NaNoWriMo 2006 : Coldblood

2006-12-04T16:27:00.000-08:00

XX: The Final Countdown

2006-12-04T16:24:00.000-08:00

If you are reading this entry, it is probably because I am dead, and you have found the work I attempted to complete before the end. Whoever you are, whoever you work for, you have to know that what you have read and seen in these logs is bigger than all of that. It’s bigger than you, bigger than me, and bigger than your superiors. In all likelihood you are from Matsu-Sung, convinced that you have come here seeking god-knows-what.

I don’t know what you have been told, but it doesn’t matter. What is contained within this data is evidence of a long-standing plot by elements I still cannot identify, save by the name ‘Coldblood’. The data has been processed, and I know the truth now. At least I know a part of it. What I know is this: between 6,000 and 7,000 years ago, somebody spied our planet, and wanted it for their own. For millennia, they waited until they were ready to act, and then they struck us, thinking perhaps to freeze us out of our home. But we lived on, and so they sent their viruses to change us, to make us malleable to their cause. But still, we have survived, and now they are about to loose their endgame upon us.

The shift was not an accident, nor a random fluke of nature. The aberrant-strain was not random. All of this has been carefully planned and executed, and it’s not over. They hold all of the pieces, and if you do not do something with what little time we have left, it will be check-mate.

Today’s date is… well I don’t know what today’s date is, but it was July 22, 150 A.S. when I started, and I imagine a few days have passed since then. I’m hungry and thirsty, and I don’t imagine I will last much longer, so please read this carefully; I won’t have time to repeat myself.

There is a new countdown – the final countdown – whose end is surrounded by death, destruction and sorrow. I don’t know what is going to happen, and I don’t know when the countdown will end, but I can tell you that the countdown has already begun. Within this data, this code, there is more to discover – the answers you will need are all here. I am certain of this. You have only to find the missing pieces. I have filled in as much as I can.

The rest is up to you, whoever you are.

Tell Naomy that I love her.

--- Noal Silver of the Codex, signing off.

17: 04052049

2006-12-04T16:22:00.000-08:00

As I rode the lift down to the computer core access level, I knew that I carried the fate of everyone and everything I cared for in my hands. Not only because my home was under threat of an attack which could come at any minute, but because of the things I had stumbled upon. If they were big enough to warrant such extreme actions on the part of the three biggest tech-unions, the most power corporate mergers on the planet, then they were big enough to enflame the entire world. Something told me that no one would be spared the consequences.

The problem was I had no idea where to start – I wished I could have shouted out to those armies arrayed outside, “WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING FOR? WHY ARE YOU HERE?” But I knew I was alone in this. Scratch that, I wasn’t alone – I would never be alone so long as I had Naomy by my side. Just one look into those blue eyes of hers and I felt I could work without food, drink, or sleep for a month. I would go to the ends of Earth for her, and God help the person who ever put her life in danger. I was caught by surprise the first time, but never again.

My first order of business was to get my notes scanned and loaded into the database core, a process that would likely take several days of intensive and non-stop work by myself. From there it would be a matter of trial, error, and analysis, until the system, and my own brain began to hit upon the patterns within the artifacts, and cross-referenced those patterns against everything already contained within its memory core. I knew that there was no better engine in the world to handle the load than the Codex’s deciphering program – I had written most of it myself. But it was a lengthy process at the best of times, and I was going to have to find some way of streamlining things, before time ran out. If only I knew which objects to analyze first...

God only knew how long the stalemate raging outside our walls would last before someone came out ahead of the others and finally had their way with us. I could only pray that God would hold them at bay long enough for me to finish the job.

* * *

Noal stepped onto the familiar deck of the Codex’s lowest level: core access. It was perpetually warm down there, being nestled between the metro’s extensive network of geo-thermal energy harvesting pylons, but had a decidedly musty and subterranean smell. There was little in the way of luxury down there, and the space had been efficiently laid out for exclusive use by all the various pieces of equipment the Codex used to crunch its vast data-store. Noal preferred to work down here, usually in solitude, though Naomy was helping him this time. It was free of distractions, free of extraneous stimuli; here, he could throw himself into his work without sharing his mental faculties with external distractions. It was also worth mentioning that the terminals were faster this close to the core’s central database.

Sidling up to his favourite terminal, Noal punched in a series of keystrokes enabling him to log in directly to the core. The terminal screen confirmed that he was ready to proceed:

User Name: Noal Silver
Password: **************
Access Level: Complete

Noal slipped a pack off of his back, opening it to reveal his cache of notes within, handing half the stack to Naomy. “Alright, we each take a terminal and start scanning this stuff in. The database will begin analyzing everything upon its entry, so let’s hope anything that needs to be entered sooner than later gets done first. This may take awhile, so let’s get to it.”

The hum of a descending lift grew louder and eventually stopped, more than a dozen technicians stepping into the chamber. “Chief Silver, we want to help – what can we do?”

“Thank heaven for small miracles,” said Noal, grinning, “Grab a stack of notebooks and start entering them into the system. There should be enough terminals for everyone.” The technicians went to work alongside Noal and Naomy, entering into the sytem in hours what would have taken days. That done, the real work had just begun.

As the technicians continued plugging in the last bits of information from the notes, Noal pulled up the database’s pattern analysis program and began punching in search criteria related to prophecies about the shift, the apocalypse, and the freezing of the world. The search began returning results immediately, pulling up all kinds of obscure references that Noal would never have found himself, dating back thousands of years. Individually these references would not have amounted to much, but put together they might mean everything.

As more data was analyzed by the tools, the pattern became even more clear, confirming Noal’s theory that in order to be fully understood, the code had to be studies in reverse chronological order, starting at the shift and moving backwards. If one started at the beginning, the thread became lost after a few centuries, but in reverse it became so clear that each thread connected to a dozen other threads, connecting references to prophecy, debates on physics, chemistry, biology and the environment, artistic renderings of cataclysmic storms, top-secret scientific data exploring global warming and possibility of a massive climate shift. It was there, it was all there, almost from the very beginning of time it seemed that people had known about the coming of a time when the world would one day be thrust into a storm of unprecedented proportions, and mankind would suffer under ice and snow until… what? He couldn’t decipher that part yet. Not yet.

It’s all right here! Why can’t I see it? Why can’t I see the answer? He felt suddenly faint, a completely unexpected and inexplicable sensation to his mind. It seemed his legs were made of gelatin, and his heart pounded loud enough to hear inside his head. He was drenched in sweat, and black spots clouded his vision as he collapsed, no longer able to support his own weight.

Naomy’s worried face was there, looking down at him – what was happening to him? “Noal! Noal you’ve got to take a break!” Naomy was saying, he thought. Take a break? I’ve only just started! “You’ve been sitting in front of that terminal for three days straight! You need food and some sleep. I don’t even think you’ve had anything to drink!” Noal couldn’t remember whether he had or not, and that was probably not a good sign.

Time seemed to shifted, oddly, and now Naomy’s face was accompanied by that of the Codex’s medical Chief. “No, no, Chief Silver, you go back to sleep now. No more work until tomorrow morning, that’s an order!” To emphasize her point, the doctor jabbed Noal with a syringe full of something that made his head feel ten sizes too big for his body.

He came too in his living quarters, bolting upright in a panic. Naomy was beside him a moment later. “Nae – what happened? Why am I here? I’ve got to get back to the core!”

Naomy grabbed his shoulders, pushing him back onto the bed. “You’re not going to accomplish anything if you die in the attempt, Noal. You have to take care of yourself or else you won’t make it to the end of this.”

“But the enemy—“

“Will be that much better off if no one figures this thing out, okay?” Naomy was insistent. “I love you Noal, and I know that you are doing something important, so do what you need to do to keep going. Here, you can start by eating some soup.”

Noal was back in his ‘office’ a few minutes later, under Naomy’s watchful eye. He had taken a moment to get an update on the situation outside of the Codex, and things were not looking good. The airwaves were clogged with antagonistic chatter, mostly between the Golans and the Amocos. Ito seemed content to remain largely silent, acting as an element of calm between the disparate factions. Despite that, however, a series of minor skirmishes had already taken place, threatening to destabilize the entire situation. Clearly, the Codex was running short of time.

Hours, days and weeks blended together in Noal's mind, as he worked his way through the data, scarcely noticing when he was thirsty, hungry, or tired. It was only due to Naomy's constant care that he avoided the consequences of ignoring such bodily necessities. The data was all there was, and all there would be until his home, and his world, was safe again.

As Noal got back into the data stream, he began to notice something peculiar that he hadn’t noticed before, probably due to hunger and fatigue. It was an odd tenor the thread of the pre-shift prophecies spread over the grid of the data. As he scanned through more and more of the data he realized that the tone was not merely prophetic in the mystical sense, but was in fact more like a vast architectural drawing. What he had taken before as a foretelling of future events began to feel ominously more similar to the dissemination of a long-standing agenda – a plan. The presence of an agenda suggested the involvement of someone, or something, with intelligence, rather than a random series of events.

The reference to the involvement of an intelligent mind in the great shift became steadily more apparent the deeper he delved into the pattern, but it remained a vague, fluid thing that he couldn’t quite pin down. After a few days spent spinning his wheels on that, he decided to take a different approach altogether, concentrating on numerical patterns instead of straight contextual references. An underlying stream of mathematical permutations became apparent almost immediately within the data, lending further credence to the idea of an intelligently conceived plot behind it all.

As the system began to compute the numbers, a single mathematical phrase began to pop out again and again – a seemingly random series of numbers, referenced thousands, or even millions of times. It had to have meaning, if only he knew what its context referred to. He began applying all kinds of rational arithmetic filters to the numbers, calculating roots, factors, derivatives, denominators – anything he could think of, but nothing was making any sense.

“It seems to appear most frequently in calendar grid references,” Naomy pointed out, “Could it be a reference to a certain point in history – a date, maybe?”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Noal, “But it fits.” He applied a dating filter to the numbers, calculating all known methods of dating encryption, none of which yielded any results. He then switched the context that defined by the data grid itself, limiting the numbers to a pre-defined definition of time contained solely within the data. The computer took a few minutes to crunch the numbers and suddenly the terminal screen lit up like an old-world Christmas tree.

The filter had spat out a non-contextual number, seemingly counting up to the number of seconds from the program's definition of the beginning of the world. Noal quickly applied a seconardy filter to cross-reference the number into the requisite number of days, weeks, months, years, and centuries and extrapolate the appropriate date. The number that appeared on his screen left his mouth dry and ice crawling up his spine: 07222049 – July 22, 2049 AD. The exact date of the great shift.

Not only had the pattern predicted, or as Noal now believe, revealed the planning of the shift, it contained the exact date that the shift would occur. Noal checked back through the pattern's thread and confirmed that the date reference existed even in the very earliest of the artifact, proving beyond any reasonable doubt that someone had known exactly when and how the shift would occur over seven-thousand years before it had happened. A gigantic piece of the puzzle had come into clarity, but there were others to be uncovered yet; he still didn't know what had caused the shift, or perhaps whom?

Probing for patterns or threads coming into the date-string from elsewhere in the pattern, Noal hoped to hit upon something containing clue as to the causes of the event occurring on that date – the shift – but instead found a secondary stream of numbers that he had originally passed over, somehow. Trapping the second number code, he realized that he hadn't seen it before because it was a decaying pattern, starting at an original phrase elsewhere and growing smaller each time it cycled around. It took a moment before Noal fully realized what this decaying number was – a countdown, ending on the date of the shift. If he could trace the decay back to its original configuration he might find some answers, he decided.

Starting at the last decay of the number-string, he analyzed the amount of decay in the final cycle and extrapolated a logical decay pattern. Following this pattern, he rode the numbers from 07222049 backwards, ending up with a completely different phrase: 04052049. Another date, this time it was April 5, 2049. According to this, it was something that occurred on that date which triggered a countdown to shift on July 22; he needed to know what it was.

Using that date as his search criteria, he started the database on an extensive cross-reference for all references with any possible significance to worldwide affairs, the climate, or any other vaguely relevant events. He received a mountain of returns, all of which had to be seperately and individually sorted and checked. After days five straight days of this, he had come to the end, and still no answers were forthcoming. A testament to his frustration and exhaustion, he walked himself into the lift and willfully went to his living quarters to mentally regroup and recuperate. Naomy looked concerned, as usual, but said nothing.

As he was about to climb into his bed, he saw the small container that had been left for him in the vault, sitting on his work desk. The data-disk was still inside, having been forgotten up until now. Noal grabbed the disk in his tiredly shaking hand and headed back out the door, eliciting irritated questions from Naomy, who decided against stopping him and simply followed him to the lift instead.

Back in front of his terminal, Noal inserted the disk into the requisite data slot and opened the data onto his screens. Contained on the disk were decades worth of classified military documents and records, heretofore unseen by anyone, since they were first created. Nothing jumped out at Noal right away, so he called up his searched program, looking for any data from April 5, 2049. A single entry appeared on the screen, a video log recorded by a junior air-force serviceman, and by the looks of it, heavily encrypted.

Noal called up the video, and an image of a disheveled looking man in a military uniform appeared on the screen. “This is the personal duty log of Junior Specialist Samuel J. Grierson,” said the nervous voice of the figure on-screen, being interviewed by a second person off-screen.

“Please state your name for the record,” said the off-screen voice.

“Junior Specialist Samuel J. Grierson,” the man on-screen responded, nervously.

“What was your position within the USNA Air-force, as of April 4, 2049?”

Grierson swallowed hard, “Uh.. that is... I was a radar operator, sir.”

“Please describe what occurred on that date, at approximately 17:50 hours.”

“Last night, right.” He cleared his throat. “At approximately 17:50 last night I... er... well I picked up an object on my radar screen, apparently on a collision course with, um, Earth.”

“Describe the object.”

“Right, well, it was large – maybe five-hundred cubic meters – and roughly trapezoidal in shape. I, uh, I thought I had messed up something on the thermal, sir, because the scans indicated unknown composition...”

“Please explain what you mean by 'unknown composition'. Was there any hint as to the objects place of origin?”

Grierson had started to sweat by this point in the interview. “Yes, yes. You see the scans – they suggested a... er... extra-terrestrial origin, if you know what I mean. Not random formation, but designed. Like, by somebody.”

“You detected a potentially hostile extra-terrestrial vehicle, on a collision course with Earth, and you did what in response?”

“I thought I was reading it wrong!” Grierson burst out, tears streaming down his face, “I thought I had miscalculated everything, so I hid it. The object, that is. And I erased my presence in the logs so that nobody else would be able to find it. I was going to check on it in the morning, except that I... well I didn't wake up when I had intended to, sir.”

“Would you have been able to effect a solution if you had?”

Grierson shook his head, dejectedly. “No, sir. The object increased velocity during the night and—“

“And made landfall in the middle of the Atlantic, where currently resides!” a third, authoritarian voice barked out, “Where it promptly dove to the bottom of the ocean and attached itself to the sea-floor, to do god-knows-what! Does that just about sum it up, Junior Specialist Grierson?”

“Yes, General, sir!” Grierson was sobbing now. “Please forgive me, General! I didn't mean to do it!”

A broad-shouldered man in a uniform extensively decorated with medals, and five stars along each shoulder, stepped into the frame, looking every bit his level of ultimate authority, facing the camera. “For willfull, gross, criminal negligence of his post, resulting in the compromise of protected territory by intelligent, extra-terrestrial invaders, I, Senior General Malcolm Reynolds, hereby pronounce summary judgment upon Junior Specialist Samuel J. Grierson. I find him guilty of the charges against him – sentence to be carried out forthwith.”

Stepping away from the camera, toward Grierson, the general removed a pistol from a holster at his side, placing it against the convicted serviceman's temple. Grierson's eyes went wide with terror just before the shot rang out, spreading blood and brains across the walls behind him, as well as onto the camera.

Reynolds stepped back in front of the camera. “Let the record show that a navy black-ops unit has been dispatched to intercept and investigate the object, which, as of latest reports, has anchored itself to the sea-floor between the coasts of Newfoundland, Canada, and the United Commonwealth of Great Britain.”

The video ended at that point, leaving Noal and Naomy looking thoroughly shocked. “This is incredible,” whispered Noal, breathlessly. “This object – this extra-terrestrial object – lands in the middle of the Atlantic ocean, beginning a countdown that ends with the shift! All this time we were looking for a natural cause and effect – nobody would have imagined that it was done intentionally!”

“Okay, so we know that someone, probably not human, was responsible, but who? Why?” asked Naomy.

“There’s more to this pattern yet – look at these trailing codes coming from these object references…”

He searched into the pattern, probing the date-string for more information. It was clear that there was more buried inside the code, but he was missing some vital element that was needed to unlock it. Branching off from the date and object-strings, he found a thread connecting to another reference to the hinted at intelligence behind the planning of the shift, only this time there was a definite identification string attached to it, that needed to be entered – like a key in a lock. Unfortunately he had no idea where to find it. Naomy was also out of ideas.

The lift touched down and out stepped Kaizer Manheim, the Codex Chief of Linguistics, waving the note Noal had given him for translation, presumably left for him by Hunterwraith in the vault. “Noal! I have just now identified the language this note was written with! It is Sanskrit!”

“Sanskrit? What does it say?” Noal replied, suddenly very interested.

Kaizer frowned, “Unfortunately I don't know that there is any sense to it, but I will let you be the judge.” He handed the translation to Noal, who read it aloud.

“'Unlock the Coldblood's secrets and I will not be far behind.' What the hell do you suppose that means?” he asked, shrugging. “Wait a minute— 'unlock' .. I wonder if this is referring to unlocking this pattern. I have no idea what 'Coldblood' could be referring too, though.” He sat staring back and forth from the note to his screen, looking for some clue that seemed to be eluding him. “The empty string requires nine characters,” he muttered, “Maybe…“ Acting on a guess, he input 'Coldblood' as the data key, and re-ran the analysis. Unlike his previous attempts to guess at the necessary string, results began streaming on his screen.

The phrase 'Coldblood' became instantly connected both to references of a causal effect to the shift, and also to the intelligence behind it. Could 'Coldblood' be a reference to a person? Or a group of people? Re-threading the phrase back into the numeric date-string he had already uncovered triggered other lines of data that had been hidden before, only this time the pattern was threading beyond the shift, into references of engineered viral pathogens and genetic mutations of the planetary fauna – a workforce acting on the will of this ‘Coldblood’ entity.

“Viral pathogens and genetic mutations…” Noal mumbled, “Aberrants? Could they be a part of this too?”

The stream continued, reaching what should have the present year, 150 A.S. and continuing forward into a separate, all-to-familiar decay pattern. Another countdown, this one ending in some indeterminate future event. This time the ending of the countdown was not as easy to extrapolate, and the terminal quickly became bogged down trying to crunch a multitude of connecting codes and patterns. The symbol references to the unknown event were obvious: danger, calamity, death.

“Something very bad is going to happen soon,” Noal declared, “And we need to figure what it is, and when. And how to stop it!”

“What do these symbols mean?” Naomy asked, pointing at a set of glyphs repeating through the pattern in several examples.

“They aren’t good,” Noal replied, “”but I can’t get a positive translation. I think they’re important though.” He paused for a moment, to think, suddenly snapping his fingers, “Yes! In the antiquities library there is a book of ancient symbology. I need you to run and get it for me right now – Holleran will know which one I’m talking about.”

“I’m on it,” said Naomy, heading for the lift. “Noal!” she called as the lift began to rise, “I love you!”

“I love you too, Nae,” Noal replied, quizzically. He turned back to the monitor to find little progress had been made; at this rate it might take hours or days to extrapolate the end date of the countdown.

A mild concussion echoed through the chamber from somewhere up above, followed by a series of louder blasts from much closer that rocked the foundations of the core chamber, knocking dust motes and bits of un-finished cavern stone from the ceiling.

“Noal, what’s your status?” came Ophi’s voice through the intercom, accompanied by the sound of klaxons, and more explosions. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he replied, “What’s going on up there?”

“….Matsu-Sung….” The intercom was starting to cut in and out as more blasts rattled the Codex. “… something exploded…. Amoco and Golan…. destroyed! ….Matsu….incoming!”

More explosions rocked the chamber, far below the rest of the Codex as it was. “Ophi! I need more time – can you hold them off for a little while longer?”

There was a long, static-filled pause. Eventually the intercom buzzed to life once again. “….screens have been breached, Noal! We’ve got… soldiers inside…” The sound of gunfire erupted over the speaker, followed by laboured breathing. “…too late, Noal… headed for the lift… sorry.”

“Keep Naomy off of the lift!” Noal shouted into the intercom, “Keep everybody off of the lift – I’m blowing the shaft!”

Noal ran toward the lift controls and opened a hidden compartment below the primary console, revealing a keypad painted bright red and plastered with all manner of urgent warnings not to touch unless authorized. Wires ran from the keypad box up to a cluster of high-explosives installed around the lift shaft; it had long ago been decided rig up the explosives to prevent potential enemies from gaining access to or damaging the Codex’s computer core, in the event of a hostile takeover. It was only to be used as last resort.

Noal figured this qualified, and he needed more time to finish analyzing the countdown; something told him it was more important than his own life, and even more important than the lives of his loved ones. Punching in a code known only to a select few individuals, Noal prayed to whoever would listen. Please keep Naomy and my friends safe. Guide my hands, and protect me until I can finish my work! If don’t make it out of here alive, let my knowledge be passed on to someone who will do the right thing!

He pressed the enter key, and jumped away from the shaft as a series of explosions demolished the shaft, raining stone and debris back down into the chamber. All the lights went out as one, plunging him into darkness, with the exception of the light from his terminal monitor. Let’s see those Mastu-Sung bastards try to get down here, now!

Feeling his way back to the console, he groped around for the intercom button and turned it back on. All he could hear was static, and the sounds of people dying.

Noal sat back in his chair, wondering what was happening topside and mourning the loss of Ophi, among all the others who had no doubt given their lives in defense of the Codex, and of him. Alone, in the dark, with nothing to do but wait, he began writing a series of logs in the hopes that whoever found them would know what to do:

My name is Noal Silver, and I am a historian of sorts, though most would call me an archivist, because of where I come from. The Codex is my home, also called the great library, and not without reason. You see, the people of the Codex have long been devoted to collecting, archiving and studying the surviving knowledge of the old world, the one that existed before the Shift plunged all of humanity into the massive frozen hell we all call 'Home’…

Sometime later, how long he did not know, Noal smiled to himself, happy in the knowledge that he had done all that he could do, and signed off on his final entry. His only regret, before he died, was in not knowing whether Naomy still lived.

16: Clash of the Titans

2006-12-04T16:21:00.000-08:00

The next few days were some of the best days of my life, spent revisiting all of the things I had been missing since I had been away from home. The very first thing I did was to take a visit to my favourite video theatre, where a couple of called in favours set Naomy and I up with a triple feature of our three favourite old-world movies. First was our favourite comedy, called 'Trains, Planes, and Automobiles', a humourous story about a middle-aged snob and a blabbering fat man taking a long, ridiculous trip home for some occasion called 'thanksgiving'. Next was a colourfully entertaining science-fiction romp called 'The Fifth Element', which took place sometime in the 24th century A.D. Of course, suspending disbelief is difficult when you already know how the future is going to turn out, but it was an entertaining bit of historical film-making that never failed to be fun. Lastly, we watched one of over fifty movies made involving a British secret-agent named James Bond. Unfortunately, the reclamation has yet to find any Bond films earlier than episode thirty, and the six people who played the character between thirty and fifty were such unbelievable over-actors that we could only stand to watch the last of the Bond films ever made. And we loved every minute of it.

Watching those movies together with Naomy was magical in a way that I hadn't experienced before. As simple friends we had developed a real love for twentieth-century films, especially the three I already mentioned. As... whatever we had become... it was something done to celebrate the love between the two of us for each other, and not just for the films. The time we spent together was truly the happiest time in my life, even, I thought with a lump of guilt in my throat, my time with Lara. Could I actually reclaim the happiness I had known in those days? Was I good enough for that? I knew the answer should be 'yes', and I contented myself in that, even if I had trouble feeling the truth of it. Despite my misguided misgivings, I found myself growing close to her in ways that shouldn't have been possible; she became almost a part of me, finishing my thoughts before I knew I had had them. What I missed, she picked up, where I fell short, she filled the gap. Something told me none of this was an accident. Perhaps I really was a part of some cosmic plan to save the world, and all the sacrifices made along the way were also made for a reason. Perhaps I would even find out some day.

I began reading again, voraciously, going through volume after volume of all sorts of fantasy, science-fiction, action/adventure, and pretty well anything else I could get my hands on. I looked at spirit-inspiring art, listened to all of my favourite old-world bands, and even a few I'd never heard of before. My mind, and my imagination began to open up again in ways I could scarcely remember, and I knew then that I was being prepared for something big, something that would require all of my facilities working together at peak performance.

Something was about to happen, and I needed to be back in my element, surrounded by stacks of manuscripts, data cards, and media recordings, searching through every bit for that one elusive pattern that would bring the entire thing into focus, to find the code that would reveal the questions to lead me through deciphering the answer. I needed back into my database, and I needed back in right now!

I had been praying once an hour for favour in the Curators' eyes, and quickly. And for the first time since I could remember, I actually had faith.

* * *

The clean sound of pleasant nothingness filled the air of the musical performance auditorium as Noal stepped onto the platform, a hard plastic carrying case in his hand. Putting the case down, he opened the locks, four all in a row, and flipped over the hinged lid to reveal the beautiful object encased in soft, velvety carpeting within. A smooth crimson sunburst finish, polished to a shine, accentuated its supple flamed maple body and supple curves, all topped with a gorgeously carved rosewood fingerboard and deluxe tuning pegs. He lifted his treasure out of its hard, plastic case and strummed the steel strings lovingly.

Few people in the world had working guitars, especially electric guitars, and those that did usually had badly rendered replicas of well-known old-world instruments. They looked bad, played bad, and sounded bad. But that was all there was. Or was it? Noal had always maintained that his own, personal guitar was just a particularly skillfully made replica, careful not to reveal the truth to anyone for fear of finding it gone missing some time. And that would be a travesty of the highest magnitude.

“So you still aren’t going to tell me who made that for you, are you?” asked Naomy, wryly. “I wouldn’t mind learning how to play something, myself, but all the instruments I’ve seen are in such poor shape,” she complained.

Noal checked the auditorium for possible eavesdroppers and looked Naomy square in the eyes, “Can you keep a secret?” Naomy nodded slowly. “Good, go shut the door, then.”

Naomy did as Noal had said, walked up onto the platform herself, as Noal was plugging a long cable from the guitar slung around his shoulder into a large amplifier to one side. “Alright, I’ll tell you who made this, but you’ve got to promise to keep it a secret so long as we both shall live, deal?”

Naomy chuckled, “Okay, okay – I’ll play along. I promise never to repeat this information to anyone, as long as we both shall live. So what’s the big secret, anyway?”

Noal motioned for her to come closer, then whispered, “It’s not a replica.”

“Not a replica?” Naomy practically shouted.

“Shh!” Noal silenced her with a horizontal knife-chop across his throat, “I said be quiet about it!”

“Sorry!” Naomy apologized, “But, are you serious?”

“Very serious! You wanted to know who made it, and the answer is the Gibson guitar company. Circa, about 2006, I think,” said Noal, proudly.

“Where on Earth did you get it?”

“Do you remember the excavation of old Seattle?” Naomy nodded. “I was one of the first people in there, and I happened to be assigned to catalogue what I discovered later to be a recording studio. Everything inside was trashed except for this single instrument. They called it a ‘Les Paul’ – named after the man who invented it, from what my records indicate.”

“And you just took it?” Naomy asked, incredulously.

“Not exactly,” Noal replied, “My team leader at the time had a claim left in his personal artifact allowance, and he took the guitar, much to my chagrin. A few minutes later we were suddenly surrounded by a pack of abby-cats that he had failed to flush out, for some reason. Anyway, one of them had him pinned down before I managed to slice my way through the rest of them and save his life. I was promoted to team leader myself after that, and he gave me the guitar in gratitude for saving his life.”

“That’s quite a story,” said Naomy.

“And over half of it’s true, too!” Noal laughed. It was all true, in fact. That team leader, a man named Bjorn Norskjer, had died later that year, leaving Noal the only person alive who knew about the Les Paul. Until now.

“Do you actually know how to play that thing?” Naomy teased, “You look kinda awkward up there.”

Noal’s brow furrowed as he clicked the power switch on his amplifier and began ripping up the stage with furious chord changes and growling rhythm treatments, playing a medley of old-world grunge, metal, industrial, and hard rock riffs, and filling up the room with a deceptively rich and busy sound. As he neared the apex of his performance to an audience of one, the power suddenly cut out as lights started to flicker all throughout the room, returning to normal a moment later.

“What the hell…?” he started to say. A resoundingly concussive BOOM echoed through the Codex, followed by another flickering of the lights. “…was that?”

“An earthquake, maybe?” Naomy asked.

“I don’t think so,” Noal replied, “We are near a fault-line, but that didn’t sound like any quake I’ve ever heard. That was an explosive charge, or I’m a gene-splice proto-monkey.”

Naomy looked toward the door, fearfully, as alarm klaxons began to ring through the complex. The calm, collected voice of Curator Ophilia came over the loudspeakers, with a edge to it that Noal had not heard before. “All reclamation directors and department chiefs attend the Curators’ Podium immediately!” it blared. “I repeat, all directors and chiefs to the Curators’ podium, immediately. This is not a drill!”

Noal already had his guitar packed up and stowed in a safe place, and was heading toward the door, hand outstretched to Naomy, “Come on!”

“But I’m not—“

“You’re with me! Hurry!” Noal insisted, pulling her out the door and toward the lift with him.

As they stepped out into the crowded Curator’s podium, another blast rumbled through the Codex, and another one after that. More directors and chiefs were filtering in from the lift, making the small podium positively crammed with people all asking for explanations.

“Engage defensive initiative prime – keep them out of our perimeter!” Ten was shouting through a comm panel to a technician in the tactical unit on ground level. Through the podium’s large windows, Noal and Naomy could see a mass of metallic objects gathering just beyond the Codex’s immediate perimeter, taking an aggressive incursion formation – an army? Why would an army come here?

“Do we know who it is?” Ophilia was trying to find out. Ten shook his head. “What could they possibly want from us? The tech-unions know that we have nothing they can gain from. Why attack us now?”

An array of steel barriers and fences began rising up from the ground around the perimeter, forming a defensive screen against incoming ground forces. It was designed as a precaution only, against independent raiders, mostly. The screen would not last long against a determined and organized attack, though, at least not any with a real force to back it up. At least the rumbling had ceased, for now.

