fallen, it was lying in the palm of my hand. You’d have to go to the most remote places in the world to find people who still used paper money, let alone coins, yet here they were in my hand. Each coin had a faded but unmistakable emblem of four towers of Tarkania, which made my heart race again. I closed the pouch and turned to the enthusiastic rapist.

He was conscious. Maybe the bowman’s screams had woken him up. His eyes were still fixated on the severed head of Dun when I approached him, holding the archer’s stump in one hand and the bloodied power sword with the other.

He looked up at me with bloodshot, frightened eyes.

“Please,” he begged.

I waved the stump in my hand in front of him. “I have some questions for you, young man.”

This was how I learned about the Catastrophe, that Dun was an ex-Salvationist from Tarakan Valley who had broken the contract with his guild and fled to make easy pickings in what was now called the Radiated City, one of several cities that were utterly destroyed. With a sinking heart, I learned what had happened to my people and that the once-magnificent Tarkania was now defiled by the remnants of humanity who no longer remembered its name and call it “the City of Towers.”

Several deep roars from the forest proved Dun was at least not lying about the beasts that lurked here. It was time to go.

“Please,” Malk begged when I turned away, “please, mercy.” His broken knee was protruding from his skin.

I don’t know if he wanted me to give him a clean death or carry him across the ruins, but I left him for the two-headed lions and limped away slowly, my new body punishing me severely for the ESM I had put it through.

If what Malk just told me was true, I was not walking in a ruined city, I was walking in a destroyed world. By his body language, I knew Malk believed in what he’d told me, but I still refused to accept it. Perhaps that was why I left him there.

A little while later I heard him scream one last time.