“Is everyone here?” asked Ophi, forcing herself to sound and appear calm. Sal and Director Adison stumbled out of the lift, looking rather rumpled and more than a little bit sleepy, eliciting a nod from the Curators. “Alright, that’s everyone. Just to recap the events of the last few minutes: for the first time in over a hundred years, there is a hostile force gathering outside our home, apparently intending to gain access. They have neither identified themselves nor given us any terms. Do any of you have any clues as to what this is about?”

A murmur rose up amongst those in attendance, of confusion and uncertainty. Only one thing seemed certain: nobody had any clue as to who was banging on the door, nor why.

“Curators, I’m picking up a transmission from outside,” said an excited communication tech through the comm channel, “Patching it through, now!”

Everyone went instantly silent as loudspeakers filled the room with low static, in anticipation of the incoming communication.

“…is Field-Martial Commandant Burl Jantzen of the Raytheon militia, commanding battalion one of the Golan Arms Union forces. I am here under the express authority of Commodore-in-Chief Quentin Armistad.”

“The Golan Arms Union?” Ten threw up his hands in frustration, “We have nothing to do with weapons technology! What could they possibly want from—“

“It is not Commodore Armistad’s wish, nor my own, that your citizens, nor your operations as such, should be subject to any undue damage or destruction,” the transmission continued, “And your immunity from such shall be subject only to your compliance with our terms. You have five minutes to respond.”

Ten turned around furiously, punching his desk, “That's a polite way of saying 'do what we say or we'll kill you!” he exclaimed.

Ophi put up her hand for silence as she responded through the comm-panel. “I am Curator Delphi of the Codex Historical Reclamation, speaking on behalf of Curator Ten'quatha'an, and the rest of the leadership here. I feel it incumbent upon myself to inform you, Commandant, that despite whatever information you may have been given, we have not become acquainted with any form of weapons or defense technology that I can imagine would interest your tech-union. We remain a peaceful metro, dedicated only to the reclamation and preservation of history. If there is something with which we may assist you, to that end, I would be happy to consider it, however I must tell you that we find your armed presence here to be thoroughly distasteful.”

Commandant Jantzen responded immediately, “I am not here for your technology, Codex.” There was a long, static-filled pause, “You are to turn over to me your citizens Noal Silver, Naomy al-Amro, and Salvatore Vasko, along with all data brought with them pertaining to historical artifacts documented in or near New Babylon metro. If you do this, no further action will be taken on my behalf. You have my word on that.”

All eyes turned to the three whose names had been mentioned, confusion abounding in spades. “Just who exactly have you pissed off now, Sal?” shouted Director Adison, angry and frightened all at once.

“Hey, don't look at me!” said Sal, “It was Noal who found that vault, but why a tech-union would give a roach's ass, I don't know!”

“It seems you are on to something important after all, Chief Silver,” said Ophilia, coolly. “So you weren't exaggerating.”

Noal stepped forward, “Look, if it's me they want, I'll go, but they can't have Nae and Sal. They don't know anything about this anyway. But the data – my notes – I can't sanction giving those up; they're too important. I don't know why yet, but obviously Golan Arms seems to think so, too.”

“I would tend to agree you, Noal,” answered Ophilia, decisively, “And I am not willing to simply hand you over to a tech-union either. But this does leave us with a rather large dilemma, in the form of the combined armed forces of at least three major tech-metros, and probably more. There is a solution to this, of that I am sure. We just haven't seen it yet. I'd suggest you all start praying; things might become ugly around here rather quickly once I let our impolite visitor know what we think of his terms.”

Noal bowed respectfully, “Thank you Ophilia. I am in your debt.”

“If you wish to repay me, start thinking of a way out of this.” She turned to the comm-panel, thumbing the transmitter button. “Commandant Jantzen, we have come to a decision about your generous 'offer'.”

“I am listening,” came the response.

“It is not within my capacity, nor that of anyone else here in the Codex, to abandon one of our own into the hands of heartless tech-union trash. We will not be turning Chief Silver over to you, or any other tech-union war-monger, neither today, tomorrow, nor any other day. Therefore, it is within my authority to provide you with two options.

“The first, and preferable option, for all I am sure, is for you to leave, taking with you all your war machines and soldiers, and go back to the God-forsaken metro that you came from, immediately, with our pledge to tell no one of this attempted treachery against a peaceful metro, like the Codex.”

“And my second option, madam Curator?” came Jantzen's crackly voice over the loudspeaker.

“Destroy us, if you can,” Ophi dared, “For I assure you that our destruction will be the only satisfaction you or your Commodore-in-Chief will ever get out the Codex. By the time you are finished, there will be no one left to capture, and nothing left to plunder; we will burn it all, and die, before we let you get your grubby hands on one solitary item.”

The voice on the other end of the channel chuckled, darkly. “I had heard you Codex types were a spirited bunch,” said Jantzen, “And normally I could respect that. Unfortunately my orders are to bring in Silver alive, if possible. And if it is not possible, then I am to make sure nobody else can.”

“I see all sense of reason has vacated the tech-unions as of late,” Ophi responded, acidly, “But rest assured, Commandant, that the Codex shall force you to count the cost of your actions and weep, by the end of this, if you proceed.”

“Better you than my superiors, I’m afraid. I do hope your end is not too painful.”

The transmission ended as the hostile formation of enemy vehicles took up a blitzing posture, weapons locked and loaded. The defense screens would not hold up long, they all knew. Ophi got back on the comm-panel, this time directed within the Codex itself, to its residents.

“Citizens of our beautiful Codex,” she began, “A hostile invasion force has taken position outside our walls, with the intent to conquer or destroy everything that we have fought and worked for in the past one-hundred and thirty years. They attack our way of life, and they attack our lives themselves. I urge you to fight back! Prepare yourselves now, and defend your home, and its contents, at all costs! May God be with all of us in this dark hour.”

The roaring of engines over the ice-shell signaled the start of the enemy’s blitz toward the Codex’s outer walls. The sound of fired projectiles being deflected from the defensive screens followed, along with the concussive sound of shells exploding on the ground and against the screens. The shudder of rockets striking the walls of the Codex itself began to echo throughout, accompanied by a shaking and rumbling that threatened to tear the place apart.

“Everybody had better be praying,” muttered Ten, through clenched teeth.

The enemy assault vehicles looked likely to climb right over top of the screens at any minutes, when a series of secondary explosions began to rock through their lines, forcing them to turn aside and face a line of unidentified tank-like vehicles approaching from the flank. Someone was defending the Codex, but who, and why?

The comm-channel crackled to life with the low and monotone voice of the tanks’ commander, speaking to the Golan Arms forces. “This is General Ibrahim Al Masaleekh, Exshell mechanized division. I hereby lay claim to the custody of Noal Silver and all requisite information, in the name of the Amoco Collective. Stand down and cease all hostile action toward the Codex, and prepare to surrender custody to me, or I will destroy you.”

“It seems my capture is a foregone conclusion in their minds,” Noal commented.

Curator Ophi rounded on him, “What hornet’s nest have you been stirring up, boy?”

“I wish I knew!” Noal retorted, turning to watch the events unfolding around him.

The battle lines were being drawn, and the confrontation to claim the right to attack the Codex seemed about to begin when a third contingent appeared on the horizon, not waiting to give a warning before launching a barrage of ballistic missiles from a convoy of high-tech hovering battle-machines. Both Amoco and Golan scattered, re-forming their respective lines in a wary triangle of aggression with the incoming party, each group taking a strategic position around the Codex, none willing to make a move before the others.

“I see my presence has created something of an impasse,” said an oriental-accented voice from the unknown battalion. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Shinji Ito, Prime Analyst of Matsu-Sung Technology Union. I do not believe it necessary to point out that it would be extremely unwise for anyone to make a move out of turn at this juncture. We would certainly not appreciate such a gesture, and I am certain nobody would enjoy the requisite reprisals.”

“I must concur,” said Ibrahim's monotone voice in response, “May I suggest we all stand down and talk about this, rationally?”

“Just what exactly do you think we have to talk about, there, chief?” asked Jantzen over the comm-panel. “Golan Arms intends to have Silver in our custody one way or another. From where I'm sitting, it doesn't look like either of you have what it would take to stop me, either.”

The Amoco and Matsu-Sung groups joined formation together, collectively taking aim at the solitary Golan battalion. Ito's voice crackled over the air, “I believe the situation can be described thus: each one of us desires to make a clear path to take this Noal Silver into our respective care, and each of us is willing to do whatever it takes to prevent that from happening. If you attempt to engage the Codex, Amoco and I will destroy you. As you and I will destroy Amoco, and Amoco and yourself will destroy me, should any of us make such an attempt.

“Thus, as I have already said, we have reached an impasse.”

“I see your point,” Jantzen admitted, “But if you think Golan Arms is about to let you weasel your way into the place, you are in for a world of hurt.”

“So we sit here, with our guns aimed on each other, and do nothing for the time being yes?” Ibrahim commented. “Both of you be assured I will be watching you closely.”

“As will I,” said Ito.

Ophi turned off the comm-panel and turned to the others. “I have to wonder where they think we factor into all of this.”

“It would seem they have decided we are not worthy of their concern,” Ten pointed out, “I believe it would be in our best interest to prove them wrong.”

Ophi nodded to Noal, “Alright Chief Silver, our window of opportunity seems to have presented itself, and I am giving you your wish. The database is yours until the riddle of those artifacts is solved, or we are all dead. I want to know what these tech-unions believe it is that we have.”

Noal nodded, heading for the lift. “I'll start working my magic right away.”

Ophi nodded her approval, adding “I suggest you work your magic quickly, before no one is left to benefit from it.”

15: Some Sort of Homecoming

2006-12-04T16:19:00.002-08:00

The time for playing games was over; there would be no more running, no more chasing, no more dodging, and no more fencing. I had all of the data I needed, now I only needed the time and resources to unpack it, search it, analyze it, and find the answers I needed. There was only one place in the world where these things could be found, and I was thankful to be able to call that place my home.

The Codex. Long revered for its devotion to reclaiming and collecting the lost records and art of the old-world, and also for the sheer processing power of its mighty computer core. The Codex' computer database was a technical marvel rivaled by nothing else in the world, and had, in the past been highly sought after by the more militaristic and power-hungry Metros, thinking it might be a source of strategic advantage against rival powers. It was due to this that the somewhere down the line one of the curator's more famous curators had the system permanently hard-coded so as to be completely useless for any task that did not involve the Codex's primary mission. When the powers that be found out about that change, attempts to annex the Codex dropped off sharply; power brokers had little interest in anything that did not increase their ability to leverage themselves above their competitors.

A part of me was worried now, however, knowing that I had stumbled upon something so wrapped up in our mission of reclamation that seemed also involved with the power behind the Shift, as well as hints at even worse things that had yet to be experienced, or averted. The power included with these mysterious might well be enough to attract the attention of people and powers that would it very difficult for the Codex to continue its peaceful and neutral existence. The time may be coming for us to take a side in the never-ending inter-metro conflicts that been ravaging the planet almost from the beginning of the post-Shift era. And if there was no side for us to take, it may come necessary to make one.

It was thoughts like this that occupied my mind on the long ride home. A two-week journey gave me nothing but time to obsess about all the things I couldn't change, at least not until I got there. All kinds of scenarios drifted through my mind, and I almost imagined an entire legion of corporate raiders on the Gravedigger's tail all the way across the Atlantic expanse and beyond. Sometimes I wasn't entirely convinced it was entirely my imagination, too.

And then, of course, I had Naomy to contend with. Things between us had reached a entirely frustrating point; we both knew that something was about to change, we had felt it and seen it in each others eyes. We made a point of keeping our waking shifts together in order to effect some approximation of privacy while Sal snored away in the backseat. Being stuck in a toyo made it rather difficult for anything meaningful to develop, but I knew more and more everyday how much she meant to me. I had gone to the ends of the Earth to get revenge on Hunterwraith, but if she had given me the word, I would have abandoned that quest and never looked back. At least that is what I liked to tell myself. That is what I wanted to believe. Maybe someday I would.

As the journey came to a close, and the familiar lights of the Codex came into view in the Gravedigger's winshield, all my worried seemed to melt away for just a moment.

* * *

Noal climbed out of the driver's seat to the sound of the Gravedigger's engines winding down, as Naomy and Sal followed suit. One of Sal's assistant mechanics, made acting chief in the large man's absence, would have looked scarcely more surprised if he had seen George W. Bush getting out of the toyocar instead of Noal and his crew. It was the look of a man who had seen a ghost, or someone he had thought was a ghost.

“You can close your mouth, Josef,” said Noal, “We're haven't come back from the dead, if that's what you're thinking.”

Josef snapped out of his shocked state and stammered a response, “Are you sure I'm not having some kind of drug alcohol induced hallucination? I've been drinking an awful since they told us you were all dead, but—“

“Wait one goddamned minute, Joe,” Sal burst in, “Who in the hell said we were dead?”

“I'm really sorry boss – it's just that we were told something had happened to you. None of us expected to see any of you again! They even made me the permanent chief, though I guess you'll be taking that job over again now that—“

“You're damned right I'll be taking my job back!” shouted Sal with his usual over-the-top demeanor. Everyone knew he was far less of a hard-ass than he sounded, but they played along with it anyway. “And there'll be no more of the slacking that has obviously been going on in my absence, either—“

The sound of a woman clearing her throat cut him off, and he turned toward the petite blonde woman who had made it, a smile cracking from ear to ear. “Director Adison,” he said, sarcasm dripping from his voice, “Lovely to see you.”

The pretty woman rolled her eyes at him. “Chief Silver, the curators would like to see you and your crew in their office as soon as you have a moment,” she said, barely suppressing a grin herself. “And Chief Vasko, I'd like to see you in my office when you're finished with the curators, to discuss your unapproved absence.”

“Yes ma'am,” said Sal, trying to look chastised. “We'll talk about the disgraceful state of my toyo bay later,” he said to Josef as he walked out of the garage behind Noal and Naomy.

Entering the Codex-proper was like a dream come true for Noal, who was finally home. He hadn’t realized before how much he had missed the warm glow of light-paneled walls, and the colourfully lit screens that hung down from the ceilings, displaying beautiful works of old-world art, or the soft hint of music that constantly hung in the air; the songs were always well-chosen. A grungy chorus was playing now, by a twenty-first century band that Noal thought he should recognize:

I’ve got my ticket in hand,
I wanna see the promised land,
Take me home

I wanna go home
I wanna go home

He grinned at the ironically appropriate words of the song. Indeed, he was home, and none too soon, neither.

They passed by a one of several libraries contained in the expansive inner structure of the Codex, this one dedicated to something Noal loved – comic books! He had spent many an hour in that room, reading page after page about Spiderman, Batman, the X-Men, and many others. He wondered if his particular brand of skill with his cybernetic limbs was on account of looking at so many super-hero comics, but if it was, he didn’t mind. He had taken a lot of inspiration from Spiderman, however, and he was sure that after his latest escapades he would be reading up on Spidey even more frequently now. After all, Noal was just about the only person he knew who could scale a building without any rope, and that was something, indeed. He would have to work on the whole swinging from webs thing, though.

There were many other libraries in the Codex, and the other one that Noal spent much of his time at home within was the fantasy novel library on the second level. The first time he had picked up a copy of ‘The Lord of the Rings’ he knew he was hooked, and he’d been reading fantasy and science-fiction ever since. It was weird to think that his own life would have likely been the stuff of a best-selling fantasy novel in the old-world. To him, it was just his life.

The next room they passed was another that had claimed much of Noal’s time in the past, though for a somewhat different reason. In that room, Noal had stood at the front and instructed many students on the art of historical analysis. Very little made his as happy as seeing his students beginning to love his field the way that he did. Some of those students had come to work with him for a time; a few were working under him still. He looked forward to getting back into his teaching, after the current situation was over and done with.

Passing by a few rooms that Noal rarely attended (the Celine Dion memorial pop-diva music chamber and the floral paintings gallery, to name a couple) save to do the occasional repair work, the group came to the central hub of activity in the Codex: the Atrium. A massive circular mezzanine, the atrium’s central feature was a large, backlit pillar of the Codex database core, encased in an impenetrable clear crystal shield. The pillar, glowing with hints of blue and orange, stood the entire height of the Codex, from top to bottom, disappearing into the atrium floor, where it continued downward into the various sub-levels of the complex, where the database development terminals were found. Only a very particular group of individuals was permitted into the sub-levels, which were Noal’s chosen domain, but the core itself made a poignantly beautiful image to all who visited.

Situated all around the atrium, and encompassing ten levels from the ground-level, where Noal’s crew stood, and up, was an array of all the best the Codex had to offer in the way of classrooms, libraries, galleries, auditoriums, and exhibits, stretching down into myriads passages and hallways; the Codex was full of nothing, if not beautiful and compelling things to learn, read, see, heard, and experience. From one of the higher levels, the aggressive sounds of a guitar playing from the Black Orchid Rebellion alternative rock auditorium called to Noal; he smiled, knowing he would be joining them soon. It had been far too long since he had played the rosewood finger-board of his favourite axe.

He would indulge himself, for a few minutes, perhaps an hour or so, any one who had just been through what he had been through deserved that much. But after that, there was much work to be done, and he made no excuses for the fact that it was going to be long and difficult, and potentially unpopular with the curators. They would want him back to work, doing what he was good at, being out in the field on expedition, as soon as possible. It was going to be his job to convince them that his first priority should be analyzing the new data he had found and finding Hunterwraith as soon as possible. There were implications to it all that he had trouble quantifying himself, so attempting to explain these things to people who had not been with him in Rico’s End, or Anflux, or New Babylon, or the Nether, was going to be next to impossible. And yet, it had to be done, he knew that.

Before he had even realized what he was doing, he began to pray – to what, he did not know, maybe the Outcasts’ God, maybe something else – Please, if you are watching, I need to make them understand the urgency of this. They must understand what I know to be true. Help me!

With those words in his thoughts, Noal stepped onto the atrium lift with Naomy and Sal in-tow, watching nervously as they ascended toward the very top level of the Codex, the Curators’ podium.

“Noal, Naomy, and Sal, well met, our friends! We have missed you terribly!” exclaimed Curator Ophilia, extending her arms to each in turn. Ophilia (called ‘Ophi’ by most) looked older than she had the last time Noal had seen her, he thought, and suddenly older than her sixty years, though her arms were as solid as he remembered. He was sure her keen memory had not dulled any. “We were certain you had all been killed; we even held a memorial service in honour of the four of you, you know!”

“Speaking of which,” came the low and growly voice of Ten’quatha’an, a dark-skinned bear of a many, with a long, grey pony-tail tied behind his head, “Where is the fourth member of your team?”

Noal bowed his head, sadly, “I’m afraid Sid didn’t make it, though he died well.”

“How did he die?” asked Ten, somberly.

“He became infected with the Strain,” said Naomy, tears welling up in her eyes, “In Rico’s End. A trap had been set for us, and he was bitten. He sacrificed himself ensuring that the infection in Rico’s would not spread.” As the memories returned, she began to weep. “He was a good man,” she added.

“So it was Sid who caused the destruction of Rico’s End, then?” asked Ophi, neutrally.

“Sid didn’t do anything that any brave man wouldn’t do,” stated Sal, his backbone firmly in place, “He didn’t destroy Rico’s, he saved the rest of the world from Rico’s. It was that goddamned Wraith bastard who did the destroying.”

The female Curator frowned slightly, “Language, Salvatore. You may be a mechanic by trade, but you are a long way from New Babylon.”

“Tell me about it,” Sal muttered under his breath, nodding slowly, “I apologize, ma’am. It’s just we’ve been through a lot in the last month.”

“After you escaped from Rico’s End, why did you not attempt to return here, or to at least send a message as to your whereabouts and condition?” Ten sounded gruff, “You know that this is standard operating procedure for field operatives in the case of emergency or disaster, and yet you did nothing to contact us.”

“It was too dangerous,” Noal stated, “If we had given ourselves away like, God only knows who might have found out. We needed secrecy in order to be safe. The one slip we made in the expanse was bad enough withou—“

“The expanse?” roared Ten, his eyes ablaze.

“You are referring to the Atlantic expanse?” Ophi clarified, in disbelief.

“Yes,” said Noal, “It’s a long story.”

Ophilia nodded, patiently. “I think you’d better start from the beginning, then. Let’s have it.”

Noal told them everything, from the very beginning, roaming through the ruins of Winnipeg and how they had run out of vaccine, and headed back to base to re-supply. He told them about Rico’s End: the piles of dead, the aberrants, and finding Hugo’s note. He described Sid’s infection with the Strain, and how they had searched for vaccine only to have their hopes dashed. He emphasized how heroic Sid’s final actions had been. He told the Curators how they had sat there, in the Gravedigger, agonizing over what to do, and the seemingly miraculous discovery of the code on the back of Hunterwraith’s picture. He described their journey across the Atlantic expanse and how they were captured by the pirates and taken to Anflux. He told them about their escape, and their subsequent journey to New Babylon. Then he told them about what had happened there, and about the people trapped in the Nether, and he spent the most time talk about the vault, and what had been in it. He shared his suspicions about Hunterwraith, and the patterns he had seen in the vault’s collection.

Then he went on to tell them the most tenuous part: what he intended to do from there.

“I realize that the Codex’s mission must go on, but the significance of what I have discovered in the past months cannot be minimized. I believe that this may be the most important find, for anyone, since the Shift occurred. It’s all tied together with this, and all throughout history. There is something here that I must find, a code, a cipher, a pattern – an answer to the question: what caused the Shift? What could we have done to prevent it? What can we do now?

“And there are even more important questions to be asked, if only I can find them. The Outcasts spoke of a coming shift, something big – as big as the Shift itself, the way they talked about it. And somehow it all involved Hunterwraith, and myself. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but it’s in there, in my notes, and it is my intention to dedicate the database to the task of analysis. I must find Hunterwraith, now more urgently than ever.”

“Is it revenge you seek, Chief Silver?” asked Ten’quatha’an, “That is a slippery slope to tread upon.”

“Before it may have benn,” Noal agreed, “But now it is because he has the answers. Or… the answers can only be found with him, at least. I think that the future of mankind may depend on this.”

“Let us think on the matter awhile,” said Ophilia, “For now, you all deserve a rest.”

The group murmured their thank-you’s and left the Curators’ podium to attend to the rest that had been prescribed. Noal and Naomy stepped off the lift together on the fourth level, seeking someplace to be alone with each other, and Sal continued on back down to the ground floor, where his meeting with Director Adison.

Stopping outside her quarters, he knocked quietly, in a secret pattern, and waited for her call to enter. The door slid open, and he walked inside, preparing himself mentally to face the music. Suddenly she was there, dressed in a crisp director’s uniform, looking altogether stern.

“Director Adison,” said Sal, hesitantly.

“Chief Vasko,” the director replied.

“Emily.”

“Salvatore.”

“Em.”

“Sal,” Emily smiled, already unbuttoning her uniform,“You were gone so long, I nearly had to take a new lover.”

Sal wasted no time in reciprocating the gesture, “You know you’d never be able to find someone with my technical skills.”

“So true,” she sighed, pulling him into another room as the lights went down.

* * *

Noal stood silently in his quarters and looked into Naomy’s eyes, seeing the freedom he had always wished he could see there. So much had changed, and so much more was coming, he knew. But for right now this moment was all there was, and all that mattered. He had so much time to make up for. Naomy smiled at him, equally entranced; she had been waiting a long time.

“You’ve changed so much, I don’t even know where to begin,” Naomy sighed, happily, “I was beginning to think things would never work out between us, but the last two weeks have been wonderful, even if we’ve just been stuck in the damned Gravedigger the whole time. I just want to know: what changed your mind?”

Noal held Naomy close, kissing her forehead. “I just realized that I’d been punishing myself, and you, for things in the past that I can never change. I had myself convinced that I didn’t deserve to be happy, so I shut you out, and I’m sorry for that.” He kissed her again, this time on the lips. “But I’m ready to put that behind me now, and I should have done that a long time ago. Things may never be perfect – I may go back there sometimes – but I want to start making up all the time I’ve wasted.”

Naomy caressed his cheek, lovingly. “It doesn’t have to be perfect, it just has to be you, okay? I love you, Noal. I’ve loved you ever since I first saw you trying to learn how to walk again back in Core. Maybe even before that.“

“That’s a long time to wait for someone who may never come around,” Noal remarked, “I’m surprised you never found someone else in all that time.”

“I never wanted anyone else; I didn’t want anyone before I met you, and I haven’t wanted anyone else since.”

“I love you too,” Noal proclaimed, evenly, “Now whatever you do, don’t you dare die on me.”

Naomy laughed, “I’ll promise if you will.”

“I promise,” said Noal

“I promise, too.”

“If only things were that simple,” Noal sighed, losing himself in Naomy’s eyes.

“Some things are,” she cooed, pulling him toward the bedroom.

14: The Virtue of Patience

2006-12-04T16:19:00.001-08:00

Shinji Ito sat back in his comfortable chair, waiting. He had become exceptionally talented at waiting, and it was a skill that had worked in his favour more times than he could count. If one knew when to wait, and did so extensively and patiently, he would also know when to act, and hopefully how to act as well. Shinji had made an art out of acting at precisely the right time to achieve the result he desired; few were stupid enough to underestimate a man like him. It was this art that had propelled him up the food-chain over and above his many peers, starting as a lowly programming assistant in a backwater satellite colony called Shinzon, to his climb up the executive ladder of Matsushita metro to eventually become its lead programmer. He had waited at the top of Matsushita, quietly organizing several strategic alliances with other high-technology metros, eventually leading to the formation of the Matsu-Sung Technology Union, the most advanced of all the tech-unions.

Shinji's eventual final leap had placed him squarely at the head of the Matsu-Sung, and made him debatably the most powerful man on Earth. If there was one thing he knew, it was that there were a thousand people beneath him, all clamouring to topple, and subsequently become the new, top dog. All it would take was one mistake – one failed maneuver or premature action – to bring him down. Thus he waited, biding his time, until the information came that would secure his position beyond the petty reach of his clawing, striving underlings.

If all went as he had predicted – Shinji's predictions were seldom wrong, and when they were he made sure no one was left to remember them – he would not have to wait long.

A chime sounded on the console in front of him, notifying him of his assistant Hiro's attempt to contact him from the lower offices. He answered the page, “You make speak, Hiro.”

“Someone is here to see you, Prime Analyst, sir. He claims to have an appointment, though I cannot see it in the record.”

“His name, Hiro?”

“He gives his name as 'Hunter', sir,” said a confused Hiro.

“Send him up, immediately.”

“As you wish, Prime Analyst. He is on his way now.”

“Thank you Hiro. You may retire for the rest of the day.”

“Thank you, Prime Analyst.”

“Yes, Hiro. Goodnight.”

A few moments passed before the lift doors opened and the white-outfitted figure stepped out, each step a calculated move into potentially hostile territory. Shinji’s informant was a methodical man, if a man he truly was. Shinji didn’t know. Shinji didn’t want to know.

“You come later than I could have hoped for,” he said, unceremonially.

“Perhaps,” replied Hunter, “But not later than expected. I know you well enough to know you never expect things to happen more quickly than they should.”

“And has my waiting met with favourable results?”

“I am only here to bring you the information you are paying me to bring, Mister Ito,” said the metallic voice behind a white survival mask, “It is your own affair how you interpret it.”

“It is Prime-Analyst Ito,” Shinji corrected the man. He had insisted on the title’s full usage since the day he was installed; instilling the proper respect in one’s subordinates tended to minimize fantasies of conquest, he had found.

“Then I will call you Shinji,” said Hunter, levelly, “And by the time I have told you all there is to tell, you will be happy enough to be called a data entry operator, or my name isn’t… well, I suppose you don’t know my name, do you?”

Shinji grunted his skepticism about just how happy he would be with the title, but thought better of making an issue out of it. This man had a reputation for doing strange and dangerous things. It would not be the first time a tech-union head had met a mysteriously gruesome death shortly after meeting with him. “Data entry operator is it, then, Mister Hunter. By all means, proceed.”

“When you were a young man, struggling to make a living in the slums of Shinzon satellite as a simple labourer, you developed a keen interest in your colony’s reclamation, based on your belief that through the pursuit of technology one might find some way to unlock the secret knowledge of the universe. Knowledge, you believed, that had been given to humanity – left here by some ancient star-faring race of extra-terrestrials, is that not so?”

Shinji bowed affirmatively.

“And with this belief firmly in hand, you set out to acquire a command over the technological currents of the world, as it was, believing that the great shift had provided humanity with a wonderful opportunity; a world in which one man might claim ownership over enough influence that such secrets might be found out, and used to one’s advantage.

“Evidently you have succeeded in securing your vaunted power – almost. You are not without rivals, of course: Amoco, Golan, and the like. And you have invested considerable efforts into finding what was left behind. To date your efforts have yielded little success, almost as if your hypotheses have been all wrong. You begin to doubt yourself, Shinji – to doubt your vision, and your convictions. I can smell the odour of defeat all over you.”

The Prime Analyst leaped to his feet, his face creased with lines of anger, “You will reach your point, Hunter! Or I will show you just how defeated Shinji Ito really is.” He had a dangerous glint in his eye.

Hunter put up his hands in acquiescence. “Imagine, if you will, what value your extra-terrestrial benefactors must have placed on all of their secrets. To simply leave such knowledge where any common savage might find it would be lunacy. Suppose it had been uncovered by Mao Tse Tung, or Adolf Hitler, or George W. Bush – the world is frozen now, but that is better than if it had been burned to ruin, as it very likely would have been by any number of the despotic dictators of the old-world.

“No, Shinji, if indeed such wonderous secrets have been bestowed upon the Earth, they would have been well hidden, only to be discovered and used in their proper time and place.”

Shinji nodded, “I see what you mean. But how would they hide such a thing?”

“A puzzle, Shinji,” Hunter continued, “A great puzzle whose pieces, laced with knowledge and prophecy, are hidden throughout the ages, and whose final pieces end at the great shift. Only then would it have been possible to solve the puzzle and unlock your secrets. But somebody knew about this puzzle, and hid the pieces away in a place they knew nobody would ever think to look.”

“Whether they thought to leave the matter to simple fate, or whether they knew more about our future than we can imagine possible, I do not know. In either case, your long wait is at an end, Shinji.”

“These… pieces, they have been found?”

“In an old vault, deep in the New Babylon nether—“

“I must send an expedition at once!” Shinji exclaimed, moving toward the inter-comm button on his console.

“You will not find it there any longer,” said Hunter. “The artifacts disappeared shortly after they were found, but the man who found them knows more about your secrets than any other person in human history, and incidentally he is also the other person in human history with the capacity to put the puzzle back together.”

“You will give me the identity of this man.”

“Yes, Shinji, but you should know that I have already informed Mordakhi and Armistad of his existence.”

“What?” Shinji cried, “You have betrayed me!”

“Not so, Shinji,” Hunter replied, calmly, “But I thought it wise to divert the focus from being squarely on you, and to incite a certain level of confusion that you might use to your advantage. They do not know what you know, Shinji; both believe they are seeking what they most wished to find. You are the only person to whom I have told the entire truth.”

“And why should I trust that you have chosen me to reveal this information to, out of all my rivals?”

“Because you know what I know: the virtues of patience,” said Hunter.

Shinji thought about this for a moment, then nodded, “Tell me about this man, and where I can find him.”

Hunterwraith smiled beneath his mask. A measure of truth could accomplish things that an out-and-out lie never could.

13: Back to the Lion's Den

2006-12-04T16:18:00.000-08:00

In the past few weeks, I had been through a lot, and I had cheated death in many different ways. Though I remained highly skeptical, I was beginning to think that the Outcasts' faith might be based on more than simple mythology; one coincidence was one thing, but it seemed suddenly as though everything in my life had been leading up to this period of time. I was beginning to see the possibility that perhaps my injury, and my mission were not by accident, but part of a plan. And if that had been planned, then it had also been planned that I would seek out Hunterwraith, and that I would find that vault and analyze the objects within, and that I would be found by these humble people in the nether, only to be the first person ever to escape that dark place.

There was nobody else on Earth who could have done the things that I had done, or seen the things that I had seen, or survived the things I had survived. There was, in truth, nobody else alive who would have known what to do with the information that had been imparted to me. Everything from my past, my physical abilities, and my profession had worked together in order for me to intercept this message, this code transmitted through the ages. My rage had not lessened, but it had begun to be tempered by the realization that I was a part of something bigger than simple revenge – maybe even the most important discovery of all time. Why I felt this, I did not know.

What I did know was that it was high time I got home. The Codex's database awaited, and there was nothing now to stop me but time. I knew that at the end of my journey, Hunterwraith would be there too.

* * *

The next several hours were spent deep in the planning; being exiled from New Babylon was the easy part, and the administrators (or their personal police force) did all of the hard work. Getting back in would be much more difficult, if it was possible at all. Of course, Nigel and the others did not bother worrying about the what-ifs; their underlying faith did not allow for anything but an upbeat confidence that whatever plan they decided on, the way would be opened when they got there. Noal found himself slipping into their way of thinking more and more as time wore on, not realizing until afterwards just how infectious their brand of optimism really was.

More than anything else, he wanted to see Naomy again. Something had changed inside him, and he felt like something had been freed. In any case, his fear of loving her seemed to have gone, and he looked forward to the possibilities that might present themselves. Second to that, and a burning urgency even by comparison, was his desire to get back home and start working his way through his notes. Something big involving the shift was in there, he knew – maybe he would even solve the age-old mystery of its causes. In fact, he felt confident of that, however he also had a sensing that he was onto something even bigger than that. It was a truly daunting proposition. There was also the matter of Hunterwraith's note, and the data-disk he had left behind. There was something important there too, Noal was sure.

First things had to come first though; he wasn't back in New Babylon just yet.

“...so I'm afraid that just won't work,” Layla was saying, “There is no way to open the under-works door from the outside!”

“Surely there is a way,” Ryron cut in, “There is a keypad on the door – I have seen it with my own eyes! Why would there be a keypad if there was no code to enter into it?”

“I've seen that keypad myself,” Layla replied, “But there is no code! I was an under-director in New Babylon for three years, and you don't think I'd have been told about something like that?”

“Yes... unless it was only known by the senior administrators,” suggested Zail.

“Well if that is the case then it does us very little good,” Layla rebutted.

Nigel stood up, the mark of an idea on his face, “Perhaps more good than you think,” he said, “I'll be right back.” Nigel headed over the ridge and into the Outcast tent-city, returning several minutes later with another, dour-looking man in tow.

“You all know Jarvis,” said Nigel, bringing his companion into the circle, “except you, Noal.” The rest of his advisors nodded in-turn, with something less than enthusiasm; evidently Jarvis was nobody's favourite person, and Noal soon found out why.

“Oh my, thank for the lovely greeting,” said the weasely man, his tone managing sound both sarcastic and whiny at the same time, “I suppose, though, I should feel privileged to be called upon by the auspicious Head of our beautiful little society.”

Noal nearly groaned audibly, but caught himself at the last moment, managing to only groan inwardly, instead.

“And how is he supposed to help?” inquired Lata, contemptuously.

“Perhaps if you would bother to hold your tongue and listen, you would find out that I happen to know a great deal about things that you, yourself, could never know, such as—“

Lata bounded to her feet, her eyes filled with violent thoughts, “Such as how to cower in the dark and sob like a little girl, perhaps? You know all about that, don't you Jarvis?”

“That's enough, Lata,” Nigel barked, “There's no time for this, now. Sit down.” Lata did as she was told, though she was clearly reluctant about it. “I realize that Jarvis here is nobody’s particular favourite person,” Jarvis glowered at that, “He has had a, shall we say, more difficult time than most adjusting to life in the nether. We’ve all put it down to his being relatively new here – we found him a little over two and a half years ago – but there may be another reason that you are not all aware of.” The advisors all looked at Jarvis, curiously, as Nigel explained further. “It seems that Jarvis, here, was Senior Administrator before being cast out.”

The circle erupted into chaos.

“..Administrator!”

“Must have done something really bad—“

“..No wonder he’s such a whiny a—“

Nigel had to get everyone’s attention once again. “People! This is neither the time nor place for this. Yes, his former-position is significant, but it might also prove very helpful to us right now. Now then, somebody had a question about the administrator’s access, didn’t they?”

Ryron reiterated his question from before, “Is there a way into the city from the refuse pit door? A code to open it?”

Jarvis’ eyes lit up momentarily as he thought about his answer, “A code? For the refuse door? I—oh! That door! The one in sector seven; that code is—that is to say, er, no longer functioning. Yes – been quite inoperable for some time I’m afraid.”

“Well that leaves us back at square one, then,” sighed Marke.

“Not quite,” put in Jarvis, “There may be another way in, if you’re interested.”

“Please go on,” said Nigel.

“Yes, well, as those of you who have been to the refuse door will recall, there is a garbage chute not far away—“

“Yes, a garbage incinerator chute!” Rouel interrupted.

“If you will simply let me finish,” Jarvis said, impatiently, “I happen to have been the director of waste management for nearly five years, during my tenure as administrator, and as such I was privy to many of the more technical aspects of their refuse delivery system.”

“So you’re the one who allowed them to start dumping all of New Babylons garbage down here?” asked Layla, “They wanted to do that back when I was involved, but I always managed to stop them. But I guess we aren’t all gifted with the same convictions.”

Jarvis gave a twisted smile, “Whatever you may think of my decision, it shall be our saving grace, now, as you would see if you would all stop interrupting me!” He waited for the rest to quiet down. “As I was saying, I happen to be privy to some of the technical workings of New Babylon's waste management processes, including that incineration chute, and I happen to know that there is a pause in the firing mechanism that might allow someone to get through.”

“And you have an intimate knowledge of the timing?” someone asked.

“I could write you a detailed schedule, yes.”

“Good,” said Nigel, “Do it.”

“Very well,” Jarvis replies, “Of course we are still left with the problem of actually traversing ninety feet of vertical chute in around twenty seconds, if one wants to avoid being crisped alive.” He smirked. “I'd like to see that.”

“Ninety feet straight up, in a metal shaft, all in under twenty seconds?” Lata shouted, “This plan is useless! Nobody can do that!”

“It sounds okay to me,” said Noal, nonchalantly, a sly grin on his face. The others – aside from Nigel – looked at him as though he had fallen right off of the deep end. He just smiled and rolled up his pant-leg, rapping on the cold steel to produce a metallic clank, much to everyone's astonishment. “Courtesy of your dark-stalker,” he said, “I climbed from level one up to level three on the sides of buildings for the most part; I can climb up your garbage chute, I think.”

Layla laughed, “So you’re telling us that you need to get out of the nether, in order to, as we believe, fulfill a prophetic mandate from the almighty, and it just so happens that you are the only person in the world for whom it would be possible to do that, due entirely to those legs, which were given to you by the same person who brought you down here to begin with, also the person you are sworn to hunt down.”

“I guess that pretty much sums it up,” Noal replied.

“Sounds like prophecy to me,” said Zail.

“Or good planning,” said Noal.

Jarvis laughed acidly, “You people and your prophecies! There’s no higher power looking out for you! And someday, the New Babylon administrators are going to tire of leaving you down here to your own devices, and they will sweep the nether clean of all of us! When that day comes, I’ll show you where your god is!”

Nigel glowered briefly at Jarvis, and then addressed the group, “Well, I guess we’re decided. We’re leaving in two hours, so everyone be ready to go by then.” Those around the circle stood to go make preparations.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting me to come along, as well?” said Jarvis.

“Are you volunteering?” asked Nigel.

“Yes, yes, I suppose I am. No love lost between my former compatriots and myself, in any case. I suppose I hate them more than I hate all of you, when it comes down to it.”

Nigel’s expression said he was worried. “I think that’s the nicest thing I’ve ever heard you say, Jarvis.”

“Yes, well, perhaps you should thank your god-thing for small miracles, then.”

They left two hours later, as Nigel had said, the ten advisors, plus Nigel, Noal, and Jarvis, wandering into the darkness on a path that Noal could only hope somebody could see; he certainly couldn’t. The only light came from the oddly bright, two-headed torches, whose construction had not been explained to Noal, tethered to a pair of the outcasts’ odd pack beasts, and carried by a few of the advisors. The encroaching darkness was a cavernous thing; there was no natural light whatsoever in the nether, just simple, absolute darkness. Though they had told him that nothing lived in the nether besides themselves and their livestock, Noal felt better to have his zweihander strapped to his back once again. He had been worried that the big sword had been lost when he woke up in the outcast camp without it, but it turned out they had been holding onto it for him. They had also given him a proper sack to carry all of his notes in; he hoped it would make it up the garbage chute alright.

Having left late in whatever the outcasts considered ‘day’, the group stopped to set up camp, still several hours march from the New Babylon refuse pit. Everyone ate around a low fire, except for Jarvis, who took his warm stew and sat apart from the others, refusing to join in their conversation and plans. Noal had a funny feeling that Jarvis was going to cause trouble before he had seen the last of the sour man. As he lay himself down to sleep, his mind wouldn’t stop whirling with all manner of dark possibilities.

He woke to Mik starting the morning fire for breakfast and got up slowly from the surprisingly soft ground he’d been sleeping on. Breakfast among the outcasts consisted of some kind of ground cereal (delicious despite being absent of sugars or artificial flavourings), and cuts of succulent meat from their livestock. There was also a flavourful vegetable broth made from a variety of different things grown in their ‘stretch’. Noal still could not believe that such things could grow in a place like the nether; perhaps it really had been a miracle.

“Have either of you seen Jarvis?” asked Nigel, walking out of the dark corner, away from the camp, designated as a lavatory pit. “He wasn’t in his bedroll when I woke the rest up. Hopefully he hasn’t wandered off and fallen into a hole or something.” Mik just shrugged; apparently he hadn’t seen Jarvis either. Noal’s internal danger-sense was whirling again. When a brief search of the area failed to turn up anything, Nigel decided to move on. “We'll pray for Jarvis' safety. And our own.” Apparently Noal wasn't the only one who didn't trust the man.

They reached the outer wall of New Babylon a few hours later. It was a towering steel construct, all cold steel and completely devoid of any welcome. Sprawled out before it was a massive field of garbage and debris; it stunk like nothing Noal had ever smelled before. “How can they do this?” he asked, “Just dumping all of this down here like this?”

“I'd tell you ask Jarvis..” Ryron quipped.

At the base of the wall, near the origin of the refuse-pit, a large gateway could be seen. Despite Jarvis' assurances to the contrary, it appeared to have been used recently, though it was soundly locked tight now. The danger sense whirred.

“So where is this garbage chute?” asked Noal?

Nigel gestured along the wall, left from the doors, “It's around this way,” he said, leading the way there. A short walk brought them to a large, round hatch in the wall, shut for the time being. “If Jarvis was telling the truth, this should open at least once every--” The hatch opened, suddenly, revealing an opening that led away into blackness beyond. Noal had the urge to jump into and start climbing, but Nigel held him back. “Best go better prepared,” he said, as the aperture started to close. “It should open again in about ten minutes.”

Noal back away, making sure his zweihander and the other bag were securely secured to his body, then began saying his goodbyes. “I can't thank you all enough for saving my life, and for helping me here. If there is a god looking out for you all, I have a feeling that he will not be content to leave you down here much longer. Your time is coming.”

“For one who does not believe in prophecy, you have just spoken one quite eloquently,” said Lata.

“We will meditate on what you say, and pray that our paths meet again, someday,” Marke offered.

“And may it not be from you being left half-dead in the stretch the second time 'round!” Mik put in.

More words followed from the rest of the advisors, until Nigel interrupted them, “It is time Noal, the chute will open shortly!” Noal wasted no time in climbing up the wall to the edge of the hatch, his feet-spurs faithfully gripping the steel. Nigel shouted up to him, “Your presence among us, however short, has been a blessing, Noal Silver! Godspeed!”

The hatch opened, and Noal started climbing, letting his prosthesis do as much of the work as he could. In less than twenty seconds the entire chute would ignite, and he hoped his swaggering attitude from the day before had not been simple arrogance, on his part. He made it to the ignition chamber in about fifteen seconds, and from there it was a short hop into the tube that would take him inside the city. As he begin his final ascent, the burners began to rumble, then shot flames out into the chute in all directions. Noal could feel the heat as he neared the top, and flames followed him on his way out, and into level one waste disposal.

Dusting himself off, Noal got to his feet to search out the Steampunk Culture Club, where he hoped Naomy and Sal were waiting for him. He hadn't walked a step when two black-clad men with gun drawn stepped out in front of him, a third, familiar figure safely behind them.

“It seems you were right, Director Jarvis,” the lead enforcer commented to the man behind him. “Your efforts in infiltrating the Nether Outcasts have finally proven productive.”

Jarvis stepped forward, triumphantly, “Thank you, captain. I'm sure the high-administrator will find Mister Silver here well worth my reward.”

The captain smirked behind Jarvis, “His value will be ascertained quickly, I'm sure. As for your reward, the high administrator feels you have now outlived your usefulness as a spy, thus I have been sent with your payment.” Jarvis turned around, eagerly, and received his reward from the business end of the captain's pistol. His lifeless body fell, tumbling into the garbage chute like any other bit of refuse.

“Now them, Mister Silver, your presence is 'requested' by my superiors,” said the captain, pulling out a long club-like object, along with his partner, “These shock-sticks have been known to cause permanent damage, though not to anything you'll need in questioning.”

Noal reached behind his back, and the other man laughed, “Forget about it, partner, a firearm suppressor is active, your guns are useless!”

“Good thing I don't use guns!” Noal shouted, pulling the zweihander from its sheathe and relieving the subordinate enforcer of the hand wielding his shock-stick. The captain moved in, receiving a flurry of iron-hard kicks from Noal's metal legs, the last of which casting him down the garbage chute, to follow Jarvis.

The subordinate knelt on the ground, screaming “You cut off my hand! Oh god, you cut off my hand!”

Noal rested the zweihander’s tip against the enforcer’s crotch, “You’d better run, before I start cutting off other things.” The black-clad man did as he was told.

* * *

“…how much longer are we gonna wait for him, Nae?” a large Italian-descended man shouted, in the tiny rented room he had been sharing with the diminutive Persian woman he was now having a loud debate with.

“As long as we have to!” Naomy insisted, tears welling up in her eyes, “He’ll come back – I know he will. You just have to trust me.”

“We’ve been in this dump for over a week now, Naomy,” Sal answered, “I think we need to face the fact that Noal may not be coming back at all. The last time we saw him he was jumping through a fifth storey window on the side of another building. God only knows what happened to him!”

“He’s alive, Sal,” Naomy wasn’t budging.

“You don’t know that, Nae. Just because you had a dream…”

“It was just any dream! It was real – he was there!” She was sobbing now. Sal looked at his feet, miserably.

“I…I’m sorry, Nae. This is hard for the both of us, but more so on you, I know.” He sat on the single bed, putting his head in his hands. Though he hated to admit it, he had cried more than once in the past week.

Without warning, the door handle began to rattle; someone was trying to get in.

“Get down, Nae – we’ll handle this Sal style.”

* * *

Noal made his way out of the waste management area and onto the first level street – more of a slum than anything else – wandering in one direction, asking those he came across how to get to the Steampunk. Eventually he found someone who gave him proper directions, and ten minutes later he was trudging through the front doors, breathing a sigh of relief at the sight of the Gravedigger still parked out front, and into the back area where he seemed to recall his room being. He tried the door and found it locked, so he decided to break in, figuring it would be better than knocking and potentially alerting any watchers that he was alive.

After jimmying the lock, he made his way inside and found the room pitch black. They must be out he thought, closing the door behind him. Suddenly the lights came on and something that felt like a cannonball hit him square in the face, knocking him to the ground. “Stay down, or I’ll blow your frickin head off—“ Sal’s voice roared, as a shotgun barrel pressed up against Noal’s head. “—waitaminute – Noal?”

“Noal!” Naomy squealed – it had been her first hitting him in the face, he realized – and fell on top of him, smothering him with kisses she somehow knew would be welcome. He reciprocated for as long as he felt acceptable, before pulling himself to his feet. “We were so worried about you!” said Naomy, tears, now of joy, running down her cheeks.

“Yeah man, where the hell have you been?” Sal said, trying to sound upset.

Noal just shook his head, “It’s a long story – the short of being we’re leaving, right now – I’ll tell you the rest in the ‘digger.”

“Where are we going?” asked Naomy.

“Back to the Codex – I’ve got work to do.”

“The Codex? Why back there?” put in Sal.

“Not now – in the ‘digger!” Noal replied, anxiously. “They’ll be after me soon; we have to go!”

The crew packed up their belongings as quickly as possible and headed for the Gravedigger. Noal left a hefty amount for Erik, the owner, on his way out the door. Back in the Gravedigger, Noal felt a measure of anxiety melt away; he was no longer at anyone’s mercy but his own, and he intended it to stay that way for the foreseeable future.

Noal drove up the main ramp, out the level one gates and around past level two, then stopped at level three, turning into the guard station there for entry access.

“Do you have level three clearance, sir?” asked a guard at a booth.

“Password dryad,” Noal answered.

“Very well sir, have a good day.” The gate opened and Noal drove inside.

“I thought you said we had to leave,” said Sal.

“Just a little unfinished business to attend to first.” Noal drove around until he saw the bright glow of the Heaven & Hell Nightclub sign, and pulled the Gravedigger up beside it. Naomy and Sal followed him into the bar, where he scanned the room for familiar faces. A man was tending bar this time, instead of the woman who had tricked him before, but he did see one other person that he knew.

“Hey baby,” said a clearly startled, and still scantily clad Mileena, “You’re back! Wow!”

Noal didn’t bother wasting time on small talk, instead grabbing the overly-made up tart by the throat and pushing her up against the wall. “How much did he pay you Mileena? Where is he, now?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I swear!” she gasped.

“I’ll crush your bloody windpipe if you don’t smarten up, Mileena. Try again!” Noal sounded really serious, even Sal and Naomy looked uncomfortable.

“Okay!” she cried, “I don’t know much – he just gave me some money and told me if I saw a Noal Silver from the Codex, to have him get me an abominable snowman from the bar – that’s it!”

“That’s all you know?” he asked, angrily.

“That’s it, I swear!” Noal let her back down gently, “But listen, Noal, I wasn’t making up what I said about men in uniform you know. Maybe I could make it up to you, ya know? My place is just around the corn—“

“And I suppose he’s hiding inside! What kind of a moron do you take me for, Mileena?” Noal roared, “How were you going to contact him?”

“I wasn’t! Shit! He just knows, okay, I don’t know how.” She started to cry, “That’s all I know, okay? I’m sorry.”

Noal blew air through his teeth, furiously, “You’d better be grateful to fate that I’m not a cold-blooded killer like that god-damned Hunter,” he said, turning on his heel to walk out of the club.

“And just who in the hell was that?” asked Naomy, incredulously.

“Not now!” yelled Noal, “In the ‘digger!”

* * *

A white shape approached Mileena from behind, caressing her cheek with it’s cold-suited hand.

“So what did you do to piss that guy off, eh?” Mileena asked.

“Oh, nothing much,” said Hunterwraith’s metallic voice, “I just killed his wife, and his two best friends, and left him half-frozen, with no legs.” The voice laughed, if it could be called that.

“Oh…”

The white hand wrapped around her neck to the other cheek, gripping it ever so gently. “You have been very helpful Mileena. Unfortunately, you now know too much.” The white hand whipped Mileena’s face in an unnatural direction with a muted snap.

He was gone by the time her body hit the ground.

12: Salvation in the Nether

2006-12-04T16:15:00.000-08:00

Everything I had read, watched, heard, documented, notated, and seen swam in my head as my body gave up my mind to the mental darkness of sleep. In my minds eye, there was light again, glorious light, and within the light was something I did not understand. It had been in the vault, contained in every object inside of it, hidden within codes, ciphers, and patterns. I had been so focused on recording that I had made no attempt to decode, but my mind had not been so idle, nor was it idle now.

As I drifted inside the light, my subconscious mind navigated through everything it had analyzed while my waking mind had been busy, at work with my pencil and my paper. I looked out upon a vast landscape of chaos; nothing made sense, nothing was in its proper place, but in the centre of it all was the answer. The answer to what, I had no idea, but it was important, possibly more important than anything I had ever done. Why had he brought me here?

Floating on the winds of my mind's eye, I flew through news reels parading as DaVinci master pieces parading as country music parading as Greek tragedies parading as...??? Everything was jumbled, disorganized, and flying all around me in the light. As my mind began to disconnect from my body, I saw myself from outside, reaching for something reaching for me – the answer lay beyond, out of reach – but I was chained to a memory that held me back. I realized that I would never be whole again, unless I broke those chains and embraced the thing I was headed towards. Clawing my way through the tumult around me, I grasped myself in my hands and pulled myself inside my head. It was time to break the chains.

* * *

Feverish dreams came, borne of hunger and despair: a grassy grove, hidden amongst tall, leafy trees on a sunny afternoon. A breeze blew in from the sparkling blue sea just over the next low ridge, bringing a hint of refreshing air with it. Noal half-lay on a thick blanket, soaking up the warmth of the day, as though there were nothing at all wrong with the world, and all was at peace. In front of him sat a wicker picnic basket, whose contents he knew were special – something worth waiting for, to be savoured and enjoyed. To side lay one of the most beautiful sights he could imagine; Naomy’s olive smile beamed up at him, her blue eyes sparkling. He loved her – he knew that now – and she loved him. It had been this way for a long time now, so why had he never acted upon his feelings for her? She was waiting for him, he knew that too.

Something stirred on his other side, and he turned to see something equally beautiful, but different; Lara looked at him, a question in her eyes. Suddenly he couldn’t bear those eyes – eyes that he had loved and cherished, it seemed in a previous life. And yet he had never been able to escape his guilt that she had died, and he had done nothing to stop it. How could he ever love another woman – it would be a betrayal to Lara’s memory, surely.

Lara smiled at him, her mouth phasing the question he had been watching in her eyes. “Why, my love?”

“Why what?” Noal answered.

“Why are you still hanging on to me?” his dead wife replied, “I have gone to a better place, and yet you use my memory as a prison. Let go, my husband; your misery does pays no honour to my memory. Go, and be happy again.” With that, Lara stood and walked over the ridge.

Tear poured down Noal’s face as he turned back towards Naomy, still smiling at him from her place on the blanket. “I love you Naomy, and I’m sorry it took me so long to say that,” he said, struggling to find his voice. All his guilt and reticence had disappeared in that moment, and he suddenly found himself smiling about his future. Wait a minute… what about the future? Trees and grass? Nobody has seen those in a hundred and fifty years… The thought evacuated his mind as Naomy was suddenly draped over him, kissing him with a passion that belied her normally reserved nature.

“It’s time to wake up, my love,” she whispered, her eyes becoming two glowing points of yellow light as the idyllic scenery faded into blackness. “Wake up… Wake up…”

* * *

The world was blackness again, the trees and grass having disappeared, replaced with the hard, oily dirty beneath him, refreshing breeze replaced by the sharp tang of an empty oil reservoir. Twin points of yellow light signaled to him out of the darkness; their origin was unknown, but welcome. They were moving away from him.

He tried to shout out, but his voice, at first escaped him, and all he managed was a low grunt. He tried again and eventually managed a hoarse croak of “Help!” The lights stopped moving away and seemed to backtrack, stopping a few feet from his prone form, where they proceeded to gently swing, as if alive. A grubby man’s face was suddenly looking down upon him, hazily illuminated by the swaying lights beside him.

“Can you talk, stranger?” the dirty face asked.

Noal nodded, managing to gasp something vaguely affirmative.

“Here, drink this,” said the man, pushing a flask against Noal’s lips. Whatever it was that came from inside, it burned like swallowing fire, but Noal felt better after drinking it. “If those administrators are bringing people out here now, we’re gon’ have to send out more search n’ rescuers,” Noal’s rescuer continued, “Listen, you probably have a lot of questions you’d like to ask, but you’re in no condition to ask ‘em, and I’m in no position to answer any ‘til the head sees to you.”

“Wait…” Noal gurgled.

“No time to wait, now, stranger; you’ll be out cold in a minute, thanks to the sleeping juice you just drank, and we’ll need to get some grub into you ‘fore anything else.” The man started to drag Noal towards the two lights, which he saw to come from some kind of torch attached to… a pack-animal? He must have been hungrier than he’d realized. “You just go to sleep now.”

Noal felt unconsciousness seeping over him for the third time in short span, and realized he had no strength to fight against it. Oh no, not again… he thought, slipping into a warm, dreamless sleep.

Another man was looking over him when he woke this time, broad-shouldered and dark-skinned, with a black goatee and a bald head. “Welcome back,” he said, warmly.

“Welcome back to what?” asked Noal, finding his voice much recovered.

The black man shrugged, “Consciousness, I guess. How are you feeling?”

Noal’s stomach rumbled in answer. “Hungry,” Noal replied.

“That’s a good sign. Some food is being brought right now.” The man leaned back to sit in a rickety chair beside the pallet Noal was lying on. “My name is Nigel; they call me the ‘Head’ around here, I guess because they think I’m their leader. I go along with it for the most part.” He grinned. “I know you probably have a lot of questions for me, which I would be happy to answer, if you wouldn’t mind answering a few of mine first.”

“Go ahead,” said Noal.

”Good. First I’d like to know your name.”

“Noal. Noal Silver,” Noal answered.

“And which level are you from, Noal is it?”

Noal nodded, “None, actually. I’m from the Codex with two friends; we were here on… business, you might say.”

Nigel looked confused by this, “Puzzling,” he said, “They don’t usually cast-out non-citizens.”

“They? Who’s they? Nobody cast me out of anything!” Noal exclaimed.

“They are the administrators – the ones who put you here,” Nigel tried to explain.

Noal shook his head adamantly, “I wasn’t brought here by any administrators,” he insisted, “It is a bit of a mystery to me how I ended up all the way out here, but it had nothing to do any city officials that I know of.”

“If not the administrators, then who?”

Noal took an angry breath, “The goddamned Hunterwraith, that’s who.”

Nigel leapt to his feet in alarm, his dark face suddenly pale, “Hunterwraith? The white demon? The one who stalks in the dark as though it were the light?” The man looked like he was about to break out in a cold sweat. “How do you know him, Noal Silver from the Codex? Are you his messenger?”

Noal sat up, his eyes burning holes in the back of Nigel’s head, “I came here to kill that rat-bastard,” he stated, coldly, “And he brought me out here, instead. I don’t know exactly why.” Noal considered telling Nigel about the vault, but thought better of the length explanation that would surely follow.

“But he didn’t kill you,” said the Head, slowly taking back his seat, “That means he needs you for something. Do you know what it is?”

“No,” said Noal, emphatically, “Probably just to continue tormenting me. Six years ago he killed my wife and my two best friends, and left me frozen up to my thighs in the shell,” Nigel eyed Noal’s mechanical legs, “And it has been my greatest ambition to hunt him down and put him out of the world’s misery. He won this round, obviously, but there will be others.”

Nigel sighed. “You’ve given me much to think on, but that is enough questions for now.”

“Mind if I ask a few now?”

“Of course, of course,” said Nigel, “What would you like to know?”

“For starters, who the hell are you people?”

“We are – for lack of a better word – outcasts,” Nigel answered. “When the administrators of New Babylon wish to… eliminate somebody, but cannot afford to make a martyr out of them, they are sent here, to the nether. If they are lucky, we find them; if they are not lucky, then they usually die.”

“Outcasts?” Noal shook his head, “How long have you been here?”

“A long time,” said Nigel, “I, myself, am third generation, but there are other families who can trace their lineage farther back than I.”

“Three generations? You mean there have been people living out here for fifty or sixty years?” asked Noal, incredulously.

“Much longer than that, actually, but I couldn’t tell you for sure how long,” Nigel smiled, “We have no reason to account for time as stringently as some people.” He got up to briefly peek out of what Noal realized to be a tent-flap. “Ah, the meal is ready! Can you walk a short distance to a bench outside?”

“I think I’ll make it,” said Noal, “It’s either that or I hike all the way back to New Babylon; either way, I’m getting some food!” Noal picked himself up off the pallet and ducked under the tent-flap into the darkness outside. “It’s always night here,” he commented, gingerly taking a seat next to a small fire a few feet from the tent.

“That may be, stranger,” said a familiar grubby face from over the cook-pot, “but at least it’s warm and aberrant-free!” It was the man who had rescued him.

“Hey, I wanted to thank you for saving my life,” said Noal.

“Oh? Nah, never you mind, I’m just glad I passed by you when I did!” said the grubby man, pass Noal a makeshift bowl full of something of the stew variety. “When I heard a croaking voice out in the stretch I thought I’d lost my mind! Thought I’d do what I could to disprove that theory – lucky for you eh?”

“Lucky, yeah,” Noal agreed. He took a bite of his stew, not expecting much, and found it surprisingly savoury and wholesome-tasting. It made the food in New Babylon seem like processed garbage by comparison. The other faces around the fire bowed their heads and gave thanks, then joined in. “You have to tell where you get food like this!” Noal exclaimed, “I can’t imagine anything grows down here.”

“No, you certainly wouldn’t think so, would you?” said Nigel, “But it does, somehow, out in the stretch. Fields and fields of crops, and even herds of livestock. And the funny thing about it is that no one ever knew where it came from. When the first outcasts ended up out here they were sure they would die, so they started wandering aimlessly, praying to God for some kind of deliverance. After a few days of this, they felt themselves walking through leafy vegetation and discovered the garden, already full of food to be harvested.”

“Seriously?” Noal couldn’t believe what he was hearing, “What about the livestock?”

“Same thing,” Nigel answered, “A few days after they had started their harvesting, an animal just walks right through the garden with no warning and no apparent place of origin. It refused to be caught, however, and they ended up chasing it a short distance to where an entire herd of its kind were just standing, waiting for someone to claim them.”

“That’s an incredible story,” said Noal, “I’m surprised the administrators haven’t taken it all away from you by now.”

“The administrators don’t know about it,” said a middle-aged woman on the other side of the fire-pit, “Everyone knows we’re out here, but they all believe we’re a pack of barely-human creatures subsisting on mud and babies. Parents in Babylon tell ghost stories about us to their children – ‘you’d better behave, or the outcasts will get you!’”

“How do you know all this?” asked Noal?

“Not all of us were born in the nether,” the lady replied, “I was going to be an administrator myself, until I came into information that I wasn’t supposed to see, and they disposed of me to protect themselves. I’ve been here eight years, now.”

Nigel stood, getting the attention of those around the fire with an upraised hand. “Everyone, I think some introductions are in order. You all heard that Mik had brought in a strange from the stretch, and now you have had a chance to meet him briefly,” he gestured to Noal, “His name is Noal Silver, and he is our guest here.” He turned to gesture toward the circle, huddled around the small fire, speaking to Noal. “Around the fire are Mik, Jens, Mirella, Jakob, Ryron, Layla, Rouel, Lata, Zail, and Marke.”

“Only ten of you,” said Noal, “Is this everybody?”

Nigel had a good laugh at that, “You mean all of the outcasts? Hardly! These are just my close advisors.” The square-shouldered man led Noal away from the fire to look over a ridge surrounding his camp. In the blackness Noal could see the light of more fires than he could count.

“There must be thousands of people down there! How is this possible?”

“The lord has blessed us, Noal,” Nigel explained, “There is very little sickness or death here, and many children.”

They returned to the fire, and Nigel continued his explanation of the days events. “Despite what you are all probably thinking, he was not brought here by the administrators, but by the dark-stalker.”

The circle erupted with voices all talking and asking questions on top of one another. Nigel quieted them again, “It is my belief that the stalker left him here purposely, knowing that we would find him. I do not know, nor does mister Silver, the reasons for this, but it is clear to me that our guest is someone special. I have felt a strong call to return him to New Babylon so that he may continue his important work at his home in the Codex.”

“How are we supposed to get him back inside?” said a diminutive man beside the cook.

“There are ways that have been discussed before,” said a dark-skinned woman across from him.

“Indeed, there are possibilities,” said Nigel, “And we must find the best one, and quickly. We have all felt, in our meditations, that a shift was coming upon us, and upon the world. And we have also discerned that the dark-stalker has a part to play. I believe that these things are now coming to pass, and we must aid in any way we can.”

“Wait a minute – meditations?” asked Noal, incredulously, “You believe that God is telling you something about my situation?”

“Not telling,” said Nigel, “Has told. We've known something was coming for a long time, we just didn't know what it was. Now we do.”

Noal shrugged, “Well... alright. I'll have to trust you on that.”

“I have no problem with that,” said Nigel, “Does anybody else?” The others shook their heads. “We need not try to talk you into believing in something that you do not already – that is not our job – if you are to believe it, it will be because God has revealed secrets to you, personally, and not from anything we could say.”

“I see,” said Noal, “You're not like any religious people I've ever met before. Those Christianist priests are always wanting me to 'turn or burn'. And usually they plan on doing the burning themselves.”

“Well we are not going to burn you,” Nigel assured him. “And now one question remains, now that you have escaped from the lion's den: how do we get you back in?”

11: The Turn

2006-12-04T16:14:00.002-08:00

What happened between the time the lights went out and when I awoke, I do not know, but the dreams I had were like nothing I had experienced up to that point, nor since. It was like the most horrifying, disturbing nightmare you can imagine, ramped up a thousand times, and mixed with memories of actual events in the most twisted ways. I saw that day, six years before, when my life had been turned upside down, replayed a hundred times in as many different ways. I was back in that toyo, watching the hunter’s rocket as it flew towards me in slow motion, only this time I had time to swerve out of the way, and for some reason I chose not to. In some version wanted to turn, but I was afraid, and I turned the wrong direction, or I wrenched on the wheel, but I was too weak to move it. The outcome was the same; I had doomed Lara, Roddy, and Marila to their deaths. It had been my fault.

In other visions, I was upside down, hanging from my harness, whimpering and moaning as my friends were taken from the car, one-by-one, and murdered, leaving me to the last. I could have protected the, but I did nothing. Another time I begged for mercy in exchange for letting him kill my wife, or I did the dirty deed myself. Always it started with those cursed white boots in the side window of my upside-down toyocar, and ended with everybody dead, except me. It had been my fault, and my doing. They had died and I had lived; I was a murderer, a coward, a traitor, all of the above, and everybody knew it.

I felt myself dying; my soul was torn asunder from my body as dark shapes grabbed ahold of me and pulled me away, into the depths. There was darkness, and gnashing of teeth; death settled over me like a blanket, and not the peaceful ending of my physical self, but an eternal death, an eternal separation from…something. I could feel nothing, see nothing, hear nothing, taste nothing, smell nothing, but that nothing was something. It was torture, flames, discordant wailing in my ears, a red hot poker burning despair throughout my entire being. I was as dead as dead could be, and my death would never end.

Next, I was on a gurney rolling through the corridors of Core. Tye and Sal were pushing me towards Kasim’s operating theatre, neither looking happy with me at all.

“He killed them,” one had said.
.
“He’s guilty,” the other had added.

“Why bother fixing him at all? Let him die, like he let his friends die,” that had been a feminine voice. Naomy’s voice. She was looking down at me, her hands bloodied from pounding on the ice. Her expression said that I hadn’t been worth the effort. She could never love a despicable piece of human trash like me. My eyes fluttered open (had I been looking through them, before? I wondered) and I smiled at the face of my saviour. She spat in my face, looking disgusted that I had even looked at her.

Pain overwhelmed me, and I was in the operating room. Kasim was sawing my legs off – why was I awake for this? Why hadn’t they at least given me some freezing?

“Not worth the cost of anesthesia,” Kasim had muttered, tossing one useless, fleshy leg onto the ground.

Naomy and Tye stood to the side, laughing at me as I writhed and screamed in pain. One of them handed me a loaded pistol and guided the barrel to my temple.

I pulled the trigger, and…

* * *

Noal thought the nightmares were ending as the images began to fade; he was returning to reality, none too soon for his liking. Eyes fluttering open, images of the white-masked hunter flashed before him, also fading into hazy reality. Still partially consumed with a drug-induced stupour, the familiar sight of a white hunter’s mask filled his hazy field of vision as though through a curtain of fog. But it was real, he knew that as surely as he knew is own name – Neal, er Noal.

The hunter’s metallic voice rang in his head, fuzzy, but intelligible. “You have treaded the path I set before you with more skill than I could have expected, Noal. You should know that your performance up until now has been exemplary, and I greatly look forward to seeing what you will bring to the table in the months to come. Consider this,” he gestured to their surroundings, “my gift to you, for duties faithfully performed – stay as long as you need to. We will meet again, when you are ready.”

Noal wanted to scream at the hunter to wait, stay, face him like a man, but the fog overtook him for a last few sudden moments before dissipating for good. He sat up to examine his surroundings and found Hunterwraith gone God-only-knew where. Noal jumped to his feet, tenderly testing his balance and strength and finding them in good order. He had no idea where he had been taken, or where Hunterwraith had gone, but suddenly he didn’t care. Wherever he was, it was unlike anything he had ever heard of humans building. Floors, walls and ceiling were all lined out with a cold, dark alloy, laced with a luminescent material that gently pulsated in icy-blue tones. Judging by the design, it was a vault of some kind, whose use he could not ascertain.

Then, looking around, he saw what the vault had been storing; a veritable treasure of historical documents, works of art, data recordings, and much more, stretching nearly from wall to wall. Instantly all thought of revenge left his mind, and he was consumed with what he had found. A brief look over the collection told him that this was no mere collector’s horde – artifacts ranging in age from one-hundred and fifty years to six-thousand years all shared the same space, and possibly had for centuries untold. But why? Already his mind was working over what he saw, analyzing the physical features for patterns, commonalities, clues – anything. The objects were related, that much he could tell from a simple visual inspection, but to find out the how and why would require a more thorough examination.

Near the centre of the collection, Noal spotted an old crate filled with dusty, but empty, notebooks, and writing utensils that seemed useable despite their age. He could do wonders with a notebook and some paper. While he had categorized and analyzed a lot of data over the years, he had never had to condense an entire collection of this size solo, nor without the aid of the Codex’s computerized database; this was going to be a hell of a job, but it was here that Noal was most in his element.

To start with, he took several notebooks from the crate, one for each time-period, medium, and genre represented in the collection, and arranged them in a large circle around himself. He took a moment to memorize the location of each category’s book, then took and sharpened a pencil from the crate for each notebook. He would go through many pencils and notebooks by the time he was done; fortunately there was seemingly no lack of either. Next, he spent several hours memorizing each and every object, artifact, and document, its exact location, appearance, period, creator, and potential significance. Noal had an exceptionally good memory.

He decided to start at the end and work backwards, beginning with a number of heretofore unseen documents from various government insiders, scientists, and analysts dating back to the days right after the shift had begun, discussing their own theories and hypotheses regarding the causes of what they were in the middle of experiencing. Some documents were of a purely scientific quality, while others cited top-secret contact with sources inside something called the ‘Pentagon’, as well as a mysterious location known only as ‘Area 51’. These documents Noal spent much time on, taking copious notes, nearly to the point of re-creating entire documents in point-form and Codex short-hand, but he had a feeling he would need those notes before long.

That was only the beginning; from there Noal moved back in time, reading over transcripts of inter-net conspiracy theories involving extra-terrestrials, any number of powerful mega-corporations, billionaire entrepreneurs, and every world-wide government agency imaginable. He skimmed through photographs of UFOs, accounts of mysterious abductions, experiments, and weather phenomena. He had read such things before; the Codex had an extensive library of television programs, tabloid magazines, and science-fiction movies regarding such things, but there was a pattern to be gleaned here, he was sure of. He just needed more time to study his notes more closely. That would have to wait for another time, however; he had a lot more to cover.

As he worked his way back through various periods of history, shunning sleep, food, and even water, a grander picture began to emerge, present in every piece, whether it be renaissance frescoes, Italian sculptures, Victorian literature, pre-historic mythologies, poetical writings, and everything in between. From the modern era all the way back into the first whispers of Mesopotamian civilization, a unified theme and pattern emerged. Oddly, the pattern was only clear when examined from the end to the beginning, rather than the way one usually read through history. All throughout the ages there had been whispers of something dark growing in the shadows; a civilization-spanning prophecy of apocalyptic proportions culminating in the single most significant event in Human history up to that point: the great shift.

One thing was becoming ominously clear about the event that had radically re-shaped the face of the world and human society; for millenia out of memory, people had known that it was coming. They had been warned, but by whom? A stack of notebooks sat to one side, full beyond bursting with his observations, realizations, and analyses on every single item in that vault, yet he needed more information still. Something was missing that he couldn't put his finger on, but whatever it was he knew it was important.

It was also important that he stop; he had filled every notebook in the crate and used up every pencil. He had no concept of how many hours or days he had been in that vault, but as he placed the last notebook on top of the stack, all the cumulative fatigue and hunger that had been silently gnawing at his body and mind since he had jumped through that window above the Steampunk Culture Club on level one hit him all at once. His muscles turned to jelly, stars danced in front of his eyes, and suddenly he found himself face down on the floor, rapidly succumbing to the grip of sleep. Consciousness flowed through his fingers, and he gladly let it go.

He awoke with a killer of a headache and no more idea of how much time had passed than when he had gone to sleep. The hunger pangs he had felt before had developed into a full-fledged stabbing pain in the middle of his gut, and his mouth was dry and chalky from dehydration. But Noal's physical state was the least of his problems at that very moment; the vault was empty, and everything – the entire collection – had disappeared. On the bright side, his notes had not been touched. A metal case sat on the floor in the exact middle of the vault; it hadn't been there before. Noal opened it, carefully, and found a note, hand-written in a language he did not recognize, attached to a small, round disk encased in a blue plastic casing. He stuffed the items into a pocket and took off his cold-suit jacket, folding it into a makeshift sack for the notebooks.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he was raging at Hunterwraith – he knew it had to have been he who had left him the note, and the empty vault – but now his physical needs had begun to outweigh all other concerns. He had to get out of there and find his way back to his friends – maybe stop to find something to eat first – and get back to the Codex as quickly as possible, to start analyzing his notes, and hopefully get Hunterwraith’s cryptic note translated.

Finding his way out of the vault was harder than one might have thought. The chamber itself was expansive, and light was somewhat hard to come by. Not only that, but everything that appeared to have been meant as a possible point of entry was sealed tightly shut. Eventually he stumbled up an alcove hidden in an un-illuminated corner, with a latch that looked like it might actually open something. It took all of his remaining strength just to pull it, and when the door finally squeaked and squealed its way open, he was confronted with more darkness. With nothing else to do but have faith that there were no gaping chasms waiting to swallow him up, Noal stumbled as quickly as he dared through the pitch-black passage, feeling his way along with his fingers as he went. At the end of the tunnel his fingers wrapped themselves around a metal grate, opening stubbornly to let him through into… more darkness.

Here, at least, he was no longer in a tiny passage, but in a more open area; he could feel a light, warm breeze blowing in from no particular direction. There was an odd smell in the air: sharp and oily, almost like petrol-fuel, though there was hardly any petrol left since the major deposits had been used up. Then it came to him where he was: not in New Babylon anymore, but outside, in the giant empty oil reservoir in which the city had been built. How the hell did I get out here?

“Hello!” he shouted, “Is anybody out there? Can anybody hear me?” There was no answer, so he kept walking, feeling out each invisible step before committing to it. He had no idea where he was going, or why, but something told him to just keep on walking; for all he knew he was walking around completely in circles, but either way, he was walking. His strength was quickly leaving him, however – he hadn’t eaten in what was probably days, and had taken breaks to drink only when absolutely necessary (the requisite evacuation took up too much of his precious time to do very often).

The first time he fell, he almost couldn’t bring himself to get back up and keep walking, but he did it, and kept walking, and fell again. And got back up, and kept walking, and fell again. And got back up, and kept walking, losing count of how many times he had fallen and gotten back up. He almost didn’t feel the change in the air until it was too late to stop from falling headlong into a deep hole; as it was he barely managed to throw himself to the side enough to gain himself a rolling slide instead. He knew he should have been thankful that he had only suffered scrapes and bruises instead of a broken leg or neck, but it didn’t matter. He was lying at the bottom of a rocky hole, and he was finished. He let unconsciousness take him, well aware that he might never see light again.

10: Heaven & Hell

2006-12-04T16:14:00.001-08:00

I had known that Kasim al-Amro did good work, and I had known that the cyber-technicians in Core did good work, but I had had no idea just how good that work on me had been. Jumping through that window had been a leap of faith – I truly didn't know what I had been given, or what it was capable of, but I also knew I had to do something. I couldn't let him get away like that. I had trained in Core to use my prosthesis – combat, climbing, jumping, and all the rest of it. I had run their obstacle courses so many times I could run them in my sleep. Then they had changed the courses, and I had run them again. And again. They had never seen anything like me, and they were the ones who had made it possible.

Somehow all that was different – the courses were safe. If I had fallen, I would have come away with some bruises, or maybe a sprain if I was really unlucky. And I had fallen, and tried again until I learned how not to fall, even when doing a new course for the first time. At the time I been impatient, thinking all the training was overkill, but that day I put all of my training to its absolute test. The slightest miscalculation would have sent him hurtling toward the ground, and certain death. But he hadn't miscalculated – whatever technological magic had been imbued into those legs, it had given them an almost intrinsic ability to take him where I needed to go.

I would never be helpless, and I would never be unarmed. Hunterwraith had had an advantage the first time we met, he could do things no ordinary human could do, but now so could I. I loved the fact that it was Hunterwraith who had given me the very thing that would allow me to destroy him.

* * *

Noal stepped out into an entirely different place – the third level, a level for the rich and snotty. The consumerism inherent in human nature dictated the state of that place, as brightly lit signs advertised all manner of products and services, no better in quality than anything offered in the lower levels, but better packaged. The streets were full of people, all striving to be first in line, first in money, first in power. As oppressive and poverty-stricken as the lower levels were, this was worse, as the people here were oppressed by choice; shackling themselves to all the things they imagined they should have. In reality, they were just as poor as anyone in New Babylon, but here the administrators maintained a more pleasant illusion.

All told, it had taken Noal less than ten minutes to get here from the streets of level two, but he was sure Hunterwraith was long since gone. Despite that certainty, he refused to give up. If there was a way to find the man, he would have to discover what it was.

Wandering the streets, he found himself accosted by all manner of vendors, from people selling food or clothing, to unscrupulous narcotics dealers; he wanted none of it. As he came across different people he asked if anyone had seen the white-suited Hunter, but no one had any information, or if they did they were not willing to give it up. For an hour he walked aimlessly, getting no closer to a clue. From time to time he had the distinct impression of somebody watching him, but couldn't identify where it was coming from. There was a constant noise of voices all around him, all chattering about nothing he could understand; sometimes he swore he heard a metallic voice, calling his name. He would turn to find the voice and find no one there.

A bright purple and blue sign beckoned to him from across a city square. 'Heaven & Hell Nightclub', it blared gaudily, as flashing lights and a thumping bass-line emanated from inside. There was no lineup outside, so he figured it was as good a place as any to look for information, despite its rather shady outer appearance. He was sure the club was equally shady inside, but he was tired of wandering around the streets, aimlessly. A menacing-looking bouncer stood outside the door keeping away undesirables and taking people's entrance fees.

Stepping over the threshold, Noal was bombarded with a cacophony of light and sound the likes of which he had never experienced before. It was exhilarating in a very foreign way, and the sounds of heavy guitars, drums, and bass made him want to bob up and down and jump. He had never heard this kind of music before, but he thought he liked it. He made a mental note to look up hard rock music whenever he got back home to the Codex. Night club patrons in all manner of strange and absurd accoutrement drank, smoked, and danced all around him, all of them caught up in the same pounding rhythm.

A bevy of scantily-clad women hung around near the bar, brazenly flaunting their dubious assets to the various men (and women) walking by them. They seemed particularly intent on Noal as he strode up to the bar.

“Hey honey, you must be new around here,” said one.

“Yeah,” Noal replied, “First time in New Babylon.”

“You don't want to experience it alone, now do you?” said another.

“Actually I’m looking for somebody specific, a hunter,” said Noal, “I don’t suppose you can provide any information about that, would you?”

“No, but we'd be more than happy to provide you with a date for the evening,” said one beside her.

“How about three for the price of one?” said the last one, seductively, “You guys all love a good deal.” She pushed up her ample bosom, as though trying to be subtle about it. The result looked bizarre and more than a little bit desperate.

“I think I'll pass, but thanks for the offer,” said Noal. He knew what was waiting for him back on the first level, even if he couldn't quite wrap his mind around what to do about her.

Noal surveyed the club’s smoke-hazed dance floor, full of patrons bopping and moving to the hard-edged music coming out of a band of musicians playing drums and guitars – built out of whatever materials were convenient, and easily accessible – who seemed quite serious about what they were doing. Noal had listened to a lot of different styles of recorded music during his tenure at the Codex, but he had never seen actual musicians playing music in a live environment. It was quite exhilarating; he could understand why it had been such a popular pastime before the shift. He half-considered grilling the musicians for information after their set, but realized it would be a fruitless endeavour; they were so focused on playing their songs that an army of white-clad assassins could storm into the club and kill everyone inside without them noticing.

The dancers might have seen something, Noal thought as he stepped onto the floor and attempted – pitifully – to dance along with them. Many of the women dancing wore little more than the trio of prostitutes by the bar; more than a few of them had their eyes on him, he realized, wondering how to use that to his advantage. He hadn’t been pondering it very long when a woman – he wondered if she was older than eighteen – approached him, dancing in a playfully sensual manner as she caught his eyes with her own dark brown orbs. She was one of the scantily-clad ones, as well, which caused Noal some considerable trouble concentrating on getting the answers he needed. As the song continued, he managed to get his mind back on the job at hand.

“Hi there, I’m Noal, from the Codex,” he offered, awkwardly. How the hell do you start a serious conversation that doesn’t involve sex in a place like this?

“Well hello there Noal from the Codex, my name is Mileena, and I love a man in uniform!” she giggled, suggestively.

Noal laughed along with her, hoping he didn’t look too much like a fish out of water. “Hey listen, you look like someone people tell things too, I was wondering if you might be able to help with something.”

Mileena gave Noal an appraising look, up and down, and smirked. “Oh yeah, baby, I’m pretty sure I could help you out with all kinds of things. I could sure a drink though; I’m practically parched!” she licked her lips luridly, for emphasis.

“Your wish is my command,” Noal replied, “What would you like?”

“Mmmmm, how ‘bout an abominable snowman?” she grinned, adding “They always get me in the mood for… mmm… talking.”

“Hey, that’s my favourite drink too!” said Noal, faking as much enthusiasm as he could muster, “I’ll be right back – don’t go anywhere!”

Sidling up the bar, Noal flashed a smile at the woman tending and asked for two abominable snowmen, which seemed to amuse the bar-lady, for some reason. “You look a lot like the last person who ordered one of those; must be a popular drink in the Codex.”

“How do you know I'm from the Codex?” Noal inquired.

“Brown hair, green eyes, nice smile,” replied the attractive bar-maid, “Or it could be the insignia on your cold-suit.” She grinned, passing him his drink.

Noal took a swig of the icy-blue liquid and had a good laugh at his own foolishness, “I'm afraid my powers of perception are rather pale next to yours,” he said with a chuckle, “Thanks for the drink, though.”

“You're quite welcome, my Codexer friend,” she flashed him a sultry smile, “Now why don't you tell me what you're really after?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well it's painfully you're looking for something, aside from a glass to drown your sorrows in, or a badly-dressed, dancing, tart to waste time with,” she explained, “Perhaps I can help you find whatever it is; I hear a lot of things, see a lot of things, if you know what I mean.”

Noal shrugged, “I guess I have nothing to lose by trying, do I? Alright, if you think you can help, I'm looking for a man. A murderer.”

“And what do you plan to do when you find this murderer?” the bar-maid asked, playfully.

“I'm going to make damned sure he never hurts another soul,” Noal was suddenly entirely sober, “I'm going to kill him.”

“Fair enough, what you do is your own business,” she said, also suddenly serious. “Can you describe him?”

Noal nodded, “Certainly – he would tend to stand out in a crowd, I think. I've never seen his face; he wears a white mask and helmet and white cold-suit with combat boots. He carries around a startling collection of advanced weaponry – like stuff right out of one of the old stories – and kills without mercy. Oh, and he can control aberrants, too.”

The bar-maid nodded, knowingly. “You're talking about Hunterwraith, yes? Not the first one I've seen running after that one.”

“You've seen him?” asked Noal, “Recently?”

“All the time.”

“Where is he?” Noal demanded, “Tell me where I can find him!”

The bar-maid looked around briefly, as if to make sure no prying ears were listening in, then leaned in close to whisper in Noal's ear. “He's right behind you.”

Noal felt something sting him on the back of the neck and spun around to see a white-suited shape holding a cylindrical object in his hand. Everything around him started to become a hazy, indistinct blur, as his vision began to narrow. He turned back around, trying to keep a grip on the edge of the bar, to no avail. The bar-maid's silhouette danced in his eyes, and her voice was the last thing he heard.

“Sweet dreams, mister Silver.”

09: Ascent

2006-12-04T16:13:00.000-08:00

I didn't trust Mikhail, not even as far as I could throw him, which wasn't very far, even if I am in pretty good shape. Naomy, on the other hand, she could probably have thrown him a fair distance with those robotic arms of hers; I had to force myself not to attempt the same with my feet. Despite the sheer genius of my plan, I couldn't help but think Mikhail had still somehow gotten the better of us; he was an impossible man to read, and gave away nothing of just how surprised he was to see us.

I had to wonder how Hugo had gotten involved with a person like Mikhail, and why? It was obvious that he had wanted somebody in Rico's End eliminated, and had unwittingly provided Hunterwraith with everything he had needed to send his abbies in to infect the entire colony. I had to assume that hadn't been Hugo's plan. Nothing about this setup smelled right to me – the note, the code, the meeting, and now this.

But it was the only link I had – my only way to see Hunterwraith up close and personal, and despite the probability that I was walking straight into a trap, I was too close to turn back now. I knew Naomy felt the same way, and Sal was there to back us both up, as well as taking a piece of the revenge himself, for the people he had know who had died at the killer's hands. As I waited, I envisioned all sorts of scenarios in which my enemy had caught me right where he wanted me; it seemed entirely possible, even probable, that he knew exactly who we were and why we were there. And yet, somehow I knew that the fire of my rage, the fire that had burned inside me ever since that day, would burn through any trap that the Hunterwraith could set.

It wouldn't be the first time, nor the last time, that I would wrong about him.

* * *

An hour passed in Mikhail's suite, and no one came. Noal's crew began to suspect that Mikhail had made the whole thing up and did not actually know Hunterwraith at all. It went on long enough that they almost left, but all knew that this might be their only chance to do what they had come to do. They weren't about to leave now.

Noal occupied himself by looking around the expansive domicile, which could properly be called the entire top floor of the apartments. It was lavishly outfitted and full of expensive and, Noal noted, genuine old-world artifacts, the quality of which Noal had scarcely encountered living in the Codex. Clearly there had been a lot of money changing hands over Hunterwraith's career, and he had done very well for himself. Despite all of that money, nothing in that room existed for simple fun or decoration; it all had a purpose, a design.

Naomy was acting like a caged bird, pacing back and forth across an expensive middle-eastern carpet, no doubt reliving the day she had lost her arms. Her characteristic pacifism and tolerance disappeared whenever mention of Hunterwraith arose; she, more than anyone, remembered the pain of what he had done to her, and the look guilt and deep regret in Kasim’s eyes as he had wielded the axe. She had said before that she would never forgive Hunterwraith for that fact alone, and now she was about to come face to face with him. Noal couldn’t blame her for being unsettled; he didn’t feel particularly settled, himself.

Meanwhile, Sal had made himself right at home, almost immediately seeking out the kitchen. He was impressed to see a working refrigerator – those were a rarity – stocked with delicious-looking food. Needless to say, he helped himself and had no regrets about it. Even Sal went about his business with a stance of readiness, however. He had not had personal contact with their quarry, but he had seen enough people who had, not to mention how close he had become to Noal and Naomy. And Sid. If he wanted revenge slightly less than his friends did, he still wanted it badly enough.

At the two-hour mark, they began to wonder if anyone was coming, but they kept waiting still, making awkward conversation about nothing of consequence. Everything they had been doing for the past two weeks had led them up to that point, and the anticipation of finally confronting the past was a heavy weight.

Then there was a strange whooshing noise from a non-descript wall in the suite’s central room, and a heretofore unseen door opened, revealing a tall silhouette behind the bright blinking lights glowing from behind him. The moment had come.

“I understand there is a certain conflict that you need my help to resolve,” said an unfeeling, metallic voice.

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Noal replied, trying to hide his nervousness, “If you are, in fact, the person I have been looking for.”

“If I were to find out about someone masquerading as myself, they would not live long,” said the metallic voice, as the silhouette stepped into the light, revealing the same white survival-suit and masked helmet that Noal remembered so well; he was itching for the charade to be over. “Now then, who are you, and what do you need from—“ Hunterwraith paused, getting a better look at Noal, “We have met before, you and I. Why have you come here?”

Noal exchanged glances with his two companions and they whipped out their weapons in unison, cocked and ready to execute the mass-murderer before them. “To make sure you never hurt another soul the way you have done to us, Hunterwraith. Yes, we have met before. I’m sure I was just another one of your victims, but you spared my life for some reason, and I wanted to be here to personally show you the folly of your ways.”

“So, you’ve finally found me, mister Silver. Would you like a medal?” the faceless voice mocked. The mask took a long look at Sal and Naomy’s guns, then gestured dismissively, “What were you hoping to do with those, shoot me? It seems a somehow un-romantic way to effect one’s defining moment of revenge, don’t you think?”

Noal was momentarily taken aback, “I never told you my name.”

“No, I suppose you didn’t,” replied Hunterwraith, “But there I know more than you might expect. Kill me now and you may lose something even more precious than revenge.”

“We will not play your games any longer!” shouted Naomy, repeatedly pulling her shotgun’s trigger and prompting Sal to open up with his auto-recoilers, as the room danced with the light of multiple muzzle-flashes, and filled with the deafening concussion of the guns firing. The pair continued firing until their guns were dry, pumping out enough lead to kill a pack of aberrant-mammoths, and with deadly accuracy. Bullets flew true, striking what should have been the flesh of their target, but instead meeting with a shimmering barrier that deflected them away, making a pile of lead slugs on the floor in front of him. “Your children’s weapons cannot harm me!” The shimmer stayed in place a second longer, and then flashed outward as an invisible shockwave that knocked the Codexers off of their feet.

Hunterwraith wasted no time in leaping through a glass window behind him and into the open air beyond as a grappling line shot from a launcher on his arm, pulling him up into the city’s upper levels. Noal struggled to his feet and turned to check on his downed companions, who had taken the brunt of the punishment the strange concussion wave. “Sal are you—?”

“We’re fine, Noal, go after him!” shouted Sal.

“Nae…?”

“I’m alright too,” Naomy said, groaning, “Find him, Noal. You’re the only one who can, now.” Noal turned to go and Naomy called after, “Wait!” She pulled him to her, locking her lips with his, embracing him furiously. “Do not forget that there is something for you to come back to. I expect you to come back to me, whatever happens.”

“I promise,” muttered Noal, turning to follow his quarry, a lump in his throat. Okay robot legs, it’s time for you to earn your keep!

With a short sprint, he leaped through the broken window, his mechanical legs flexing and springing to throw him toward the building across from him with a sudden rush of super-human power. Time stood still for just a second as he flew, suspended in mid-air, across the expanse. Contacting with the solid matter of a wall, the ingeniously-designed legs switched to climbing mode, engaging sharp spurs that anchored Noal’s weight to the climbing surface and helped propel him upwards as he scaled his way along the path he hoped Hunterwraith had taken.

Having no grappling-hook to pull himself up with, Noal’s ascent was dependent upon having a wall to keep scaling. Fortunately, New Babylon was built in such a way that each higher level was built upon the tops of the taller buildings below it, and the building he had latched onto was one of those support buildings for the second residential level. Noal looked up and saw that a hard ceiling had been built between the first and second levels, and he was about to run into it. Across the way from him, and about one-hundred feet distant, a parallel tower ran, with a ladder leading up into a maintenance hatch. He barely caught the sight of white boots disappearing into the hatch when he reached the highest point he could get to from where he was. The only option was to leap for that ladder and hope for the best; it was a long way to jump.

Taking a deep breath, he surrendered to the strength of his metal legs, letting them do all the work for him, and work they did. With a mighty spring, he flew across the gap, the legs taking the brunt of the impact on the other side and grasping onto the lowest rung of the ladder. Noal could only shake his head at what he had just done, and hurried up the ladder into a mazelike labyrinth of poorly-kept maintenance tunnels. He stopped for a moment to listen and, hearing footsteps, raced off in pursuit.

The sounds led him around bend after bend, their source managing to stay just out of sight around a number of twists and turns. From around yet another corner shone a bright flash of light and a sound like whirlwind of crackling electricity, and Noal reached the location of the strange effect to find what had been another ladder, leading out of the maintenance tunnels and into a hatch to the second level-proper, twenty feet above. The ladder had been destroyed – melted and disintegrated by some unknown implement – rendering climbing impossible. Nice try, but it’s not enough.

A single leap rocketed Noal up into the air twenty feet and more, hurling him up through the hatch and back down the floor of New Babylon level two, much to the surprise and alarm of several citizens walking nearby. “Have you seen someone else come up through here, just a minute agao?” asked Noal, to whomever was listening, “Dressed in a white survival suit and a mask?” The people continued walking, saying nothing. “Please! Somebody had to have seen him!”

“We don’t talk much about that one,” said the voice of an old, cowled man, crouching in the doorway of a broken down tenement. “These people aren’t likely to risk making him angry by helping you, leastways.”

“And what about you?” asked Noal.

“What about me?” the old man responded.

“Well, you’re talking about him, at least.”

“What could you possibly want with the likes of him, anyway, boy?” asked the stranger, “You’re as likely as not to end up dead chasing after Hunterwraith, you know.” Noal wasn’t budging. “Oh very well, if you’re bound and determined to meet your maker, I’ll not get in your way. I imagine he’s on his up to the next level by now; there’s an access passage on the top floor of the hydroponics lab, down this street all the way into level central. You can’t really miss it, though I wouldn’t be going inside through the bottom floor; the security system in there’ll kill you before you reach the first flight of steps.”

“So how do I get to it, then?” Noal asked, impatiently.

“If it were me, and I had a pair of fancy legs like yours,” said the old man, “I’d be going up to the roof of the local militia – it’s at just about the highest thing nearby the lab, though I couldn’t tell you how to get from the one to the other.”

“Thanks!” shouted Noal, already running.

“You’re welcome! And don’t let the militia know you’re in their building; they won’t like that very much!” the man yelled after him, “And one more thing you must remember – one word: DRYAD!”

Noal raced through the streets of second level New Babylon, faster than any un-enhanced human could have run, and it was apparent by the looks on people’s faces that he was not the first man they had seen in the last few minutes to exhibit such speed. Level central was a busy place, bustling with hawkers and homeless, though to a lesser degree than the level below. The buildings here looked much sturdier than the ones on the first level, as well, even if marginally so in some cases.

The old man had been right about the hydroponics lab; Noal could see even from where he was that the last thing he wanted to do was trying climbing up that building, from the inside or outside. Across the square, the militia building didn’t look much more inviting, and he couldn’t help but think about what the old man had said about that place, as well. He considered just walking right up to the front doors and asking them to let him in, but thought better of it when he saw the men (and women?) who stood by, on guard duty. Everyone who walked past received the intense scrutiny of eyes just a tad too focused for Noal’s liking. Likely he’d be taken down and thrown into some dark cell before he got within fifty feet of the place.

Scouting around the building, he came across a series of militia patrols parading around the perimeter, on a seemingly regular schedule. As he passed one more of these, he saw his way in: a ventilation duct was situated about thirty feet off the ground, sucking air into what looked to be the building’s fourth story. It should be a simple enough climb up the side to the duct, however he knew his timing would have to be perfect if he wanted to avoid being seen by one of the patrols.

Continuing his sojourn around the building, hoping to avoid looking suspicious, Noal kept a close eye on the patrols that he passed, running a mental analysis of the patrol schedules and intervals between groups. Three passes around the building later, he had worked out the timing to what he thought was the best he could do without a timing device of some sort. It wasn’t going to be easy; however, as he would have to wait until one patrol had rounded the corner of the building to make his move. This would mean that the next patrol would just be rounding the opposite corner, giving him approximately fifteen seconds to scale thirty feet of wall and wriggle far enough up the pipe that his feet wouldn’t be visible sticking out of it. It would be tight, but he was sure he could make it.

Timing his arrival perfectly, Noal was lined up with the air duct at the exact moment he had intended to, and as the last patrolman disappeared around the corner, and the first patrol came around the other corner, he made his move. Running at the wall, Noal’s feet automatically engaged their climbing spurs, and his mechanical muscles worked at peak performance, lifting him up the wall and into the duct with blinding speed. Clawing his way higher up in the duct, he lifted his torso around a horizontal bend in time to get his feet out of view of the outside. Duct-travel could produce a lot of noise, Noal realized, so he waited until that patrol had turned the corner before crawling further through the pipe, into a black lightlessness only penetrated by the light from the numerous grates into the rooms fed air from the outside. As he crawled, Noal picked up pieces of many different conversations, none of them interesting until he heard two militia engineers discussing the array of geo-thermal heat distributors on top of the building.

“…run the entire length of the square between our roof, and ‘ponics lab on the other side, so you have to be real careful when you work on ‘em. One of those hits you while you’re on the pulley and you’ll end up as a splatter on the level bottom, got it?”

“Yes sir, got it good! I’ve worked on similar distribution systems before, but never ones that cycle the way yours do. How are they configured?”

“Every three minutes or so they extend and align to shunt heat over to ‘ponics – apparently they use a lot of heat over there for some reason; never did understand all of that farming jazz. Anyway, they extend a rapid intervals and destract just as quick, so like I said, you gotta be careful.”

“Ah, I see. Will I be responsible for maintaining the…”

Noal moved on, having heard what he needed to hear, quietly slipping along to the next bend in the duct as it moved up to the next floor of the building. Climbing up the shaft, he found his way into a cold air run-off duct that ran all the way up and out through the roof. It was a tight climb, made much easier thanks to Noal’s adaptable feet, and before long he found himself crawling out of the exit duct and onto the roof with a sigh of relief. He didn’t normally suffer from claustrophobia, but that was a tight squeeze!

The air seemed to get clearer and less polluted the high up one went; compared to down below it almost smelled clean up there. Across the square from him, and far to long of a jump, he saw the hydroponics lab continuing to stretch up into the third level of the city. To his left, the heat distribution nodes that he had overheard being talked about stretched from his location over to the lab, not extended at the moment.

Noal studied the nodes and had begun to figure them out when a klaxon went off, accompanied by a flashing red light, and the nodes began to extend and flip around, one at a time, in a horizontal line like a wall across the square. Each node, in turn, glowed red-hot before turning back around and detracting, as heat was shunted down the line. Each node stayed extended for about two-seconds, which gave him a very small window with which to traverse the entire length. It would have been a difficult path to cross even if it had been flat; as it was, he would have to run along the full length of the square, sideways. Not for the first time, Noal was thankful for his artificial limbs; between the surface, the speed and the extreme heat, it would not have been possible to accomplish otherwise.

Noal got into position, readying himself for the briskest jog of his life; his legs, at least, were ready for it. The klaxon rang, the first node extended, and Noal ran, spurs securing him to the side wall of the node as he ran to the next node, and the next, and the next, each one detracting right behind him. He was glad he didn't have too far to go, as he could feel the heat scorching his legs as he ran across. Approaching the end of the line, he could find nowhere to go but through a conveniently placed window, into the hydroponics lab. Pulling his zweihander out of its sheathe, Noal held it out in front and leaped from the last heat node, smashing through the window with a mighty crash.

The room he had landed in was a sterile laboratory, filled with banks of strange-looking machinery, the sort which he had never seen before, and whose uses eluded him. He surveyed the broken glass all around him with a sigh. If that doesn't alert security, maybe I should set off a bomb, next time. Over on the opposite side of the room he could see a heavy steel door marked 'Level Three Access', and quickly ran to it, finding it locked.

“Please enter passkey,” said an artificial voice from somewhere near the door. A small panel opened in the wall beside him, revealing a keypad covered in letters and numbers. Noal had no idea what the passkey could possibly be, until he remembered something the old man in the street had said, and punched in D-R-Y-A-D.

The door opened.

08: Babylon

2006-12-04T16:12:00.000-08:00

Of the three of us arriving from the Codex, only Sal had been to New Babylon before; for an extended period, no less. Our heavyset companion, of Italian heritage, had called New Babylon his home for several years, up until Core had recruited him for his skills as a mechanic. According to him, he had loved living in Core, and subsequently at my home in the Codex, however, as the saying often went, you could take the man out of New Babylon, but not the New Babylon out of the man. So it was for my friend Sal. And like Sal, New Babylon had an exterior that looked, from the outside, roughly strong, and it was noisy – constantly in motion, never standing still. Also like Sal, it was stock full of shady little corners and dark, foreboding alleys, but unlike the man, the deeper one went in New Babylon, the darker it got, until it suffocated all within its walls. From all I had been told about the place, New Babylon's core was as rotten they come, and that was also unlike our prize mechanic, whose gruff exterior belayed a heart of dented gold. I knew, though, that there was a part of Sal that would always belong to New Babylon – he had grown into his skills within its dank, prefab confines, after all. But he owned that part, not the other way around.

The prospect of coming to New Babylon was daunting to me, I’ll admit. It was a legend in its own right, and one of the oldest metros in the world. It was also quite foreign to everything that anyone not from there knew of the world; unlike every other metro on the planet, it had no particular vision for the reclamation of the old-world. It existed neither to re-discover and advance ancient technologies, like the tech-unions headed by Wyethfizer, Intel, Exshell, and the other major tech-union powers, nor was it devoted to preserving ancient works of art and history, like the Codex and Metro Davinci. New Babylon simply existed for the sake of existing, feeding off the vital energy of the people who lived and strove in its crowded tunnels, and those who looked down from the heights up its upper-class terraces. It didn't really matter a person's station; all belonged to the city.

I could feel that insidious energy as I drove the Gravedigger deeper and deeper into the bowels of New Babylon’s various levels of poverty and neglect, as though it wanted to suck me in and never let me leave. It was like something I read about in an ancient astronomy journal – a black hole. In all the reclaimed science-fiction stories I had read, I couldn’t recall anyone ever escaping one of those.

* * *

Clawing its way over the ice-shell, the Gravedigger found itself dwarfed by the metro's administration tower, once the upper floors of an old-world compound of ice-battered industrial buildings in what used to be the city of Baghdad. The rest of New Babylon, like most other metros, was underground, however unlike most other metros, it was not a series of hastily dug-out caves, but was actually located in a huge, natural cavern, which legend said was one filled with petroleum before it was emptied sometime in the twenty-first century. Untold treasures were said to be hidden somewhere within. Those inside the gravedigger, aside from Sal of course, took a deep breath of awe at the sight of the tower. There were many ancient ruins of tall buildings in the world, but very few had been made habitable.

Noal and Naomy were still staring when he drove the 'digger onto the New Babylon ramp, an impressive structure, wide enough for three toyos to drive side-by-side in either direction. Built in tiers, with the lowest segment of society inhabiting the lowest sectors, and the elite segment inhabiting the luxurious upper terraces, the metro seemed to spiral from top to bottom all around them as they descended into the bowls of the lowest levels. There, the dirty street-dwellers barely avoided being stepped on by the slightly more upwardly-mobile, who at least had a place to call home with a door, and possibly a lock. It was an appalling degradation of humanity.

“You're sure this is the way to the Steampunk, Sal?” asked Noal, uncomfortably.

Sal nodded, “I could find this place with my eyes closed, believe me,” he said, shaking his head, “I've never seen the lower levels this hard up before, though. They always had it bad, but this – ah, here we are; the Steampunk Cultural Club.” They pulled up to a shabbily-built, four-story domicile structure, which looked barely livable at the best of times, and this was clearly not the best of times. The top three floors were apartments for the ‘rich’ among the lower level inhabitants, and the bottom floor was all Steampunk.

Up and down the dimly-illuminated street were a plethora of vendors, hawking an odd variety of wares, from food and produce (the thought of which turned Noal’s stomach), to cheaply manufactured old-world knock-off items, and even a few genuinely antique artifacts that Noal could see. He made a mental note to pay a visit to those ones on his way out.

“Make sure to lock your doors, eh, “said Sal, “Residents around here are none too picky about what belongs to whom, and they very rarely get the chance to own a toyo, so they’ll be watching ours like hawks.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” replied Noal, following his portly companion through a well-used doorway, underneath a sign that would have depicted gears and cogs in motion, had it not been for the years of dirt and grime that had collected overtop of it. Inside was little better: dark, dank, seedy, and smelly. The floor felt like it hadn’t been cleaned in weeks, or possibly months, and a smoky haze filled the room as club-members sat alone or in small groups, inhaling all manner of illicit drugs. A dirge of sound that might, by some liberal definition, be called music, pumped out of a mismatched assortment of crackling loud-speakers. The overall impression was one of deep corruption and disdain humanity on any meaningful level. People came to the Steampunk to puff away their troubles and die, slowly. Noal figured it must have been different once, if Sal was regular here.

“Well, looks like nothing much has changed around here,” said Sal, “Let’s go talk to the bartender and find out if this Mikhail guy is around.”

“Well, well,” said a burly, bald man behind the bar counter, taking a long look at the Codexers, concentrating especially hard on Naomy, “Visitors from out of town, eh?”

“How do you know that?” asked Noal, suspiciously, “There must be thousands of people down here, and you can’t possibly know all of them.”

The bartender laughed heartily, “Well there is your clothing, for one thing: relatively clean, strong creases, and appears to have been laundered sometime in the last decade. Doesn’t exactly scream of squalor, if you know what I mean. And you don’t reek of stim-toxified urine, neither, so that’s also something to consider.”

“Right, my apologies, I must be getting jumpy in my old age,” Noal conceded.

“And just clear up your previous assertion,” the bartender continued, “There are three-thousand, two-hundred and seventy-nine residents down here in the nether. And yes, I do in fact know every smelly, drugged-up, piss-soaked one of them, and I’ll be buggered if I can place any of you among them.” He held out a giant-sized, meaty hand in greeting, “Erik is my name, and this is my place. Please to make your acquaintances.”

Noal shook the hand, glad when he got his own back, “I’m Noal, and this is Naomy and Sal, from the Codex.”

“Sal, is it?” said Erik, shaking the big man’s hand, “Sal…Sal…Salvatore. Yes! Salvatore Vasko, I remember you! How have you been, big boy?”

“It’s been a long time, Erik; I didn’t think you would recognize me,” Sal replied, shaking his old friend’s hand. “I’ve been well. Traveling a lot, lately.”

“So they’ve got you over in Codex now, have they? Auspicious digs for a backwater troll like you!” Erik laughed, a genuine, friendly laugh.

“Something like that,” Sal grinned. “I’d love to catch up, my friend, but we are here to meet someone, and it is of utmost urgency. You understand, yes?”

“Of course, of course,” said the bartender, “How can I help?”

“We’re looking for a man who calls himself Mikhail. Do you know him?”

“You’re looking for Mikhail, the Russian?” said Erik, questioningly, “I wouldn’t have expect you of all people to be mixed up with that sort, but perhaps it’s better I don’t know what you’re into these days. Yes, I know Mikhail. He’s not here now, but he’ll be here at midnight, on the dot. Leaves at exactly four in the morning, too. Never early, never late; if I still had a clock that worked, I could set it by his comings and goings.”

“Can you tell us what he looks like?” asked Noal.

“Tall and pale, with dark black hair and a scar across his left cheek,” Erik explained, “Always dressed to the nines: pressed suit, shiny shoes, tie – all black, as if he were going to a funeral. He always sits at that table in the far corner, too. No exceptions.”

“Always?” said Naomy, “What if someone else is already sitting there when he arrives?”

“They aren’t,” insisted Erik, “People around here know enough to get out of his way; every night at five minutes to twelve, everyone clears out of his corner, just in case he gets here early for once in his life. Anyone who doesn’t know about it, is informed very quickly. You’ve been informed now, by the way.”

“Twelve o’clock, you say. That’s a couple of hours away – do you have anywhere we can hole up until then? We can pay,” Noal asked.

“Sure, no problem, I’ve got a rental if you like, just around back. Half-price for Sals’ friends.”

“We’ll take it.”

The room wasn’t much to look at, but at least it gave the trio a chance to talk, at least it would have if the walls hadn’t been full of conveniently placed listening holes. Not that anyone felt particularly inclined to talk at this point, anyway; they had a job to finish, and nothing else mattered until it was done. Noal contented himself with making a few last minute contingency plans, though he was reasonably sure that events would be moving too quickly to worry about plans, when it came down to it. Silent, and restless, the hours seemed to drag by at about the same rate as frozen oatmeal traveled uphill.

At five minutes to midnight, they returned to the Steampunk to find it buzzing with activity. All over the place, people were gathered, sprawled around on top of chairs and tables, drinking or smoking their minds into oblivion. But sure enough, Mikhail’s table sat conspicuously empty.

“Shall we make ourselves at home?” said Noal, leading the others to the table and taking a seat, with his feet up on the table. Naomy and Sal did likewise, much to the collective shock of everyone else in the club, who whispered and murmured amongst themselves with their eyes on Mikhail’s table. ”Taking your lives into your own hands,” one voice said.

A few minutes later, at exactly twelve o’clock, the door opened, and in walked a tall, darkly handsome man with a scar across his left cheek. As Erik had described, he wore black everything, arranged just so. He looked like he meant business, whatever his business was. His footsteps echoed closer and closer, and before long he was standing at his usual table, quietly scrutinizing the three unknowns sitting around it, with a casual arch of an eyebrow.

“I would have to assume that you are looking for me,” said the pale man, face betraying no emotion, neither anger nor apprehension.

Noal looked over at Sal with a grin before responding, “You know what they say about making assumptions.” Mikhail seemed to glower at that.

“May I sit?” the black-clothed man asked. Noal gestured for him to pull up a chair, and the man sat, leaning forward to whisper to the trio. “Now, look – I don’t know who you all think you are, or who you think you are fooling with here, but I assure you, you want none of it. I will pretend this never happened, but you must get up from my table and leave immediately, or else I am afraid my patience will rapidly run out.” When nobody budged, he added, “I am not playing around, here.”

“Neither are we, Mikhail,” Noal deadpanned, as the click of a pistol being cocked came from under the table in Sal’s direction. Mikhail’s eyes opened wide with momentary surprise before retaining their unaffected glaze. “Now that we have your attention, there is a little matter that we have come to discuss with you, regarding a certain associate of yours.”

“I do not discuss such things with people I do not know,” growled the Russian, through clenched teeth.

“We are, or shall I say we were friends of Hugo Vasquez. Of Rico’s End,” said Noal. Mikhail’s face turned even paler than its natural skin-tone. “I see you know the name.”

“I do,” Mikhail answered, “And I know everything that happened there. You must be the ones who leveled it; I hear the authorities from Metro Exshell have been unsuccessful in identifying a culprit, much to their great frustration. There was talk of a rather significant reward, as I recall.”

“And you won’t live to tell anyone about it if you don’t answer our questions.”

Mikhail nodded, “Ah yes, I see. It is the Wraith you seek, yes?”

“Yes,” Noal confirmed.

“And why would you seek such a man as the Wraith?” asked the scar-faced man, “Is it revenge you are after, for poor Hugo? I hear his end was rather gruesome.”

“Not exactly,” said Noal, “Hugo was our friend, sure enough, but his death was entirely his own fault. Before he died, we had spoken about a certain problem that I have been having with a satellite colony that has been an irritant to my Metro. Hugo said this Wraith of yours was the man to call to take care of it.”

“Well why didn’t you say so earlier? We could have avoided all of this fuss had I known what you were looking for,” said Mikhail, smiling. “Yes, I do believe we may be able to work things out; I assume you came prepared to pay well.”

“I am a department chief, so yes, I came well prepared,” he slid a clipped fold of currency onto the table, eliciting an acceptant smile from Mikhail.

“Then I don't imagine we shall have a problem. Please follow me,” said Mikhail, standing to lead the group into the back stairwell and up several flights to the highest floor in the building, where a single, large residence awaited them, emptily. “I will leave you here – please feel free to make yourselves comfortable, as you may be waiting for some time. Once you have discussed your business with the Wraith, he will decided on the cost, which you will then pay to me.”

“Thank you, Mikhail, I shall personally make sure you get what is coming to you,” said Noal. Mikhail closed the door behind him, and the apartment was left in silence.

“So what now?” asked Sal.

“We wait.”

07: While the Getting's Good

2006-12-04T16:11:00.000-08:00

Getting caught in a pirate's trap was just about the most embarrassing thing I could imagine doing. Here I was, the chief of cipher analysis at the Codex, an experience field operative and expedition leader, combat trained, and renowned for my intimidating intelligence, caught in a bloody, stupid pirates net. I couldn't believe what was happening.

The funny thing about pirates is that they are notoriously lazy. Violent, sneaky, and dangerous, but lazy. These one were nothing like that; they were efficient, punctual, and organized – three very odd qualities for men of their sort. Beyond that, all of them that I had encountered were well-spoken and almost refined, aside from Cinder, though his behaviour came across as almost disingenuous at times as well. It was all very surreal, and for all their seeming skill and attention to detail in knowing exactly who they were after and how to get us, they seemed to have completely overlooked some very basic information.

At the time I was too deep into fight or flight mode to really thing about the immense oddity of the situation; like, honestly, who secures a girl with super-strong mechanical arms with simple handcuffs and a steel door?

* * *

“Somebody help me out here?” shouted Sal from inside the cell. “Hey! Anybody! There's been an escape!”

A lone pirate guard appeared in the cell door's small, round window, looking around inside and seeing only one prisoner, instead of three. “Where are your friends? If you're trying to trick me, I'll see you pay for it!”

“They aren't my bloody friends, I was just along for the ride. We had a little fight over whose fault it was we were in here, and then the bastards escaped and left me here to rot!”

“What! Escaped? How?” The guard pressed his face up against the window to get a better look at the cell.

Crouched flat against the door, Naomy stretched back her arm, trying to estimate the location of the guard's keys on his belt. Up above, suspended by his mechanical legs from the ceiling, Noal signaled her to move a little higher, and a little to the left.

“I don't see anything back there,” the guard shouted through the door, “I'd better get backup.”

“Keep looking, man!” Sal argued, “I want those arseholes caught, and I'm sure you'd like to be the one to catch them. Look a little harder. Yeah, that's right.”

Noal gave Naomy a thumbs up, and suddenly the guard went careening onto the floor, with a grunt, as a steel fist punched through the door and into his abdomen.

“Got it!” she yelled, feeling around outside the cell for the keyhole, then trying the various keys in the lock. After the third or fourth try, they heard a loud click and Naomy pulled her hand back inside to open the cell door. “Apparently Cinder didn't do his homework on us,” she commented.

“Good job, Nae. Now get Sal out of those cuffs and let's get the hell out of here!”

Noal ran over to the groaning guard and took his weapon, stepping hard on his chest with a metallic foot. “Tell me where you're keeping our gear, or you're dead!”

“What gear?” asked the frightened guard.

“Weapons, documents, artifacts, and anything else we had on us or in our toyo! Hurry up!”

“It's all in the armoury! Three passages down and two left – big double steel door! Everything else is in your toyo, and your keys are in the garage!” gasped the guard, “ Please don't hurt me!”

“Thanks for everything,” said Noal, coldly, rendering the pirate unconscious with a quick rifle-butt to the temple. “Help me get him into the cell, Sal.” The two men dragged the unconscious guard into the cell and secured him with his own handcuffs, before closing and locking the door behind them.

“I figure we've got maybe ten minutes before someone comes to check up on our guard,” said Sal, “That doesn't give us a lot of time, so let's get our stuff and get outta here.”

Noal handed Sal the guard's assault rifle and a pistol he had also found on the pirate to Naomy. “I do better with my hands,” he said, and led them down the first passage.

The first group of pirates they encountered never saw them coming. Noal went first, approaching slowly and taking one down with a quickly-executed chop to the back of the neck. Sal and Naomy took the other two with the butts of their weapons, and all three were dragged into a dark corner and locked together with their handcuffs. Noal slung an assault rifle around his shoulders and stuck a pistol in his boot and the downed pirates other weapons were given to Sal and Naomy. “We got lucky, but there'll be more,” said Noal.

They moved further into Anflux, sneaking around as many pirates as possible, especially those in larger groups. Finally, they found the big steel doors that their cell guard had told them about. Four pirates stood guard duty outside. “We can't afford to take any more chances,” whispered Noal, “we put them down by the numbers, no looking back. These weapons have silencers, so we can fire with impunity.”

“You're sure you want to just kill them?” Naomy asked.

“It's about damn time we started acting like we're fighting for our lives here,” Sal cut in, “Let's keep in mind here, they lured us in, took us down and brought us here. They are very likely planning on killing us sooner or later. Knowing the kind of person who becomes a damned pirate, probably later.”

“You and me are from Core, Sal, we don't render judgment like that, even on a pirate,” Naomy responded.

“It's not a judgment, it's the simple fact that it is them or us; they have brought this decision upon them, and I, for one, am not going to die for that.”

Naomy nodded, “Okay, you're right, I'm sorry. Let's just get this over with.”

“Did you hear about the Codexers Cinder brought in from out there?” one pirate was saying to the others.

“I heard the boss personally had Cinder bring 'em in. Poor bastards.”

“Yeah, when the boss asks to see someone, they don't come b—“

“Hey guys!” came a voice from down the passage. The pirates looked up in surprise and found themselves suddenly gunned down with a flurry of silent slugs. Sal poked them, one-by-one, with the barrel of his rifle, finding them satisfactorily dead.

Noal stepped past them to the armour and tried the the door-handle; it was locked tight. “Ideas?” he asked.

“This one has a key,” said Naomy, in the midst of searching the dead men. She tossed it to Noal.

“Fits perfectly,” he said, smoothly turning the key and opening the door to a cornucopia of effective-looking weapons, including their own. “How do you suppose these pirates got ahold of so many hand grenades?” asked Noal, opening a steel crate full of slightly elliptical objects with round pins on top. He took a torso-strap out of the crate and slipped it over his shoulders, clipping on as many grenades as it could carry. “Just in case,” he said, “better take the rest of them too, and let's grab as many other guns as you can too.” After a little digging, he found the zweihander, along with Sal's auto-recoilers and Naomy's shotgun, and retrieved them, as well as several other particularly well-made weapons.

“Hey Noal, that's not all these pirates have in the way of explosives; take a look at this!” Sal exclaimed, pulling out a case of rectangular blocks resembling gray putty. The label on the case read 'C-4: Warning, High Explosive!'

“Okay, slight change in plans,” said Noal, “We take as many guns and grenades as we can carry, and blow the rest of it. Anything we can do to cripple these bastards is a worthy cause, as far as I'm concerned.” Sal went to work on the C-4 as Noal and Naomy went through the armoury's inventory, sorting out the best of the high-powered rifles, auto-recoilers, machine guns, grenades, pistols and ammunition crates and piling the rest for easy demolition. A sudden klaxon wailed through Anflux, no doubt alerting every pirate in the vicinity.

“Sal, how's that C-4 coming?” Noal shouted over the din.

“Ready, boss! It'll blow in thirty seconds, let's get the hell outta here!”

The clatter of boots sounded over the alarms in close pursuit as the trio ran from the armoury, gaining on the fleeing Codexers, slow from the ordinance they were loaded up with. Noal counted in his head: twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four—

KAAAABBBOOOOOMMMMM!!!!

A resounding explosion rocked the walls the pirate base, the shock-wave demolishing the pursuing pirates and knocking Noal and company off of their feet. “I thought you said thirty seconds” shouted Noal, picking himself back up off the ground and helping Naomy to her feet. “That was twenty-four.”

Sal shrugged, “Eh, it's never an exact science.” More boot-steps followed from the direction of the demolished armoury and Noal's group took off in the direction Noal remembered the garage being. Shots rang out from behind them, and bullets began ringing off the walls and floor all around the group; one ricocheted off of a passage doorway and hit Noal in the back of one of his legs. He didn't feel a thing, but responded by grabbing a grenade from around his chest, pulling the pin, and tossing it behind him. A concussive blast echoed from the same direction, a few second later, accompanied by yells of pain and alarm. Fewer boot-steps followed after that.

More projectiles ricocheted around them from another connecting passage, as a second group of pirates took up the chase. Noal tossed another grenade their way and shoved Naomy and Sal to the ground as the resulting explosion sent shards of hot shrapnel flying overhead, then pulled them up and continued running. The bullets stopped zinging in their direction for a few moments, but started again, though with significantly less furor, once the smoked had cleared. Sal and Naomy returned fire, haphazardly trailing their gun barrels behind them and firing more for distraction than any real attempt to hit a target.

Turning the last sharply blind corner before the garage, they ran head-on into a heavily armed squad, with heavy body-armour and lot of bad tempers, standing ready, behind a makeshift barricade of metal filing cabinets standing at chest height. Sal and Naomy opened fire, but only managed to pin the pirates down, as the barricade deflected most of the bullets, and those behind were careful to shoot and duck at strategically advantageous moments. Almost without thinking, Noal leaped into action, jumping up and over the barricade with ease, thanks to his mechanical legs, and taking the enemy by surprise with his zweihander. None could get a bead on him as fast as he could cut them down, and before long he and his crew were inside the garage, with a nice, conveniently placed barricade already set up for the other pirates to contend with.

Sal shut and locked the garage's heavy doors and found the Gravedigger's keys on an abandoned toyo-tech's desk, and walked over to open up the prized vehicle, stuffing all of the pinched ordinance into the storage area, after which Noal and Naomy did likewise. Looking around, they could see that the place was empty, aside from an impressive number of decked out toyo cars; the pirates' entire fleet.

“Sal, we need to find a way to disable every toyocar in this place, before we leave, or they'll be on top of us before we get a kilometer away.” A banging sound started coming from the locked door; the pirates were right outside, and it wouldn't take them long to break through.

“One minute, boss,” said Sal, jumping into a large and heavily armoured tank of a toyocar, “I've gotta buy us some time first, then we can worry about disabling things.” Tires screeched as he drove the toyo right into the entrance, crushing off the door and wedging the plate-steel vehicle firmly into the opening; it made a more effective barrier than the door had, anyway. “That should hold ‘em for a couple of minutes, anyway,” said Sal, emerging from the vehicle’s rear door, “But whatever we’re gonna do, we’d better do quickly.”

“Sal, you’re the mechanic here, what do you think we should do?” asked Naomy.

“In my professional opinion,” said the mechanic, “the best and quickest way to disable all their vehicles is to take out the whole works – like blow up the whole garage.”

“No can do,” said Noal, “All the high-explosive went up with the rest of the armoury.”

“We don’t need high-explosive,” said Sal, gesturing toward the steel-grate floor. The tell-tale blue-green glow of hydro-fuel lines could barely be seen shining through the grate, and upon closer inspection one could see a network of fuel tubes leading up from a large reservoir and into the garage’s fuel pumps. “There’s a fueling station here, which means fuel reserves, and as you can see they keep it all underneath the floor here. Forget about C-4, one of those hand grenades could set the whole thing off just as easily.”

“So what are you suggesting?” asked Noal, “We just pull the pin and drop it in? Doesn’t give us much time to get out of here.”

An explosion rocked the barricade-toyo, as the pirates attempted to clear a path into the garage. “You two grab as many fuel canisters as you can and get ‘em loaded into the Gravedigger while I rig up a little surprise,” Sal directed, “Noal, I’ll need one of those grenades.”

Noal handed Sal a grenade and ran to help Naomy gather up fuel canisters. A sharp sizzle and a bright flash caught their attention as Sal popped open the fueling station manifold. Warmth radiated into the room from the un-capped fuel line. Sal looked through various pieces of equipment until he found a switch-operated and a chain-fed pulley system, and set up both devices in a line with each other, near the opened fuel-manifold. The sound of ratcheting and chain-rattle followed as he continued doing only-God-knew-what, but by the time Noal and Naomy had packed up every fuel canister they could find, Sal was standing happily by his make-shift grenade timer.

“So here’s the deal: this clamp holds onto the grenade’s fuse release, so even when I pull the pin, the timer doesn’t start until the clamp releases it, at which time it will drop into the fuel line here,” he pointed at the manifold. “In order for that to happen, this clamp release switch needs to be pressed down, for which purpose I have rigged up this pulley with these weights here. Once I release the weights, about a hundred feet of chain will be pulled through the pulley, at the end of which this old gear-box, with tire-iron attachment, will flip over and press the button. Then of course, the clamp releases, the grenade falls into the fuel line and approximately seven second later all hell breaks loose. With any luck we’ll be out the door at that point,” Sal looked more pleased with himself than Noal could remember for a long, long time. “Any questions?”

“Yeah,” said a perplexed-faced Naomy, “How the hell do you come up with this stuff? And, do you actually it to work?” More explosions erupted from the direction of the barricade, and it slowly started to roll backwards, out of the doorway, accompanied by shouts from behind it.

“Any good mechanic knows how to use what he has at hand, don’t you know? It’ll work.”

“Whatever,” shouted Noal from the driver’s pit of the Gravedigger, “We’re out of time!” The toyo’s hydro-cell engines started with a healthy roar, and Noal pulled the hulking vehicle around to the soon-to-be-violated fuel manifold. Naomy opened the back door for Sal and jumped into the front passenger seat, beside Noal.

“Let it go, and let’s get out of here!” Naomy shouted.

Sal released the weights and leaped into the back of the toyo. Noal jammed on the accelerator and squealed up the garage ramp as the barricade toyo was blown backwards by a C-4 sized blast, and pirates stormed into the garage, shooting futilely at the escaping Gravedigger on its way out.

“Hold your fire! Hold your bloody fire!” shouted the squad leader, “We’ll chase ‘em down!” Then he heard the funny clinking sound coming from over near the fuel station and wandered over to watch, curiously as a chain cycled through a pulley. “What in the hell is this supposed to be?” he asked, to no one in particular. Thoroughly confused, the pirate followed the line of the chain down the line to the old gear-box and saw that a tire-iron was in place to hit the release switch on a portable clamp. Following the logical path, he looked over at the clamp itself and saw a funny, elliptical object in its grasp, minus pin, directly over an open fuel manifold. It took him a few more seconds to put two and two together.

“Oh shit! Everbody get ou—“

The three Codexers in the Gravedigger flinched as Anflux’s garage was leveled by a mighty explosion of blue fireballs, somewhere behind them, blasting hard enough to rock the ground beneath the toyo’s wheels.

“Déjà vu,” said Sal.

“At least we all made it out alive, this time,” replied Naomy.

“I just realized something,” Noal interjected, “I have no bloody idea where we are.”

“Not a problem,” Naomy said, pulling folded up maps out of her pocket, “I found these in the armoury. Your bar-keep’s info was so much bullshit, I almost have to laugh. But I won’t.”

“Remind me to pay him a visit on my way back through Johnstown,” said Noal, coldly, then pointed ahead and exclaimed, “Second star to the right, Naomy, and straight on till morning!”

“Uh, what?”

“Nevermind. Which way to New Babylon?”

* * *

Cinder knelt down before the one he called ‘boss’. He hated being in the man’s presence, always afraid that the next meeting might be his last. Today was no exception.

“They have escaped your men, Cinder?” said a metallic voice.

“Yes, sir, I’m afraid they have,” came the reply.

“And caused extensive damage to the garage, as well as depleting most of our fuel supply, I see.”

“They were… more resourceful than expected,” Cinder cringed at the thought of his punishment for this.

“More than you expected, perhaps. And what of the tracking device?”

“Installed in their toyo, as you ordered, sir.” Perhaps it hadn’t been a total loss, after all, Cinder thought.

“Good, Cinder. That is all that matters; they cannot run far enough that I cannot see them, now. You may go now.”

“Thank you, sir, I appreciate your understanding on the matter.”

“Indeed.”

Cinder walked, calmly out the door, closed it behind him, then ran as fast as his legs could carry him. Whew! Dodged a bullet, that time!

06: Chasing Smoke

2006-12-04T16:08:00.000-08:00

My mind had spun all that night, and the prospect of crossing the single more treacherous passage on Earth had only a very small part to play in that spinning. The rest of it was Naomy – her beautiful blue eyes, olive skin, and exotic features. She was a beautiful creature, and more than that, she loved me, and though I forced myself to never acknowledge my own feelings about her, it had been getting harder by the day lately. It didn't make it any easier that she could have been mine a thousand times in the past, if only I had let her.

But every time I imagined myself happily in her arms, I saw my wife's dead eyes looking back at me instead of Naomy's, accusing me, cursing me, damning me. I was betraying her. At first, I think Naomy had thought I would come to accept things, and return the love she had shown to me. When a few years had past, and she began to see things as they really were, she carried an edge of sadness around with her. I had always felt guilt about that, but I was powerless to fix it, so I thought.

Then again, I had never kissed her before. For a second, I almost thought I could forget about the past. For a second.

And why not? This was a woman who had literally and figuratively saved my life, with her own bare hands. I owed more than I liked to admit to myself. Aside from breaking me out of the shell, she had made me a better person. When I had wanted to turn my back on humanity, she had shown what it meant to have compassion again, and to care. She had always had a knack for getting me into trouble.

* * *

The Atlantic expanse was every bit as hazardous as rumour made it, with its seemingly never-ended fields of razor-sharp ice ridges, sudden drop-offs, and constantly shifting hills and valleys. Nevertheless, the crew had made good time through the first two days of the three day sojourn, with a number of close-calls, but no major problems. Of course, sleep had been fleeting, caught in short segments in between the frequent bumps, drops and slide-outs. And they all knew the risks of even being in the expanse; death could come at any moment, and completely without warning. All three of them were reluctant to close their eyes, knowing that they might never open them again.

Noal was in the midst of a fitful sleep when he was woken by an unusual change in the movement of the Gravedigger. “Why are we stopping?” he asked, groggily.

“There's smoke up ahead,” said Naomy, from the driver's seat, “Might be somebody in trouble, I thought we should check it out.”

Sal shook his head from the navigator's spot, “I tried to talk her out of it, boss, but she wouldn't have it.”

Noal grinned, “No, I bet she wouldn't. Alright, bring us in nice and slow, and stay alert. I'd rather not take any unnecessary chances.”

“Thank you Noal,” said Naomy, smiling.

“You're welcome, Nae; I know you'd never forgive yourself if we didn't at least check it out.”

Naomy stopped the Gravedigger and looked back appreciatively, brushing his fingers briefly over Noal's cheek. They had pulled up close to one-hundred feet from the source of the smoke, a nondescript mass of metallic angles that was difficult to identify from that distance. Noal secured his ice-suit and opened the toyo door. “I'll take a closer look and call you if I need you.”

Noal hiked slowly through the ice, trying to make sense of what he was seeing through the wind-blown sleet blowing in the from the north. He thought he could see something moving inside it, but he wasn't sure. As he crept closer, a terrified female voice cut through the wind.

“Help me! I need help! Get me out of here!”

Noal turned and ran back toward the Gravedigger, signaling for Naomy and Sal to come to him. “I think there's a woman trapped inside a toyo up here, we've got to get her out of there!”

The crew ran as fast as they could and found a wrecked toyocar, billowing smoke, and the same woman's voice crying for help. Noal got there first, kicking at windows and clawing at doors in a frantic attempt to get the poor woman out, and his compansions were beside him half a second later.

Suddenly the woman's crying voice changed to a metallic countdown. “Three. Two. One.” Followed by a series of high-pitched beeps. The trio had barely registered that something was odd before a bright flash erupted from the wreck, crackling with a wave of electric shock that dropped them to the ground, incapacitated and paralyzed. The crunching of multiple boots on ice carried toward them, along with familiar voices. “Looks like our dear bar-keep was as good as his word. I guess I won't have to kill him, after all.”

Suddenly Noal was staring into the smiling, dreadlocked face of the navigator and his men, from the Snowmobile Savage's cantina in Johnstown. “Well howdy there, mister Noal Silver. Missed your old pal Cinder, did you? I guess I didn't miss you, though, did I?” he laughed, odorously, as his men hauled the powerless Codexers to their feet and hauled them toward four black toyocars, painted with bright white skull and crossbones that had just pulled around from behind the simulated wreck. Other men were already inside the Gravedigger, pulling it around to meet the others. “Nice toyo you got there, mister Silver, mind if I hold onto it?” mocked Cinder.

“Take good care of it,” said Noal, weakly, “I'll be needing that back after I'm done killing you all.”

Cinder guffawed, “Did you hear that, boys? 'After he kills us all' he says! Ha! Ha!” The pirate navigator took away Noal's voice with a backhanded cuff across the face. “That'll shut ye up, then. Secure 'em in the Jolly Roger, I'll be there presently.”

The pirates dragged Noal and his crew into one of the toyos, shackling them to the ceiling with what appeared to be old-world handcuffs, though they were still unable to move of their own accord. A pirate got into the driver's pit a moment later, followed by Cinder in the navigator's seat. “I'm afraid ye'll have to be our guests for the time being,” said the pirate navigator, as the toyo pulled off and sped away, “Our boss would like a, hem, word wi' ya.” The driver chuckled along with him.

“You've been attracting a lot of attention to yourselves,” Cinder continued, “And not the kind I imagine you wanted, which is where I come in. Been following you since you left Winnipeg, and let me just say, no one was more surprised than me when Rico's End went up like a holiday firecracker! Even I never did anything quite like that before. At least, when I take out a satellite colony, I leave the site intact when I'm through.”

“You're a true humanitarian,” Noal retorted.

Cinder laughed, “Yer a funny guy, Noal; I like that. I don't think the boss'll be quite so amused, though. You'd all best rest up, though, we'll be at our base in a couple'a hours. It'll be good to be home!”

“Where are you taking us?” asked Noal, feebly.

“Our little home out here in the expanse,” Cinder smiled at Noal's surprised look. “Wondering how we can maintain a permanent base out here in the bloody flux, no doubt. Some years ago, we, or I should say, the boss, found a rather anomalous section of expanse; a section that is anchored into the sea-floor, and therefore does not shift.”

“Anchored how?”

“I guess I can tell you, seeing as you won't be leaving anytime soon, and even if you did leave, you'd never be able to find it again,” Cinder explained, “It is like a shaft of ice – a giant shaft that extends all the way the down. Bloody one-of-a-kind, no less! And only a handful of people even know it exists. Nice place for a secret base, wouldn't you say?”

Cinder continued his inane babbling for the next two hours, until the toyo approached what appeared to be a large ice-crystal jutting up from the shell. As the Jolly Roger approached, the shaft shifted, pulling out and away from the shell to reveal a hidden ramp descending down into it.

“Welcome to Anflux, the proud home of our own Brigands of the Expanse,” Cinder announced, “I'm sure you'll find your accommodations... comfortable.”

The trio was hauled from an expansive garage through myriad passages carved out of the ice-shell and eventually tossed, prostrate into a single prison cell secured with a heavy steel door. “Seems the boss hasn't arrive quite yet, so you all can just sit tight in here until he arrives,” Cinder told them, closing the door, “Could be awhile. Don't cause any problems for my men; boss wants you alive, not necessarily unharmed, understand?”

The trio succumbed to unconsciousness, waking an indeterminate amount of time later. They were stiff and sore from their ordeal, but at least they were able to move again, though they were shackled to the floor with the same sort of old-world handcuffs as before. Noal stretched his aching muscles and the others did the same, all of them looking particularly worse for wear, and none-too-pleased on top of it.

Sal was in a particularly terrible mood. “Well this is a nice little predicament we're in now, thanks to you two and your insufferable compassion! Let me just recap here: whose idea was it to get out of the 'digger and walk towards an obvious trap? Ohh yeah, it was you two. And who was it who suggested leaving the mysterious smoke alone? Right, right that was me, wasn't it? But I'm not gonna say I told you so.”

“Shut up, Sal,” fired Naomy, “You may be a product of the major metros, but you knew what you were signing on for when you came to Core, and the Codex isn't any different, in that regard.”

“Maybe, Nae, but it's not our responsibility to stop for every stray who might have gotten themselves into trouble.”

“Of course it is! We're Codexers, now Sal,” Naomy replied, “And I seem to recall you being one of the first to help Noal, when we found him out there, stuck in the shell.”

“That was different, Nae—“ Sal started.

“That's enough, you two,” Noal interrupted, “None of this gets us any closer to getting out of here, which I assume sums up your goals as well as mine.”

“Sorry, boss,” muttered Sal, as Naomy nodded reluctantly.

“What do you have in mind, Noal?” asked Naomy.

“For starters, you can take off those handcuffs.”

Naomy smirked and pulled at first one cuff, then the other, the metal bending, then snapping from her wrists.

“Now mine,” said Noal.

“What about me?” asked Sal, incredulously.

“Sal, you can tell me about the tensile strength of that door.”

05: The Answer to the Question

2006-12-04T16:06:00.002-08:00

Losing Sid hurt. A lot. He’d been with us through a lot of expeditions, into regions of the ice-shell so dangerous I almost expected death to come for some, or all of us at any given second. But up until that day at Rico’s End, we had gotten lucky. Aberrants are dangerous on their own – God knows that – but suddenly they were getting smart, too. That was bad. Bad for everyone. And now I had discovered who to blame, and a renewed determination to hunt the son-of-a-bitch down and end his life, for the good of all of us.

Not that I had forgotten him in those years since Core, don’t get me wrong. He had been there, in the back of my mind and in my nightmares, never forgotten. He had been in Naomy’s nightmares, also. She didn’t talk about it, but sometimes back in the Codex she would wake me up in the middle of the night, eyes wide with fright from the nightmare that had woken her, and jump into bed with me. There was nothing untoward about it, you understand; she just needed someone to be there. I can’t deny that I loved her, fiercely, like the sister in pain that she was, but also something more than that. Something always held me back, though. Memories.

We weren’t the only ones who had heard of the hunter; in fact it turned out I had only been half-right in naming him that. To most he was a legend, known as Hunterwraith. ‘Hunter’ was obvious – he hunted people, for a price, some said, though who would pay him I could never figure out. “Wraith” was due to his purported ability to appear and disappear without anyone knowing how, when or where he might be; he was a figure out of the ether, like smoke. He came to you, not the other way around.

So how did one get Hunterwraith’s attention? Ah, now there was the question of the century, and much as I hated to leave a site as ripe as Winnipeg alone, it was a mystery that needed solving. Yesterday. My only regret was that yesterday never comes again; Sid would stay dead, and Hunterwraith was going to join him, sooner or later. But the question still remained: how?

I had been trying to answer that one looming question for the past five years, and as far as I could tell, the bastard had all but disappeared from the face of the Earth. Now I had other questions that I needed to answer in order to get closer to the answer I sought. Why did Hugo have a picture of Hunterwraith in his hands? Why had he said “I’m sorry” before he died? And the thought came to me that perhaps it was Hugo who had called in our little friend. Apparently he had lived to regret it, but I still wasn’t any closer to an answer.

That was when I noticed that our dear assistant Hugo had left me a clue…

* * *

Noal stared at the paper in his hands, just as he had been staring at it for the past hour, willing it to speak to him – to show him some hidden piece of the puzzle, or at least give him the start of a pattern he could follow. For what must have been the hundredth time, he traces the shakily scribbled lines of Hugo’s drawing, analyzing, searching for something. But it had yielded no answers. It was poorly drawn, for a start, and not helped by the fact that it had been done in terror and pain. There was just, simply, nothing to read into about it; no codes, no patterns, no ciphers, just a crappy drawing, vaguely resembling Hunterwraith’s heartless mask. It was only on account of Noal’s vivid memories of the man that he even knew what it was at all.

It was becoming quickly apparent that he wasn’t going to get anywhere like this; he needed help. He needed a miracle. As his eyes burned a mental hole in that picture, his thoughts began to drift, to call on something bigger than himself for a direction. It was something he had picked up in Core; prayer they had called it. He supposed it qualified. If there is really someone, or something up there, I need your help right now. A clue, a beam of light, anything! Come on, already!

Frustrated, he threw the paper down on the dashboard with a growl, tearing of a stream of curses, which was rare for him. While he was in the middle of his tirade, the almost ever-present cloud cover overheard opened up, ever so slightly, to let a solitary beam of sunlight shine through, into the Gravedigger, shining directly onto the paper. The cloud-break lasted mere moments, but it was long enough for Noal to see something in the back-lighting.

“Naomy, grab a pencil for me,” said Noal, hunching forward to examine the paper. Naomy gave him the pencil and Noal laid the drawing flat on the dashboard, scribbling thick lines over a small section of it. “Now what have we here?” Within the darkened section, white indentations, probably from something written on a preceding page in a pad, were now visible:

km4kl4 mv011h
8puml7cu5 rlc4un3 7cuu
iiivc ivc

“It's just a bunch of garbage,” said Sal, swearing. “How are we supposed to use that?”

Noal held up his hand for silence, “Not quite; there is a message here, it just needs to be decoded.” Studying the scrawl intently, Noal began writing his own decoded version of the note. “There, you see? It's a simple alpha-numeric scramble; kindergarten stuff, really. Replace the numbers with their letter counter-parts, and convert these roman numerals into actual numbers, then unscramble the anagram. This was scrambled after it was written, so you can tell which order the letters should be placed by the way they were written in connection to the characters around them.”

A minute later, he had the complete, decoded message:

Mikhail Kamov
Steampunk Culture Club
24:00 04:00

“So apparently we need to go to the Steampunk Culture Club. I wonder where that is,” said Naomy.

“The Steampunk!” Sal exclaimed, “I used to go there all the time, before Core recruited me. Just about the seediest, dirtiest, loudest social club in the eastern hemi; I used to love that joint!” Noal and Naomy's quizzical expressions said more than words ever could. Sal laughed it off, “Well, what are you waiting for boss? Set a course for New Babylon, and let's get this show on the road!”

Naomy did a quick check over her map charts, “You boy’s ready for a long ride? I’d guess about ten days to New Babylon, and that’s barring any aberrant encounters. It’s pretty desolate from here to our first fuel stop in Monktown, but we should be able to make it there on the fuel we took from Rico’s. That way we can swing around Queby territory and avoid the tolls.”

“Ten days, huh?” said Noal, punching up the throttle control. “So who’s driving next?”

* * *

The crew arrived in Johnstown four days later; they had made good time, running fast and straight over nothing but open shell. They had taken turns driving, navigating and sleeping in order to run as fast as possible, and without stopping. Noal came to treasure his shifts alone with Naomy. They hadn’t had a chance to talk to each for far too long, and suddenly it was like a floodgate had opened. She had talked about her home in Core, and how much she missed her father and uncle – she had only seen them once in the past fiveyears, when they had come to the Codex to deliver some new data cores. She had also shared her grief about Sid with Noal, latching onto their shared experienced. And then she had held his hand, and cried on his shoulder.

He wished he could think about her the way he wanted to think; but he knew that until he had put his past behind him, he could never really have a future with her. All the more reason to get to their destination more quickly. He had nudged up the accelerator just a tad, then.

Johnstown was the easternmost port of call in what had once been called Canada, and a major gateway to the eastern hemisphere due to it's being the last hydro-fuel supplier from there to the western European continent. And in-between was one of the most treacherous stretches of the ice-shell anywhere in the world. One-hundred and fifty years ago it had been known as the Atlantic ocean and had not been covered in ice-shell as it now was. It was now possible to drive straight across the expanse, however only the most daring adventurers dared make the trip. The ice-shell over the ocean was not the same as it was over land; over water, the ice-shell moving slowly, creating a regularly shifting landscape of sink-holes, ridges, and shelves, impossible to plan for in advance. Mapping a route across was equally unpredictable, and one was forced to adapt as one went, and pray that the route one chose would be passable.

Johnstown itself was a dour and dirty place whose transient population was in a state of constant flux, while those in charge of the facilities had long-since bothered taking any sort of pride or care of their colony to attract new visitors. The result of this was a slowly-decaying shanty-town grown bloated beyond the capabilities or care of it's administrators. Not that it mattered; as long as there were people willing to brave the Atlantic expanse, they would need fuel and a place to rest up before making the three-day trek, or to recuperate after finishing it.

Noal and his crew took a room at a lodging-house called the Snowmobile Savage, a dank, seedy place, largely consisting of a darkly hazy cantina-bar, filled with a surly crowd of rough and rowdy travelers with attitudes as caustic as the odors coming off of them. Thanks to Noal's position as one of the Codex's department chiefs, they had currency enough to pay for a private room in a relatively secure sector, as opposed to the unsecured barracks-like rooms shared by most of Johnstown's passers-through. Once Noal and company had stashed their sleeping gear, they each headed in seperate directions to gather as much current information about the expanse as they could find. Sal would talk to the wrench-heads in the vehicle bay and fueling station, while Naomy was to do some covert window shopping of the local rip-off market, while flirting and sweet-talking her way into whatever information the merchants might know. Noal, meanwhile, headed for the cantina.

“A boiler-maker to start with, and an ice-hammer to chase it with!” called Noal, sidling up the cantina's grungy booze-bar and interrupting a raucous conversation the bar-keep was having with a sinister-looking, dreadlocked navigator and his crew of ten, or so, equally sinister-looking drivers, whose occupation was better left secret.

The navigator gave Noal a sharp look, “I believe were in the middle of talking to the good bar-keep, mate,” he said, with a throaty brogue.

“And I believe I need a drink,” Noal replied, “two, in fact! If that's alright with you.”

“You'd best watch your back, mate,” growled the navigator, glowering as he and his men stepped away from the bar.

“Don't pay Cinder and his boys any mind,” said the bar-keep, after they had left, “they're the meanest pack of arseholes you ever met, true enough, but they're also my best customers! One boiler-maker and an ice-hammer, coming up!”

“Thank you sir,” said Noal, “I hear the ice-hammers here are the best in the western hemi; I've been looking forward to this for a good long time!”

“Is that what you've heard?” the bar-keep chuckled, “You must be after more than a drink, friend.”

Noal smiled innocently, “It may be that my crew and I are heading into the expanse tomorrow. I may have also heard that you talk to all the navigators passing through here on their way in.”

“A man in my position talks to a lot of people,” said the bar-keep, placing a glass of steaming, orange and yellow on the bar in front of Noal, alongside a frosted glass, filled with blue. “Of course, like any memory worth recalling, the ones you're looking for aren't free.”

Noal tossed a stack of cred-notes onto the counter and took a swallow of the boiler-maker. “You're a busy man, and deserve compensation to match, of course.”

The bar-keep took the money and put a folded map down in their place with one smooth motion. “As it happens, I've just updated my charts. Safe travels.”

“Cheers,” said Noal, downing the ice-keeper with a whistle of satisfaction.

The barstool next to his creaked as an impressive weight settled down onto it. “Find out anything useful, boss?” said Sal, sitting down beside him.

Noal handed him the map, “In fact I did, here have a look. How did you fare?”

“Not well, I'm afraid,” Sal replied, “the wrench-heads are too busy with a big rash of repairs coming in to hear much, from the looks of it.”

“Heard anything from Naomy?” asked Noal.

“She's back in the room; doesn't sound like she's had much better luck than me. Never was very good at the whole flirting tart act, if you ask me. Too stuck on someone in particular for that.” Sal smiled, adding “You may want to check up on her, though; I think she's feeling a bit of a failure. Could use some cheering up.”

Noal nodded, “I think I'll do that. You going to hang around for awhile?”

“Yeah, don't worry about me. I'll be back in a bit.”

Noal returned to the shabbily decorated room they had rented for the night to find Naomy sitting quietly on the bed, staring morosely at her bandaged hand, where the aberrant had bitten her. “Are you alright, Nae?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, I'm fine Noal. Just thinking,” she replied.

“About your hand?”

“Sort of,” Naomy said, “Just having one of those days when I don't feel quite human, I guess. Ever since what happened, a day hasn't gone by when I haven't imagined what it would be like to pay back the one who did this to me – to us.”

“We'll get the son-of-a-bitch, Nae. No one will ever have to be afraid of him again,” Noal exclaimed.

“I know, but some days I get to thinking that if it hadn't happened, we might not have met, and if I'm being honest, it feels like a small price to pay,”

“Nae...” Noal sighed, slipping his arms around her, “You know I—“

“And now we're potentially six days away from finally ending this chapter of our lives, and I can't help but wonder what is going to happen when we do.”

Noal cupped Naomy's face and turned it towards his own, “Nae, what do you want to happen?”

Naomy came slowly closer, “I just...” And pressed her lips against his, lingering there for just a moment. In all the years they had known each other, they had never before kissed. At first Noal didn't know what to do; he was filled with equal parts elation and guilt; the same elation and guilt he felt every time he looked at her. He wished the guilt would go away.

“Noal, I'm sorry... I don't know why I did that,” Naomy apologized, pulling away, regretfully.

“No – Nae, it's okay. I didn't... “ Noal stammered, “I mean... it was nice. It was really nice.”

“Do you mean it, Noal?” Naomy smiled at Noal's affirmative nod and moved in closer again. “Maybe it wouldn't hurt to know for sure—“

There was a fumbling at the door, and Sal burst in, grinning from ear to ear as Noal and Naomy separated with conspicuous haste. “Interrupted something?”

“Uh, no. Nothing,” said Noal, sparing a rueful grin for Naomy.

“Good, good,” chuckled Sal, arranging his bedding on his place on the floor. “You kids better get some sleep; big day tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.”

“Right you are, Sal,” said Naomy, dousing the light, “Sweet dreams, you two.”

04: A Cure for Sid

2006-12-04T16:06:00.001-08:00

We'd been in some tight spots before – some damned tight spots – but my crew had always been known for being careful, and coming out in one piece. We all knew people who had lost their lives, or worse, in the name of our work at the Codex; there were always risks, especially on expeditions in the field, and there were fates worse than death.

The rules of the field were simple: train constantly, maintain an intimate knowledge of the hazards you will face, bring as much ammo as you can carry, have a solid goal, and always, always bring enough vaccine. The last rule was the most important; to knowingly enter an unknown situation without at least a week's worth of vaccine was inexcusable, and I had always been very careful. If there was one thing I had come to realize over years of expeditionary experience, it was that you never knew where an aberrant might be hiding. They had a habit of showing up when and where they were least expected, and one simple bite, scratch, or sometimes even just a brush of their infectious hide was enough to wipe out an entire expedition party, or for that matter, an entire satellite colony.

Well, not wipe out; not exactly. For yeasr, coming into contact with the aberrant-strain meant becoming one of those mindless monstrosities yourself, no exceptions. If you were lucky – and smart – you found someone to put you down before it got bad enough to cause any other, if you were neither lucky nor smart, everyone around you ended up just like you. Then some Wyethfizer doc came out with the first vaccine, and suddenly there was an alternative. Of course, it worked better when you were dosed before exposure, but with the newer versions you could even stop an infection within ten minutes or so. It wasn't much, but it was light years better than the alternative.

One thing you learn at the Codex is that no matter how important an expedition may be, the people involved are infinitely more-so. So, you load up with Vaccine and bullets, and hope for the best. Nothing was more important that survival, not even an expedition like the ruins of Winnipeg had been worth the risk. I had been so careful. The ironic part was that we had left the ruin when the vaccine started to run low, scheduled to pick up a new load during our stop at Rico's.

Unfortunately, that never happened.

* * *

Everyone readied their weapons and headed for the door back into the administration sector. It was quick run up a few flights of stairs back to the garage, and escape. They had just reached the door when a sharp yell came from the rear and Sid, obscured by the shadows, was wrestling with a half-dead aberrant grasping onto his back with its clawed fingers. Before they could render assistance, the archeologist let out a pained wail and threw the ex-human to the floor, ending the fight with two gun shots to the head. “Son of a…“ Sid muttered.

“Are you hurt, Sid?” asked Noal, shining a light on his kneeling companion.

“I’m afraid so, boss. Ow!” Sid pushed ragged bits of jacket off of his shoulder, with a dire look on his face, revealing a nasty looking wound oozing slowly.

Noal went pale at the sight, “Please tell me that thing didn’t bite you.” Sid nodded confirmation. “Damnit!”

“Let’s not panic here; we just need to get him some vaccine. He’s going to be fine,” said Sal.

“That’s the problem,” said Noal, “We haven’t got any vaccine to give him – we used up the last vial yesterday, remember?”

“Maybe,” shouted Naomy, from across the room, “but I’ve got a map here that says the colony had a whole storage room full of it. It’s down in the sub-basement, next to their infirmary, only two levels down and a short jog away. We can get there in less than ten minutes if we really book it.”

“Good,” said Noal, “because in about ten and a half minutes from now, all the vaccine in the world won’t make any difference. Are you okay to run a bit, Sid?” Sid nodded. “Good. Let’s get going!”

Leaving the office, they turned down towards the central administration wing hub. A low groaning noise emanated from the darkness of the hub, and all four of them could smell something very not right coming from that direction.

“Sid, hand me one of those mollies of yours,” said Noal, holding out his hand.

“Sure thing, boss.” Sid smiled weakly and handed over a bottle filled with clear liquid.

“Everybody remember how many corpses we saw in the hub when we passed through? I don’t think they’re corpses,” said Noal, conspiratorially.

“I must have counted at least thirty, just in the hub alone,” said Naomy, “If we just walk in there, they won’t have to work very hard. We’d have no chance to defend ourselves.”

“Exactly,” Noal answered, “So I’m going to sneak up there and create a little diversion, and when I do that, we all run across the hub to the sub-basement stairs, got it?”

Everyone nodded agreement and Noal snuck down the hall, careful not to make a sound. It was a good thing he had had a lot of practice sneaking around aberrants, Noal realized, or else they would have detected him before he was within a hundred feet. Coming to the end of the hallway, Noal sniffed the air and grimaced; there were aberrants in the hub alright, and lots of them. Judging the distance to the middle of the room by memory, he threw the bottle as close to the mark as possible. The administrative hub ignited with an explosion of red and yellow flames, illuminating a room full of aberrants that had been quietly waiting for the party to arrive, and were now set ablaze, screaming and writhing around in pain from a fire that wouldn’t go out.

“Everybody move!” shouted Noal, making a dash across the hub, slashing out at a few hostile aberrants that made a move on him despite being on fire. Sal and Naomy followed next, guns blazing, and Sid pulled up the rear. He wasn’t walking well. The molly-fire was starting to die down; many of the abbies were down for good, but the few that were still standing started making their way toward the group. Noal opened the heavy door into the stairwell and ushered the others inside, locking the door on the inside with a heavy bolt. “We’ll have to get back up a different way.”

“I’ll see what I can find,” said Naomy, pulling out the map she had snagged from Rico’s office. “The next stairwell is at the end of this passage—look out!“ She looked up suddenly and whipped out her shotgun, blasting a large crater in an aberrant dog, snarling in the midst of leaping for Sal’s jugular.

Sal leapt to the side and put a few slugs in the dead abby, “For my own, personal, peace of mind,” he said. “Looks like we’re not alone down here; who’s got a light?”

“Here, I’ve got some flares,” said a weakly-voiced Sid, tossing a sparkling stick into the darkness. Several distinct growls came back in response to the intrusion, and several pairs of eyes sparkled, reflecting the light.

“Sal, we could use some suppression up here,” said Noal, loosening the zweihander in its sheathe. “Naomy, you be ready for dodgers, and Sid, you just relax, okay? We’re going to get you vaccinated as soon as these dog-abbies are out of the way.”

Sal made his way up front as the abby-pack bolted toward them, using his auto-recoilers to create a defensive screen of bullets. Any that got through the screen were taken down by a quick shot from Naomy. Noal hung back to keep an eye on Sid, killing one dog, that made it past both Sal and Naomy, with a quick thrust of his blade.

When there was nothing else left to kill, the group moved forward to the outer edge of the flare’s light, and tossed another one into the blackness ahead. A single dog-aberrant rushed past Sal, seemingly out of nowhere, and clamped its teeth onto Naomy’s right arm, knocking her to the ground. Naomy wrenched her arm free and ended the abby’s life with a punch that exited through the back of the creature’s skull. “Picked the wrong arm to bite,” was all she said.

A few feet later, they found the end of the passage, and the stairwell down into the sub-basement. Descending cautiously, they threw flares every few feet, and found no aberrants waiting for them, much to their great relief. Sid came last; he wasn’t walking or breathing well, now. A hundred yards down that passage they found the infirmary, with no one inside. The vaccine store-room was empty.

“I don’t understand,” Naomy sighed, “it was supposed to be here.”

“Hold on, I think it might have been moved,” said Noal, staring at an oddly out-of-place series of lines and dots, scribbled hastily on the wall. “I think they used to call this morse code. If I’m reading it correctly, there should be a service ladder down the hall that leads into a storage locker in the upper-level living quarters. It seems like this is saying that someone had the vaccine moved there, for some reason. I’ll lead the way.”

A short way further along the passage they came to a steel ladder, bolted into the wall and running up through a lightless shaft to the upper levels. “Sid, can you climb? I know it’ll hurt, but we have to get you up there. It should be a short run from to the Gravedigger, okay?”

“Whatever you say, boss.” Sid did not sound good.

“Alright, I’ll go first. Sid you come after me, then Naomy and Sal.” He grabbed the nearest rung and started climbing as fast as he could. They might just make it on time if they climbed fast enough. After they climbed through one or two levels, the light from the last of their flares left at the bottom of the ladder was no longer visible, and the shaft got very dark. Sid was audibly groaning with every rung and had slowed the rest of the group significantly, but at least Noal could climb ahead and get the vaccine ready. He felt above his head every few seconds and finally felt his fingers touch the bottom of a metal hatch. Wasting no time, he pushed open the hatch and climbed into the blinking electric light of the storage locker. Broken glass crunched beneath his metal feet. “God-damn.”

“Give me a hand, would you?” said Sid, peeking out of the ladder-shaft to see Noal standing and staring at something before him. Noal shook the stricken look off of his face and helped Sid out of the shaft. Sid looked around to find out what Noal was looking at, and his face fell.

“Oh shit!” Sal exclaimed as he climbed out of the shaft and took a look around. The storage locker had been intentionally and completely trashed. Medical supplies were strewn about the room, all broken and useless. Smashed vials of vaccine littered the ground with glass and the partially evaporated serum. It was all gone, and from the look on Sid’s face, he knew what that meant.

“Sid… I’m sorry.” Naomy looked about ready to burst into tears. Sid already had, though he was doing his best to hold back. Sal wandered around the place, swearing and cursing at everything he saw. Noal was quiet, contemplative.

“It’s time to get out of here,” he said, finally, “We’ll find you some help, Sid, I promise.”

“With all due respect, boss, I can’t go with you and you know it. I’m bloody infected now, and there’s no going back.”

“No! Core – we’ll go to Core!” Noal declared. “Kasim was working on a better vaccine – he may even be able to cure the Strain by now, who knows? If we run the ‘digger into the ground we can make it there in five days—“

“I’ll be eating your livers for breakfast in three!” Sid shouted back. “I know you don’t want to give up on me, man, and I appreciate it. But I’m also sure I like this situation a whole hell of a lot worse than you do. There’s nothing that you, or anyone else in the world can do for me, now.”

“Well, we have to try, don’t we?” Noal said, flatly. “No arguments, Sid. That’s an order. Let’s go.”

Sal re-loaded his weapons and got ready to open the door into the rest of the colony. “Intuition tells me there’s a whole mess of severely pissed off abbies on the other side of this door. Naomy says it’s a nice, short jog to the garage, but unless we were planning on walking to Core, we’re going to need to get some fuel into the ‘digger. I saw some intact canisters in the fuel-processing chamber next to the garage, so fueling shouldn’t take more than two or three trips. That’s more than enough time for a whole whack of those abby bastards to follow us in, though, so we’d best all be ready for action.”

Noal unsheathed the zweihander, while Naomy loaded and cocked her shotgun. Sid had a clear bottle in each hand and nodded, a sick look on his face. Sal popped open the door, and they ran as fast as they knew how, shooting, slicing and exploding through swarms of aberrants of the human, dog and even big-cat varieties. Despite the odds, they made it to the garage with time enough to slam and lock the metal rolling-door shut behind them, but it wouldn’t keep the abbies out for long.

To their immediate left was the fuel-processing chamber, with a steel-grated fence locked tight. Sid did something to the lock and pushed open the gate, “Careful with this – if it closes again, it won’t open from the inside or outside.” The sounds of steel buckling and tearing echoed from the locked rolling door, as the aberrants thrashed against, trying to rip it open.

Sid picked up a fuel canister and immediately began filling it from the main colony pump. “I’m too weak to carry these to the toyo, so I’ll stay here and fill them.” He handed the first one to Noal, and went on to fill up a second.

Noal carried the fuel rod around the corner to where the Gravedigger had been parked and started transferring the hydro-fuel into its tanks. Naomy and Sal showed up a few minutes later with a full canister each.

“You two get your fuel into the tank and get ready to travel,” said Noal, “I’ll go help Sid with that last canister.”

“Don’t be long,” said Naomy, a momentarily frantic look coming over her face, “I hate worrying about you.”

Noal smiled, “Sid and I will be right back, don’t worry.”

He jogged back around the corner and found Sid fueling up the last of the canisters. The rolling door was pushed up from several significant gashes and dents, and the noise from the other side had increased. They had to go right now.

“Here you go, boss,” said Sid, looking up, “We should have more than enough juice to get us to Core, now. Just set it down outside there, would you?”

Noal picked up the heavy canister and set it down outside the processing chamber, fussing with its placement to make sure it didn’t fall over and rupture.

“It’s been nice knowing you, Noal,” said Sid, from behind him.

“Nice knowing me?” Noal turned around in time to see Sid slamming the fuel-processing chamber gate between the two of them, remembering what Sid had said about it not being able to open again. “Sid, what the hell are you doing?”

Sid had wasted no time in opening up the hydro-fuel reservoir lids, the heat release scalding him as each lid came off with a loud hiss. “It’s the only way, Noal!” A metallic screeching sound came from the rolling door as a large rent was broken open and aberrant growling could be heard through it.

“They’ll be through that door in one minute, maybe less! A thousand bloody aberrants let loose to do God-knows-what! I won’t let them, Noal!” He held a molotov cocktail in each hand, over top of the main hydro-fuel lines. “These fuel lines run through the entire colony and below. When they blow, this entire place, and all the god-damned aberrants inside of it, will be history, you understand?” The hole in the rolling-door had widened, and aberrants limbs began to push through.

“I can’t just leave you here!” Noal shouted.

“That’s exactly what you have to do! I’m blowing Rico’s End whether you’re in it or not! Now get out of here – I don’t need your deaths on my hands, too!” Sid looked anxiously at the rolling-door as it gave way even more.

“Goddamnit, Sid!” Noal grabbed the fuel canister and started running for the Gravedigger.

“Hey boss, say goodbye to Naomy and Sal for me, would you?”

Noal turned long enough to get a last look at his friend and crewmate. “I will, Sid. Good luck.”

Noal rounded the corner in a dead run to the Gravedigger, shouting at the other two standing around outside. “Get into the ‘digger!” Sal and Naomy looked up, curiously. “Get into the goddamned ‘digger, we’ve got to go!”

Noal tossed his fuel canister into the back of the toyo and jumped into the cockpit, pulling the monstrous vehicle around and jammed it up the exit ramp and out into the ice-covered landscape at full throttle, while Naomy and Sal bounced around in their hastily-taken seats in the back.

“What happened to Sid?” Naomy was in the middle of saying, when massive, blue fireball erupted behind the fleeing Gravedigger, accompanied by a deafening roar and a quaking of the ice-shell that nearly tore the tank-like toyocar apart. Noal punched it, getting as much distance as possible from the fall-out of the hydro-fuel explosion. Sal and Naomy were being trounced around too much to say anything.

Behind them, Rico’s End was completely gone, melting into slag from the first explosion, and then vaporized by the explosions that followed. The entire shelf of the ice-shell had been demolished and was collapsing into the burning crater, the ripples of destruction spreading to overtake the speeding Gravedigger as great slabs fell away behind it.

Then, as quickly as it happened, it was over, and the shell was still. Noal slammed on the brakes and spun the toyo around to look out over the damage. What used to be Rico’s End was still burning with a bright blue flame, and all around it was a giant, black crater in the ice. A few seconds later, and everyone onboard the Gravedigger would have been in that hole.

“Godspeed, Sid Pinnings,” whispered Noal, “Godspeed.”

“So what the hell are we supposed to do now?” asked Sal.

“We’re going to find the bastard that did this, and make him pay.”

“Him?” asked Naomy, “You mean…”

Noal reached into a pocket, taking out the crumpled piece of paper that Hugo had pressed into his hand before he’d died. Opening it up, he was confronted with a hastily scrawled drawing of a face, or more accurately, a mask. A cruel mask, hiding a cruel hunter’s face. A mask out of the most painful memories Noal had inside him.

“He’s back. The Hunter is back.”

03: Raising the Dead

2006-12-04T16:05:00.000-08:00

My recovery in Core was neither swift, nor painless. On the contrary, it was long and arduous, and there were days when I wanted to give up from hurting so badly. My new legs were a mixed blessing, equal parts of pleasure and agony. But the pain went away eventually; my body became used to its new bits and pieces and decided to cooperate with them, at least inasmuch as my pain tolerance was concerned. But I had a bigger issue – learning to use my new legs without lurching around like some freakish creation of Doctor Frankenstein. After all, it was Doctor Al-Amro that had created this particular monster.

Always with me during the good and bad parts, through pain, frustration, angst, joy and gratitude was Naomy. She had been through a similar time, and as such she had a unique understanding of what I was going through. She, too, felt like a monster at times, as though she was somehow less human because of what had happened to her. We became fast friends through the bond we shared. And we had something else in common too: we had both been given our replacement parts through the actions of the hunter.

Truth to be told, Naomy’s story was much worse than my own, and she had been awake through most of it. She and her uncle had been returning from Wyethfizer Metro with a group of Journeyman Scouts when their convoy was attacked by a pack of Aberrant-Wolves. The Abbies killed half of the Scouts and several of Core’s people by the time the Scouts had managed to take them down, but not before mutilating Naomy’s hands and infecting her with Aberrant-Strain. Faced with the eventuality of becoming an aberrant herself, she had had no choice but to watch Kasim amputate her arms, right above the elbow, with an old wood-axe, in order to stop the infection from spreading to the rest of her body. They’d had no anesthetic with them, so she’d gone without. Needless to say, she’d had a special hatred for all things aberrant, after that.

When I told her about the aberrants that attacked me, she was insistent that they had behaved exactly like the ones who had attacked her. When I told her how the hunter had been controlling them, a cold look came into her eyes. I suspect she developed a special hatred for the hunter, too, that day.

Several months and a lot of difficult training later, I was deemed well enough to return to the Codex and resume my work in the archives, though I left reluctantly after having made several very close friends. I knew Core would always be like a second home to me, and hopefully I would see it again before I died. Naomy decided to come with me, much to my surprise and delight, to work as a librarian, claiming an interest in antique and ancient literature. I suspected the move was more due to an interest in getting revenge against the hunter than a love for The Illiad, though.

Nonetheless, after much cajoling, we went with the blessings of her father and uncle. They even gave us one of their six-seater toyocars, a vast improvement over any thing we had had at the Codex, specially outfitted with all the latest defenses and additionally beefed up with thick armor plating and an ultra-rugged drive-train. We called it ‘the Gravedigger’, after an old-world monster truck by the same name, and even painted a giant flaming skull on the front. Along with the ‘digger came Sal - short for Salvatore - another good friend and a genius mechanic. Sal had little enough interest in books and manuscripts, but the Codex had been short of good mechanics when I’d been there last.

Over months and years that followed, I came to really love that Gravedigger; it always gets us home.

* * *

April 14, 150 AS

Noal geared the Gravedigger down as he rounded the last corner to Rico’s End, a small satellite colony of Exshell Metro, and his crew's favourite fuel stopover point between their base of operations in the Bastion and their excavation site in the ruins of an old-world city ruin once called Winnipeg, in the middle of the Plains of Nowhere, seven hours away. They had been on their current assignment for a month; the latest in a series of history gathering expeditions to various parts of what used to be North America.

Noal's crew actually only consisted of Naomy and Sal, along with an archaeologist named Sid Pinnings, who was the Codex's resident expert in pre-Shift urbania. Since his return from Core, five years earlier, Noal's de-ciphering skills had reached near-famous proportions, and as a result the Curators of the Codex had started giving him the juiciest assignments they could find. His latest feat had been decoding a slew of scrambled charts and maps to various ruined city-sites on the North American continent. He had been rewarded with his choice of sites to personally excavate, document and bring back history from. Noal had been integrally involved in over forty separate reclamations, and had personally scouted out and started at least half of those. Along with Naomy and Sal, always by his side, Noal was becoming a bona fide pioneer, and an experienced adventurer.

Of course, any sort of venture outside of the Metros and their various satellite colonies came with a great deal of risk. Most people never traveled even on established routes because of the naturally threat of the elements, and the frequency of aberrant attacks. More and more people were being killed by the mindless abbies, or even worse, infected with aberrant-strain themselves. Stories were becoming increasingly common about victims hiding their infections, out of denial or fear, and closeting themselves away while their bodies became twisted, hulking parodies of nature, and their brains were bombarded with aggression hormones, fueling anger, rage and violence. At some point, these secret victims had convinced themselves that they could fight the infection and somehow hold onto their humanity. They made promises to seek help – which meant being euthanized – at the first sign of lost control, but by then it was far too late. Entire populations had been lost that way; more often than not, it took only one victim to decimate an entire satellite colony from the inside.

Noal’s crew had seen their share of aberrants – more than their share – and he had personally dispatched more than a thousand of them. It was an impressive number, considering he had done it not with firearms, but his trusty zweihander. Sal, on the other hand, was a firearms man, and a crack-shot at that. Naomy also used guns, but even without one she had proven very handy in a pinch. And then there was Sid: an eccentric man, at the best of times, and completely obsessed with old-world music, especially a 21st century rock outfit called ‘The Black Orchid Rebellion’. Sid had a few pistols that he used in times of need, but he much preferred to make his own weapons: bottles of various unstable liquids that he called ‘molotov cocktails’. He had burned up a lot of abby flesh with those cocktails, and the others liked him all the better for it.

This latest assignment to the ruin of Winnipeg had been their most exciting mission to date, starting with the revelation that the entire area was being over-run by aberrants of every type and description. Their first order of business had been to clear out the area, at least enough so that they could work without looking over their shoulders every waking moment.

The first wave had been a frontal assault in the Gravedigger, which always made for a good time had by all. Noal had become quite adept at using the massive toyocar’s defensive features as weapons-of-mass-aberrant-destruction. First he would sweep through heavy abby concentrations, using spinning blades set around the exterior, and underneath the vehicle, along with tire spikes at maximum extension. He likened the experience to driving a zamboni – he’d read about those in the archives – cutting swathes through an ice rink made of mindless aberrant zombies.

Invariably, the abbies kept coming on, no matter how many of their numbers were sliced, diced and mangled around them – they were tenacious like that. It was a predictable pattern that Noal had used to his advantage on numerous occasions. Once he could no longer easily keep the toyo moving forward through the masses, he would stop the Gravedigger, right in the middle of them. He would wait, patiently, until there was nothing to see out of the ‘digger’s windows but a sea of aberrants swarming all over the vehicle, trying to smash their way in. Then he would flip a blue switch on the dashboard that charged the skin of the toyocar with a massive current, electrocuting (and often immolating) all but the most stubborn offenders. If anything was left after that, it was on to the red switch, and the Gravedigger’s flamethrowers, a personal favourite of Sid’s. A battery of two each, on the front and rear of the vehicle, and three on either side, made short work of anything left alive. No aberrant could stand up to that kind of abuse; they hated fire. Fuel was limited, so they were reserved only for the toughest pests, but when that red switch flipped off, there were no abbies, nor anything else for that matter, left to tell the tale. That is, if aberrants told tales, which they didn’t.

After two days and a trip back to Rico’s, to re-supply, the crew took the fight to the streets. With the aberrant perimeter culled, they were able to move into the city proper, spot-clearing an entry point to allow them room to expand their exploration through the ruins. It was a well rehearsed and often-used formula that they used, but it worked. Noal would sneak into an aberrant-infested area – a building or side-street – and take out as many enemies as he could with his zweihander, before the bulk of them noticed him. Once he had gotten the aberrants’ attention, he would run back toward his crew, where Sal and Naomy would pick them off with high-powered rifles and auto-recoilers. Those that got too close quickly found themselves engulfed in oily flames, thanks to Sid, and if they managed to get closer still, Noal was ready for them.

Once they had cleared out a decent radius, the real fun of exploring began in earnest, starting with high-rise buildings and similar structures. Many of those were not yet completely cleared of aberrants, so the crew would take a cautious walk through, killing pretty well anything, aside from themselves, that moved. Once the location was clear, they began the work of identifying and collecting anything of historical or cultural value that they could find, cataloguing, labeling and packing their finds at night in their camp.

Every two or three days they would travel the seven hours back to the Bastion to dump their payload and stock up on food and ammunition, stopping first at Rico’s End to refuel. After a month, they had covered less than a quarter of the city, and Noal had turned that last corner before Rico’s at least a dozen times. But this time was different; it was burning.

Black smoke billowed from the open ramp into the underground settlement, and the tell-tale blue flames of burning hydro-fuel could be seen flickering inside. Nobody spoke as Noal maneuvered the Gravedigger onto the ramp and slowly rolled down into what had been Rico’s main entry-way and fuel station; all it was now was a mess of fuel canisters, broken piping and… corpses. A lot of corpses, maimed, mangled and strewn about the garage. Some had been partially eaten and left to sit like yesterday’s leftovers.

Noal stopped drove the toyo as deep in as he could and then shut it down. Sal jumped out of the back with a growl, brandishing a snub-nosed auto-recoiler in each hand. Noal was right behind him, zweihander at the ready, along with Naomy, carrying a shotgun, and Sid with his pistols and a belt full of molotovs.

“Let’s look for survivors,” said Noal, “Kill anything that doesn’t look human.”

“With pleasure,” said Sal, his stocky frame practically quivering with rage. “After you.”

Noal nodded and headed through the service corridor and down into the central atrium of the ‘End’. Lights flickered from the ceiling, more off than on, and more bodies were strewn about the place, accompanied by bloody smears and handprints all over the walls and floor. It was aberrant work, clearly, and it appeared as though no one had been spared. The heat coming off of the burning hydro-fuel reservoirs was almost overwhelming, and the smell was even worse. A gurgling snarl came from somewhere ahead, and a big, white wolf-aberrant leaped out of the darkness, only to have its head sliced off by a quick swing of Noal’s blade. Aberrant blood was one of the most repugnant smells known to man.

“Goddamned abbies,” muttered Sal.

The group made a slow circuit from the living areas down into the central offices, finding a few hundred mutilated bodies and no one left alive. They didn’t encounter any more aberrants, though. That was something, at least. By the time they reached the administration offices they were unsurprised, if not unaffected, by the carnage laid out before them, and no longer expected to find survivors. Their new objective was to find clues: how had this happened? And why?

As they walked down a hallway outside administrator Rico’s office, they heard something tapping from inside it, which almost sounded like it might be human. As they entered the office, the smell of death was particularly pungent, and there were a lot of bodies.

“Rico must have been holding a meeting when it happened,” Noal commented. He stopped to listen for the sound, which had grown significantly quieter, following around to the back of the administrator’s desk. A man lay underneath it, tapping on the desk’s metal underside. “It’s assistant Hugo!” Noal exclaimed, “And he’s alive!”

“Please…” the wiry man whispered, clearly near death from multiple wounds. “I’m sorry…” With his last breath he pushed a ragged piece of paper into Noal’s hand, and expired.

“Hey, I found Rico!” shouted Sal, nudging a gorily lain corpse with the toe of his boot. He turned toward the others, a disgusted look on his face, “Something’s been chewing on the poor bastard. I always liked ol’ Ric—hey!” Sal yelped as the body suddenly came to life, grabbing at his ankle, and gunned it down with dispatch. “He wasn’t dead – he was a goddamned abb…oh shit!”

Suddenly the room was alive with the movement of the corpses come to life – not corpses at all, but aberrants, all of them. Noal sprung into action immediately, slashing off heads and limbs with the zweihander, while Sal laid down a full-automatic suppressing fire with his auto-recoilers, weaving back and forth between targets and proving himself quite nimble for a man with such a heavy frame, all the while screaming “Eat it! Eat it! Die! Die! Stay dead you arseholes!” at the top of his lungs. Naomy, meanwhile, while was steadily taking abbies down, one shot for one kill, and Sid was quietly doing his part with the high-powered pistols, as the fight was in too-close quarters to use the cocktails. The fighting was hot and heavy for a few moments, with everyone scrambling around, all working in different directions.

“Get it together, people! Tighten up and work as a group!” they heard Noal shout. Suddenly everyone was working in unison, and before long every aberrant in the room had been put down.

The crew stood panting for a few precious seconds, nobody saying a word, until Sal piped up. “So what the hell was that?” he asked, incredulously, “Why would they just lie there, waiting for us?”

“It was a trap,” said Noal. “They set us up.”

“Set us up?” Sal replied, “Can somebody tell me, since when do aberrants set traps?”

Noal looked at Naomy, guardedly, “When someone is pulling their strings.”

“He's right,” said Naomy, “these were no ordinary aberrants. They were under the control of someone, or something. I don't like it.”

Noal slammed the zweihander back into it's sheathe with a clatter to get everyone's attention. “Alright everyone, lock and load. We're getting hell out of here, right now!”

02: Icebreaker

2006-12-04T16:04:00.000-08:00

I don’t think I realized it at the time, but a lot of things went through my head as I lay there, frozen up to my thighs in ice so cold it had formed a permanent shell around the whole of the planet. Mostly they were thoughts of hatred and spite, but I also had questions that needed answering.

Who was the hunter, and how had he known where we would be? For that matter, what was he? If he was an aberrant, why did he bother to speak to me, and why did he spare my life? Aberrants were all muscle and teeth and claws and killing, even the ones who were human once; they certainly didn’t speak to you before they ate the eyeballs out of your head. And if he was human, how did he react so quickly and move so effortlessly? And how did he control his aberrant pets without being savaged and infected with Aberrant-Strain himself?

None of what had happened made any sense to me. And the equipment he had used -- that weapon that had melted the ice-shell – I’d never even heard of such things before. So many questions that needed answering, and so many crimes that needed punishing.

My friends were dead, my wife was dead, and yet I was alive, at least for a little while longer. I swore to myself, in that moment, that if I ever got out of that ice I would devote my life to hunting him down and removing his stain from the planet, so that no one else would ever have to die at his hands. But inside I knew that none of that was ever going to happen; I was going to die there, in that ice, as surely as if the god-damned hunter had pulled the trigger himself. So I lay myself down and closed my eyes to the world, willing myself to give up, to let go.

As it turned out, fate wasn’t quite finished with me yet…

* * *

Noal’s eyes fluttered open the sound of footsteps. Flashes of waking inside the toyocar, and the hunter’s white boots filled his head for a split-second before his vision cleared. And there they were, swarming him with reassurances that everything would alright, they would save him. Just relax, they told him, you’re going to be fine.

Everything would not be alright. Mere feet from him, Lara lay dead on the ice, face adopting the same look of terror she’d had before he killed her. Her eyes were still open. Oh god… I’m so sorry. He would never be fine again, not even after he watched that bastard’s blood drain out between his fingers. He would be avenged, but never alright.

A flurry of faces whirled around him with an urgent busyness as they clawed and hammered at the ice, trying to break him free. Not like it mattered, anyway; his legs had been frozen solid for a good ten minutes in the ice-shell, so cold it could kill in seconds. Even if they got him out, he had no idea what shape he would be in, or if he would ever be good for anything again. Even still, he would kill the son-of-a-bitch who had done this, and he would piss on the bastard’s grave. He didn’t know how he would pull it off – net yet – but he would find a way.

The frantic digging and hammering of his rescuers didn’t seem to be making much progress; they had barely made a dent in the ice. Not that Noal could blame them; the ice-shell was harder and tougher than a solid steel plate. He had already started to shiver, knowing it was only due to the partial protection of his cold-suit that he had made it this long, but that protection was by no means infinite. It seemed he was going to freeze to death out there after all.

Then a woman pushed through the throng; she was a small woman, almost waif-like, with strikingly beautiful olive features highlighted by royal blue eyes and raven black hair. She smiled at him – a look of sympathy and understanding – and pushed her way to the forefront. “Let me try,” she said. The men moved aside to let her through and Noal watched in disbelief as she removed her cold-suit gloves and rolled up her sleeves, pulling back a fist as if she meant to crack open the ice with her bare hands.

CRACK! Her fist came down like a jack-hammer, making a deep rent in the ice. CRACK! CRACK! SMASH! She punched it again and again, using both hands down. Noal could feel the impacts in his spine and found himself stricken dumb with amazement. The ice was beginning to split apart from this tiny girl’s tiny fists. Suddenly he felt the results of his exposure to the cold, suddenly keen, and his vision began to waver in and out. The last thing he saw before the light went out, yet again, was his own body being dragged from what should have been his icy grave.

When next he opened his eyes he was in the back of a toyo – larger than the one he had come in, with room for six people along with his prone form. Through the window he could see a second toyo following along with the one he was in, but that was about all he was able to see. His head began to swim, the images around him blurred and distorted, and he suddenly could no longer hold his head up.

A wild-eyed, older-looking man with a shock of white hair looked down on him, a concerned look on his face. “Are you awake, son? What is your name? You're from the Codex, yes?” The words were fuzzy and indistinct. Noal muttered something that he hoped was an answer before the world faded out once more.

He woke again, to the sound of the toyocar's wheels on a steel grated ramp. They were on a downward slope, traveling into a tunnel of some sort. Unless that was his head producing tunnel vision; everything was jumbled and unclear.

“...going to make it?”

“I don't know, Sal..”

“...have to see what the doc says...”

Lights out.

Now he was on a gurney, being wheeled down a long hallway with blinking lights overhead. An olive-skinned man with long, curly hair in a pony-tail and a pointed goatee, in a grey smock, was walking next to him, looking down with an appraising expression. “He was exposed for how long?” said the man, with a thick Arabian accent.

“We don't know, but we were with him for at least ten minutes,” said the voice of the wild-eyed man, from somewhere beside him.

“Hmmm. By all rights, this man should be dead already. I can't promise anything, but I am optimistic he will pull through. His legs though, that is another story; I'm going to have to—“

“Wait, I think he's awake.”

The Arabian man look into Noal's eyes, “Mister Silver, can you hear me? Noal Silver?” Noal nodded his head weakly, unable to muster the strength to speak. “My name is Kasim. I am a doctor, and I am going to do everything I can for you. Do you understand?” Noal tried to answer affirmatively, but his strength left him, along with this consciousness.

When he woke again, he was feeling better, groggy, but better. He was in a low lit room, lying on a raised bed piled with thermal blankets, though he felt less warm that he should have. Clearly he was not yet completely recovered from the effects of his ordeal, and his legs felt somehow strange, in a way that he could not identify. The room was lined with plate-steel walls and whoever operated in there was immaculately clean about his work.

“How are you feeling, Mister Silver?” said a familiar voice, the wild-eyed old man that Noal vaguely remembered from out in the ice-field. “You look much better now, but you're lucky to be alive, you know.”

“Yes, thank you,” Noal replied, “and please thank the doctor. Kasim, is it? I owe him... I owe all of you a great debt for saving my life. And evidently he does good work.”

“That he does, that he does,” said wild-eyes, “and he worked longer than I've ever seen him go in a stretch on you, my boy. He sends his regards, by the way.”

Noal looked around the room, suddenly remembering that he had no idea where he had been taken or whose people had saved him. “Where am I?” he asked.

“You don't know? You're in Core, Mister Silver.” Wild-eyes grinned at Noal's surprised expression.

“I found it? I actually found Core?”

“If we're being technical, we found you. But yes, in essence, your mission was a success, though the price was high, I realize,” replied the white-haired man. “I am Tye – Tye Rundell. I am the administrator here. You're welcome to stay with us for as long as you need to; consider Core your home away from home.” The administrator reach a hand out to Noal, who shook it with as much strength as he could muster.

“That is... very kind, Mister Rundell. I can't tell you how much it means to me.” He took another look around the medical room, an impressed expression on his face. “I had no idea there was a doctor in Core; I thought you mostly worked with Cyber-tech.”

“I think you'll find Noal, if I may call you Noal, that we are much more than that. Much more,” said Tye, as Dr. Kasim walked into the room looking rested. “But you'll have plenty of time to see what we do around here – for now your only concern is your recovery. Everything else can wait.”

“I am afraid administrator Rundell is correct in this,” said the doctor, “you're out of the woods, true, but still a long way from the full recovery I am expecting you to make.”

Noal nodded. “I understand, but I am better, right?”

“We'll see,” said Kasim, taking Noal's pulse, blood pressure and temperature, then placing Noal's on his wrist. “Try to push up against me. Good, now press down. Aha! Now to the left, and now to the right. Now take a deep breath for me. Yes, alright.” He took out a slim pen-light and shined it into each of Noal's eyes, in turn. “Good pupil response...” he muttered. “Here, do you feel this?” asked the doctor, poking his patient with a small pin.

Noal grabbed his hand away, sucking on the pin-pricked finger. “Ow! Yes I blood feel that! Geez, Kasim, you're not like any of the other doctors I've met from Wyethfizer Metro. They just gave me pills to take.”

Kasim snorted contemptuously, “Wyethfizer Metro – bah! Those glorified chemists wouldn't know real medicine if it rode down from the sky on a sunbeam and burned a hole in their self-important heads! Pills and injections is all they know how to do; that's not medicine as far as I am concerned!” He stopped, seeming satisfied with the results of his exam, and smiled. “But to answer your question: you are still very weak, but yes, you are much better than when I first saw you. You will need to take it easy for a week or two, but as I said, I predict a full recovery.”

“Wow, that's great to hear; I really thought I was going to die out there. But, uh” he hesitated, “my legs – I know they were in that ice for a long time, and they feel kind of... funny.”

Kasim looked over at Tye with a guarded expression, then back at Noal, a dour look on his face. “Right, your legs. They were damaged by the ice. Badly damaged, I am afraid. Regretfully, I was not able to save them.”

“Oh...damnit. “The realization of what the doctor had just told him exploded in his mind as images of what life would be like as a cripple. None of it was very encouraging. “I'm sure you, uh, did the best you could, Kasim. Thank you for trying.” He felt about ready to give up on life.s

“I did, however, manage to accomplish the next best thing,” said the doctor. Noal's skeptical look said that 'next best' really did mean anything when it came to keeping or losing his legs. “I couldn't save the legs you had, so I gave you new ones. Better ones.” He smiled, openly now.

“New ones? I don't underst--”

“Try to kick your foot up from underneath the blanket.” Noal did that and a foot-shaped object kicked up from underneath the blanket.

“What...?”

“He's ready to see them, Kasim,” Tye said, with no doubts. “take the blanket off of him.”

Kasim reached for the thermal blankets; Noal wasn't sure he wanted to see what was underneath. The blankets came off, and Noal looked down in disbelief at what he was seeing. Half-way down his thighs, the skin and flesh was gone, replaced by cold steel. The prosthetic legs were nothing short of miraculous, a beautiful functional collection of rods, levers, and hydraulics that would flex when he flexed and move when he moved.

Noal could barely force a single word out of his mouth, “How?”

The administrator patted him on the shoulder, a knowing gleam in his eyes. “Like I said, there is much more to Core than cyber-tech. You'll see.”

“For now, let's just concentrate on getting you accustomed to your new legs, shall we?” suggested the doctor. “Here, try to get off the bed.”

Noal slid himself off of the bed, and hopped off, onto the floor, landing on his rear end with a crash. “They'll take some getting used to,” Kasim replied. Noal grabbed ahold of the bed's frame to stead himself, then slowly willed his new legs to stand shakily to their feet. It was similar to controlling his old legs, but subtly different.

Once he had successfully managed to stand on his own two feet, he attempted to walk across the room, with near disastrous results, finding this time that he was too shaky to get back up by himself. He sighed with contempt for his perceived weakness. “So what do I do now?” he asked, dejectedly.

“Get back up and try again,” said Tye, kindly, yet firmly, helping Noal back up to his feetI. It's going to take some time before you can use those legs as naturally as you'd use the ones God gave you. And it will take a lot of determination on your part, but also the ability to rest when you need to.” The administrator helped Noal back to the bed. “You have to give it time, Noal. Any good historian knows that Rome wasn't built in a day – nor was the Codex, for that matter. You still have much strength to recover, and you look like you could use some more sleep, now.”

The exhausted patient was asleep again in no time, dreaming of deadly hunters, dressed in white, steel legs, and a raven-haired girl breaking ice with her bare knuckles.

The next day, Noal was able to get out of bed and walk around the room several times, while only falling over twice. He was definitely improving, and he felt stronger as well. He even managed to walk over to a mirror on the opposite side of the room and took a look at his reflection. Brown hair, cheek length, hung over pale green eyes and a tight, pale face beset with at least a week’s worth of stubble. He pretty much looked like crap, and felt marginally worse.

Over the following days he got to know Tye and Kasim very well indeed, giving them the nicknames 'Chuckles' and 'Mr. Kill Joy' respectively. He didn't know how two such opposite personalities could work so well together, but somehow they managed, with Tye issuing forth a steady stream of corny puns and off-colour jokes, while Kasim's only reaction was a stoic raising of the eyebrow and a muttered 'I certainly do not see how that is helpful to this situation,” or something similarly-themed. It was always clear, though, despite their differing manners, that they were about as close as any two people could be; they had been through a lot together, over the years.

They were quickly becoming special to Noal as well, who began to wonder how he could have survived those first, difficult days without Kasim's quiet encouragements to go further, and Tye's quick wit and indefatigable optimism to take his mind off of all the pain of recovery, and the frustration of learning to walk all over again. Never once had they spoken of any debts, though he was sure that his treatment must have cost Core a small fortune. And though the pain of losing his wife, and also his closest friends, weighed heavily upon him, no one tried to belittle that pain, but merely supported him with a shoulder to cry on when he needed it, or a friendly ear to listen to his angry rantings.

Through it all, however, there was one person who Noal could not get out of his mind; the raven-haired girl who had broken the ice with her fists. Unless, of course, he had imagined that. In retrospect it certainly seemed an unlikely memory, and yet it never faded with time. He just wished he knew what her name was.

As it happened, he would find out sooner than he expected.

He had been there for a week, steadily learning the basic workings of his prosthetics, though it was not coming along as quickly as he could have hoped. He had mastered walking a circuit around the med-room and then into the back storage areas and operating theatre, when he decided that it was time to take a look around the place. After everyone had gone to their beds, he slipped quietly out of his own and headed out the door toward the more populous parts of the colony. He had managed to make it down the hall and into a round, open mezzanine area, empty at that odd hour in which he had chosen to make his sojourn, before he collapsed onto one of the bare, metal benches sitting around the room's tall stone centre-structure.

Amidst a string of epithets that would have made a mining-colony prostitute blush, a gentle hand brushed his shoulder, accompanied by a soft voice that snuck its way into his ears. “Are you okay?”

Noal turned around in surprise, “Yes I’m—“ it was her, the raven-haired girl with the olive skin. Her eyes were very blue tonight. “It’s you! I mean, uh, yes! I’m… fine. I’m just having some trouble with these… legs.” He pointed toward the prosthetics embarrassedly.

“I know; I’ve been watching,” she replied demurely.

“Oh! I didn’t realize,” Noal blushed and held out his hand to shake. “Um, I’m Noal Silver. From The Codex.”

She shook the out-stretched hand with a grin. “Hello Noal Silver, I’m Naomy Rundell. Very please to make your acquaintance.”

“Rundell? As in…”

“Tye is my father,” she confirmed.

Noal nodded, “Huh. With your complexion I would have pegged you for Kasim’s kin.”

Naomy nodded, an amused look on her face. “He is my uncle.”

“It all comes together,” Noal chuckled, “So Chuckles marries Mr. Killjoy’s sister, and has you. I’d bet you have a truly fascinating personality.”

Naomy giggled at that. “You tell me, Mister Silver.”

“Definitely yes,” he laughed, then became suddenly serious. “I didn’t have the chance to thank you, yet.”

“For what?”

“Saving my life,” said Noal, “I know it was you that got me out of the shell. I’d be dead if not for you.”

Naomy smiled and looked at her feet, “It was nothing, really, and anyway, I’m very glad I was able to; we wouldn’t be here talking otherwise!”

Noal nodded in agreement, but looked puzzled. “How did you get me out of there? I mean, I saw Tye and a bunch of others with hammers and picks, barely scratching the ice, then you came along and just… punched it?”

Naomy looked serious now, and seemed uncomfortable with the question. “I don’t show this to many people. It invites an odd combination of fear, pity and revolt in most. But I guess you’d understand better than they would.” Without another word, she spun and punched the stone centre-structure with a deep thud. When she moved her hand, Noal could see a deep and cracked crater in the stone, made by her tiny fist. He hadn’t noticed up until then, but the centre-structure was covered in similar, fist-shaped craters.

He looked at Naomy questioningly, and she held up her fist for him to see. Skin hung off in ragged patches where the stone had scraped it away, and underneath, instead of flesh, blood and bone, was the metallic grey of cold steel. She flexed her fingers purposefully, wincing with pain, and looked into Noal’s eyes. “You see now, my arms are like your legs,” she held her injured hand out to him. “My uncle has a machine that grows skin over top, complete with pain sensors, and other things. It looks real, looks human, but it’s not.”

Noal took her battered hand in his, covering the wounds with his fingers. “It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful. And if it wasn’t for this, I’d be dead right now.”

Naomy pulled away gently, looking first at her hand, then at Noal. “I am sorry about your friends, and your wife. I wish I could have saved them, too. I’d better go get this hand fixed.” She smiled at Noal as she turned to walk the opposite direction from his room.

“Until we meet again,” Noal whispered.

01: The Pledge

2006-12-04T16:03:00.000-08:00

My name is Noal Silver, and I am a historian of sorts, though most would call me an archivist, because of where I come from. The Codex is my home, also called the great library, and not without reason. You see, the people of the Codex have long been devoted to collecting, archiving and studying the surviving knowledge of the old world, the one that existed before the Shift plunged all of humanity into the massive frozen hell we all call 'Home'.

Contained within the Codex are treasures beyond measure: art, literature, history, music, culture, newcasts, journals, films, comic books, novels, sculptures, paintings, records, and so much more. We have it all here – at least as much as we’ve been able to salvage. The reclamation is never done, though. My particular specialty is in the study of ciphers – codes, patterns, hidden messages, and the like, contained in, well, just about any medium you can think of. From the way the culture of the second world war impacted the art of detective comics to the way the price of rice in third century China affected the design of their weapons of war, there’s a pattern to it that can be deciphered if you know where and how to look.

By studying all of the data and knowledge that we have accumulated since the Codex first began, we know that Earth was not always as cold as it is today; people used to be able to stay outside in little more than their underwear and not freeze to death in a couple of minutes, or at all, in some places. The planet used to be largely green, and the oceans blue, instead of white and icy – we’ve got the photos, taken from outer space, to prove that. But one-hundred and fifty years ago, something happened that changed all of that: a worldwide, cataclysmic climate shift. Or, as everyone calls it nowadays, just ‘The Shift’. As near as we can figure, the official date of the Shift was July 22, 2049 A.D. What little we know about that day makes a sad tale.

We have news broadcasts from many important places that show us a hint of what our ancestors went through to get us where we are today. Reports from what used to be New York city, when the ocean swallowed it up. People screaming, drowning. And on the other side of the continent, Los Angeles, a great city of music and films, destroyed by wind and hail. In the north, a city called Victoria – a garden city before the ocean swallowed it up. Particularly moving, in my mind, is a story about a small town, not far from Victoria, who bravely soldiered on, hiding from the freeze in a church, though not much like the churches I’ve been to. It was from that little town that some of our most famous pioneers emerged, surviving not by skill, but by sheer force of will, or as they claimed, prayer. I don’t know how they really got through it, though, but I do know that it is because of people like these that a place like the Codex exists, and for that they have my gratitude.

One thing we don’t know is what caused the Shift – why did it happen, and what could we have done to prevent it? It has been a source of endless debate for the past one-hundred and fifty years, and the fact that I may have discovered the answer is rather, well, I guess it’s a little bit frightening, to be honest. But no less frightening than the answer itself. I guess if I’m going to explain all of that, though, I’d better start from the beginning.

Today’s date is July 22, 150 A.S. (After Shift). A big day, wouldn’t you agree? The hundred-and-fiftieth anniversary of the Shift. But my story begins on a different day, six years ago, or thereabouts. It is a day I’ll never forget; but then, I’m sure one rarely forgets the day they found a nemesis, and a purpose.

* * *

November 3, 144 AS

The sound of whirring stud-tires echoed through a serene winter landscape as the hulking steel shape of a toyocar sped over the icy ground-shell, its dual-hydrocell engines roaring like thunder in the otherwise silent surroundings. Sitting atop the growling motors, in the toyo's cramped cockpit, Noal Silver fingered the throttle forward anxiously. Too many aberrant attacks had been reported in this sector to do anything less; some aberrants could run as fast as the vehicle's plodding-along cruise speed, with strength enough to do significant damage.

The last time he had encountered an aberrant, a severely pissed off, mutantly-huge dog-monster with an aptitude for pulling the steel armour plating off of Tran's village watch-wall, five constables, armed with semi-auto pistols had gone down before Noal had managed to dispatch the slavering beast with a decisive zweihander stab to the brain-pan. As useful as a gun could be, they were far too costly for the average joe to afford, and Noal much preferred the feel of his trusty zweihander swinging in his hands, with its four feet of aberrant-slicing steel. Admittedly, the sword was not much to look at, crafted from a piece of an old-world airplane propeller, with haphazard angles of metal for a hilt. At least it didn't jam up in the cold the way a gun did.

“So what is this place we're trying to get to, anyway?” asked Roddy Harlin, a computer technician whose main duty was keeping the Codex's antediluvian database library in working condition, from the back seat. There weren't many technicians around with Roddy's credentials, but then again, there weren't many operating computers around anymore, either. And of those that did exist, none of them had anything on the Codex database. A good technician was hard to find, as they took on apprentices rarely, and most had few compunctions against killing to keep their secrets secret. Roddy was one of the best, and probably had a lot of blood on his hands to show for it.

“It's called Core,” Noal replied, increasing the throttle a little bit more, “At least so say the rumours of its existence.”

“You dragged the four of us all the way up here to the badlands to follow a freaking rumour?” said the back seat's other occupant, the Codex's assistant-chief librarian, a red-headed and fiery woman, well known for a healthy lust for 'good' men, second only to her lust for good books.

“Correction, Marila: Ten and Ophi sent the four of us all the way into the badlands to follow a ‘freaking rumour’, because they thought it was important,” Noal quipped, “Important enough to give us the toyo, I might add. I’m just the one driving us there.”

“Fair enough, Silver,” Roddy responded, “but my question is why? Why send us all the way up here into bloody abby territory to find some secret metro that doesn’t wanna be found?”

“Because of what they do there,” said Noal, “Cyber-tech like you wouldn’t believe, and that’s not all there is to Core, from what I’ve been hearing.”

“I thought Intel Metro did Cybes,” Marila commented.

“Not like Core, they don’t,” said a silky female voice across from the driver’s pit. “Intel’s never been any good at artificial intelligence models, and it’s been wreaking havoc with our database imagers. Seems our dear curators heard a rumour about some new imaging technology developed in Core, and they want a piece of it. Haven’t you been keeping up with current events, Mar?” The sandy-haired speaker in the front passenger seat flashed Noal an impish smile; she enjoyed this banter far too much and, Noal suspected, encouraged it in subtle ways, when she thought she could get away with it.

There wasn’t much, besides book-burning or some other form of history debasement that he wouldn’t let Lara get away with, though. He chalked it up to being one of the fringe benefits of holy matrimony.

Noal thought back to their wedding day with an internal grin at the mental images that came to mind: the two of them, dressed to the nines in survival suits under borrowed pre-Shift formal-wear – badly preserved, at that – along with Roddy and Marila, their best man and maid of honour, and a half-crazed Franciscan-style monk with about one-third of a Bible, all crammed into the dingy, makeshift chapel of some backwater mining satellite of metro Alcan. It wasn’t much, but it was the best he could afford, and then some, and it had made her happy. He wasn’t sure how ‘holy’ the matrimonial oaths from that monk had been, but at least they were married. Their one night spent together in that mining colony hadn’t been much of a honeymoon, but they had both been eager to get back to their work in the Codex.

Much as it often chafed his style, Noal was hard up to think of anyone better suited to be his personal foil. Whenever his imagination prompted him into some kind of potentially dangerous (and probably embarrassing) situation, Lara was there to bring him back down the ground. Without her around, he was sure he would have been long since dead, or left to rot in some tech-union prison for being too outspoken about his opinions on their leaders, policies, ethics, and pretty well everything else about them. His mouth had often gotten him into trouble before she had come along.

And she shared his love for codes, which was hardly the kind of thing most women went for. If there was anyone on the planet who could give him a run for his money with a cipher, it was Lara. He really couldn’t live without her; why would he want to? He only wished she hadn’t been so insistent on coming to the badlands with him; the place was dangerous, and Roddy wasn’t kidding about it being abby territory. If anything were to happen to her—

A boulder-sized white shape slammed against the passenger side of the cockpit, rocking the toyocar on its axles with a dull thud. Suddenly it was all Noal could do to keep control, as the first hit was followed by several more, each one swinging the toyo in a different direction. Noal punched the throttle to its maximum, pulling away from the attackers.

“What the hell was that?” shouted Noal, steering and throttling furiously.

“Five abbies, still following,” said Lara, looking out through the rear windshield, “look like they were spawned from bears or something. They’re big, very mean, and whatever they are, or were, they’re gaining on us!”

“I can’t get this damn thing going any faster!” Noal exclaimed, punching the steering wheel, “I think that first hit damaged one of the wheels. There’s something dragging somewhere in the drive-train that shouldn’t be.”

Marila did a quick visual inspection of the damage. “Wow! Nigel and Ophelia are gonna be pissed when they see this mess!”

“Forget about Nigel and Ophelia, it’s old wrench-head that I’m worried about!” added Roddy, leaning out the window with his long, steel “thumpin’” stick, levering it like a crowbar against something caught in the wheel-well. Something came loose with a sickening sucking and crunching sound and suddenly the toyo was accelerating at a much more comfortable pace. “Are there still five of those things behind us?”

“Yep, they’re all still after us!”

“Well one’s down a bloody leg! Colour me impressed!” Roddy laughed. It seemed like he never took anything seriously.

Noal, meanwhile, had managed to pull the toyo away from the following abbies, though in doing so he had inadvertently steered them into an ice-field that he had meant to go around, before events had forced him to take a more direct course. The ice-field was a treacherous collection of hidden snow drifts, jutting ice-shafts and sudden drop-offs that made for a death-grip-on-any-handle-you-can-find terrifying ride, full of sudden turns, dangerous skids and a lot of bumping up and down.

Noal was as focused on the ‘road’ ahead as he could ever remember being, pulling out driving skills he never knew he had, just to avoid driving the four of them into certain death. It wasn’t easy to pull off, and the abbies had far from given up the chase. Something flicked at the corner of his eye, something that shouldn’t have been there. He could only catch fleeting glances as he tried to navigate around potential hazards.

A fleeting glance revealed what was clearly a humanoid figure, standing very still. The ground dropped out from underneath the toyo with a bone-jarring impact, before it recovered. A second, closer glance, had the figure dressed all in white, like a survival suit of some kind, face masked. Aside from the shape there was no hint of anything human about it. Who in their right mind wore white outside of a colony, anyway? Most people wore dark colours to be more visible against the ice. Camouflage was no good again abbies, anyway, as they could smell human from a mile away. One tire hit large rock, sending the car skidding to one side as it soldiered on. Another glance, and the figure was raising something onto its shoulder – a weapon? The bear-aberrants were starting to gain on them; more speed was needed. Noal gunned it, focusing even more so on the path before him, and then he caught his last glance. There was a flash, and a long stream of smoke issuing from the back of a projectile shot from the strange figure's tube-like weapon. In the split-second before the impact, Noal knew exactly what was about to happen, and he could do nothing to stop it. So he prayed.

An explosion erupted in the front of the toyocar, flipping it end over end like so much scrap metal and issuing a brilliant yellow flash and a fireball that overtook all within the cockpit. At some point during the blast, the lights went out on Noal. His eyes fluttered open an indeterminate amount of time later, and he found himself hanging upside down from his driver's harness in the smashed and burning toyo cockpit. He felt like he'd been thrown around inside a big metal tin can, which was pretty close to what had, in fact, just happened to him.

But, there was no time to think, he had to get out of there and make sure everyone was alright. He didn't even know where anyone was, at the moment. Hitting the harness release, he fell into the ceiling of the toyo and quickly scrambled around to assess the situation. He stopped short, a scream dying in his throat; there, still in her harness, was Marila. From what he could see, she looked to have been crushed by the ceiling when the toyocar flipped over and landed on its roof. At least she probably hadn't suffered.

Roddy was stuck halfway out of the other rear window, shivering violently, whether from his injuries or the cold Noal did not know. He thought he could hear the muffled sound of swear words coming from that direction, though. The muffled epithets stopped suddenly and Noal thought he heard Roddy try to shout “Who in the hell are you? You killed my wife, you son of a b—aggh!” A punctuated gargle was the last thing Noal ever heard Roddy say.

Through his own open window, Noal heard footsteps on the ice-shell ground, and a pair of white combat boots stepped into his line of sight; the boots belonging to the bastard who had killed his two best friends and – suddenly the thought hit him: where was Lara? A woman's cry from somewhere outside answered his question. The boots turned to walk in her direction.

Shimmying into the back, Noal reached behind Marila's head into the toyo's storage locker to retrieve the zweihander; if the killer thought he was going to just going to get away with this, he was in for a surprise. As silently as possible, he wriggled his way back into the front and crawled out the window to stop the white-suited murderer once and for all.

He – Noal had decided that it must be a man – was standing over her, his booted foot against her chest, pushing her back against the ground. “Where is it?” he was demanding. The voice was human, presumably, and sounded artificial, as if it were being broadcast throught an intercom. He had a slight accent as well, of indeterminate origin.

“Where's what?” Lara stammered. She was shivering already; Noal didn't have a lot of time.

“The people who hired me to hunt you down were quite adamant that you would have what I seek. Give it to me!” The voice was angry now and the figure raised a gun to her head.

“Get away from her!” Noal yelled as he ran toward them, swinging the zweihander into position. The white figure reacted with cat-like reflexes, spinning on Noal as he produced another weapon which he pointed at the archivist's feet. A red bolt of light struck the ground and Noal sank thigh deep into the instantly melted section of the ice-shell, screaming as the intense cold burned through the legs of his cold-suit, sending ripples of pain through his body. Before he could pull himself out of the melt-hole, the ice had already re-frozen, leaving him to flail madly as his stuck legs began to go numb.

“No one raises a weapon against me! This is on your hands, swordsman!” The hunter cupped Lara's head in his hands, touching her face in a mockery of a loving caress, then twisted her neck with a snapping sound and dropped her lifeless body to the ground. “Consider that your punishment for being a fool.”

The hunter walked over to Noal, who was still struggling with the solid ice trapping his legs, aiming a long-barreled rifle at his head, then hesitated suddenly. “Wait a minute – that uniform; you're not the tech-union drone I was expecting. You're from the Codex, and not the one I'm after. Nonetheless, you've annoyed me sufficiently that I'll ignore that fact, this time.” The white-gloved finger touched the trigger, then stopped, as the hunter's head cocked back, listening.

“Must be your lucky day, swordsman, my real prey just arrived, and no price on your head.” With surreal grace, the hunter holstered his weapon and ran over to a two-wheeled cycle, taking off into the ice-field. Five aberrant bears converged from somewhere unseen and loped after him.

“Lara...” whispered Noal, as he collapsed onto the ice, sure of his own impending end. “I'm sorry... oh god, I'm so sorry.”

The deadly cold froze Noal's tears to his face, as he waited for the sweet embrace of death.

00: Blips

2006-12-04T16:02:00.000-08:00

April 4, 2049 AD, 17:50 Eastern Standard time

Junior Radar Specialist Sam Grierson had a problem. A big problem, from such a tiny source. A blip had appeared on his radar screen; another nail in the already nearly sealed coffin of his career. It was just about the worst thing that could have happened to him at that very moment, so one can forgive him for not knowing quite what to do about it.

He had been chewed out four times in as many months because of similar blips, and the actions he had taken because of them. The first time had been an honest mistake, when he had woken up every ranking air-force officer on the eastern seaboard in response to the threatening shadow of an incoming piece of space debris entering the atmosphere. According to his calculations the object had just about the right shape and size for an enemy missile – the New Korean Union finally gone over the edge – again! At least that is what he had convinced himself when he picked up the phone to dial the personal assistant of the President of the United States of North America. Fortunately for the USNA (though UN-fortunately for Specialist Grierson), it had turned out not to be a missile at all, but a five-hundred thousand dollar lawn-chair discarded by an astronaut on the International Strategic Space Station sometime in 2015. Specialist Grierson was always forgetting to double-check his calculations.

Of course, that was not the last time Sam Grierson had been burned by an American astronaut. The next blip was much larger than the first, and clearly made out of high-grade alloys – the kind one might find in a Japanese space assault bomber on the final leg of an attack against North American soil. This time, Sam had actually managed to call the bedside phone of the President, himself, who was not at all happy to find out later than the image on the radar had actually been that of a 1982 Volkswagen Rabbit jettisoned as a prank by a satellite maintenance crew in the late ‘30’s. A formal enquiry had been called to investigate how a trained radar specialist could make such a massive error, and a formal reprimand was entered into his record.

And then there had been blip number three, which had resulted in what was, in Sam’s estimation, the biggest debacle of his entire life up to that point. He was positive this time, that he had identified a meteor the size of Vancouver Island on a collision course with central Montanna. If left unchecked it would hit in no more than two weeks and likely disrupt the planet’s solar orbit enough to completely destroy all life. On Grierson’s advice, the USNA launched a battery of high-yield nuclear fusion missiles to destroy the object, and destroy it they did. Except that the meter turned to actually be a time capsule launched into space in 1982, and several decades worth of valuable history went up like a hundred Hiroshimas. Grierson had been bust down to the Junior Specialist after that, and told, in no uncertain terms, that any more screw-ups would mean the end of any hope he might have of salvaging his already precariously tottering career.

Sam was hopeless when it came to high-pressure situations; why he had ever been assigned to safeguarding national defense as a radar specialist detecting objects incoming from space was as big a mystery to him as to anyone. He had signed on to the air-force's special information services sector hoping for a cushy desk job of little to no significance, not this!

But none of that would change the fact that there was a blip glowing on his radar screen that wasn't going away. And a mere ten minutes before the end of his duty shift, at that. His calculations said that this was no lawn chair or twentieth-century automobile; in fact, according to his calculations – which had been checked and re-checked a dozen times – it was not of Earthly origin. Thermal scans indicated intelligent construction out of a number of completely alien elemental alloys, and an energy signature unlike anything humans had ever produced.

All the more reason not to say anything, thought Sam. And sure enough, if he had announced the arrival of some extra-terrestrial intelligence and got the entire world into a panic about it, the repercussions when it turned out to be discarded screw-driver or space-toilet would be severe, to say the least. No, he was going to be smart about things, this time, and keep an eye on the thing for awhile before he went to his superiors. Doing a quick mental calculation, Sam confirmed the object would not enter the atmosphere for at least fifteen hours; that was more than enough time to get some sleep after his shift and be back at his station in case it was still there in the morning. Thing might be a little more clear after some sleep, as well, and he would have more than enough time to issue a warning and alert the necessary people.

There was only one problem with his little plan: his shift was ending in less than ten minutes, and whoever took over for him would certainly see the object, as well as the logs of Sam's observation of it and subsequent failure to report such. If the object turned out to be a threat, that would look very bad for the recently demoted junior specialist. With decisive intensity, he called up the radar protocols and used higher-level access codes he had bought to hide the object's signature and erase all records of the sighting.

Confident that no one would ever be the wiser, he watched the object until the end of his shift, then wandered off to bed once Senior Specialist McGuffin relieved him, setting his alarm to wake him in plenty of time to intercept the object before his calculations had determined it would pose any threat to Earth.

As usual, Junior Specialist Grierson's calculations needed rechecking, and also as usual, he slept through his alarm.