 
Love, Death, Robots, and Zombies

By Tom O'Donnell

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, vivid hallucinations, or delusions suffered by the reader; the reader is free to choose whatever answer doesn't result in a lawsuit.

Conan is the creation of Robert E. Howard and is mentioned only on account of REH's influence on the fictional character, with no rights implied by the author.

All rights reserved.

Copyright 2015 by _Tom O'Donnell_

This book may not be reproduced in whole or part without the permission of the author, unless remade with Legos by someone in a superhero cape–because, why not? Pictures of yourself in an apocalyptic costume holding the book (on an e-reader or in physical form) should be emailed to: tomodonnell1357@yahoo.com with the understanding that they might also be posted to:

http://www.thescifiguy.com.

Also, sign up for my newsletter. You can win cool stuff.

Coming Soon: The Last Plutarch

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Epilogue

Author's Note

# Chapter 1.

If I could zoom out–see the paths converging, watch Fate's clock ticking down toward disaster–I'd know everything was about to go to hell. But such luxuries come only in hindsight, and the morning begins like any other. Better than most, in fact: I wake to the squeal of a dying rat. My home is filled with rats–if I'm lucky–and judging by the squeal, one just volunteered for breakfast. My stomach responds with an eager rumble. The bars of light spilling between the boards on my window paint wide yellow stripes across the crumbling plaster on the far wall. Lectric is still huddled asleep in his makeshift bed, meaning dawn can't be far gone. He tends to rise soon after the sun, eager to absorb the day's first rays.

Rising, I grab my flashlight and crossbow, climb the ladder down to the hallway that leads to the back room, find the place where the floor caved in, and navigate the familiar debris into the narrow sewers below. I don't click the flashlight until my boots touch the floor. Then I stab the beam into the gloom and stare wide-eyed down the corridor.

I've never seen anything but rats in this sewer, yet I have a lingering fear something will come charging out of the darkness; some freakish monstrosity long forgotten by the world. Or a ghost, perhaps. I don't believe in ghosts, but I watch for them anyway. The darkness makes all things possible–and if ghosts do exist, there'd be no shortage here. This city numbered in the millions before the Fall.

But the sewers, as always, are empty, and my trap sits at the intersection ahead with a rat the size of a small dog dead in its entrance. The sound of my own laughter shocks me. The rats have been getting smaller lately, but this one's a beast. I should've known from the squeal. Once the gate snaps shut, the capacitor has a three second discharge, yet the rats are strangely silent during their electrocution. This one must've squealed from the gate snapping shut on its tail, and that only happens when one is too big to fit entirely inside.

I made my first rat trap in my grandfather's store when I was seven. Our neighbor used to make red crayons from wax and ochre, and I used one to sign the underside like a work of art, name in jagged scarlet capitals: TRISTAN. I got the voltage wrong and the rat was barely dazed, but I was proud of that first effort. By now I could make them in my sleep. I almost never need the crossbow. Still, it doesn't hurt to be prepared. There are always the monsters, after all. Always the dark.

Lugging my breakfast by the tail, I head back up to the Library. A shard of broken glass throws back my reflection, and the joy on the face within seems downright absurd. Only madmen wear such faces. Then again, the whole world's gone mad; maybe I'm starting to fit in. Anyway, it's a day for rejoicing. The rat-dog's got enough meat on him for any three of his friends. A good omen. Maybe Toyota _will_ come today.

I'll have to reset the trap later–open the gate, set some bait, reset the pressure plate, and crank-charge the capacitor. There's no hurry. I'm still smiling when I toss the cleaned carcass on the grill out back. The grill was made from that old-world steel, black as soot, the kind that that doesn't rust even after a century of exposure. I scored it from some rubble near New Sea. I've had to range further into the ruins for wood lately, but it's worth the effort. Raw rat isn't much fun to chew.

I click my electric sparker; soon the meat is sizzling. Every time, the smell makes me nervous. The biggest predator in ten miles is probably a coyote just shy of scrawny, but if any passing travelers are ranging in from the desert, the smell will draw them too, and I don't like strangers.

"Strangers!" I say, and someone laughs. The joke is that there are _only_ strangers. Even Toyota doesn't know where I live. I've only met with him along Big Road, two miles east of the Library. His seasonal passage amounts to a kind of holiday. There aren't many traders that come through these parts, and none I like better than Toyota...

Lectric whines at the top of the ladder. He can drop the twelve feet without damaging his hull, but he always sits there whining instead. Stupid dog. He nuzzles my cheek with his metametal nose as I carry him down, then scampers out back and spreads himself flat to soak up the sun. It's a hilarious sight. He closes his glassy black eyes, puts his chin to the ground, and looks about as relaxed as any robot can. He's scared of rats–and pretty much any organic animal, since one tried to bite his synthetic hide a while back–but he's gotten used to the smell. I helped put Lectric's body together myself in the back of my grandfather's store when I was twelve. That was three years ago, the same year they burned the village. I try not to think about that.

"Gonna be a good salad today, Lex," I say. He ignores me completely. While the meat cooks, I go to my sunken garden. It's hidden in the ruined half of the Library–which used to be a grand place, by the look of things. Sometimes I wonder what was lost in the rubble. You wouldn't believe how much work it was to clear the place out, churn up the ground, and get it to actually grow things–not to mention keeping out the rats.

Going all out, I throw some tomatoes in with the lettuce and carrots. It takes two to three months to grow good-sized vegetables from seed, and the garden isn't big enough for me to utilize every day, but something's different about today. I can feel it.

After a nice rat salad, I wrap the leftover meat, grab my pack, and head east toward Big Road. No point wasting time. I reach the Headless King in under an hour. Lectric trots at my heels, but there's nobody else in sight. The statue on its bronze horse sits askew amid the rubble of a fallen building, pointing vaguely skyward. The loss of his head has done nothing to daunt the unknown hero's spirits. He looks ready to march into the sky. This is the sixth day in a row I've been here. I can't be sure about Toyota's timing–or if he's even still alive for that matter, but unless his trip has gone horribly wrong, he should arrive one day soon.

To pass the time, I hunt the ruins. Almost everything is rubble. Still, you turn over the right stone and there's no telling what you'll find. Lectric is equipped with a built-in metal detector. When he feels something's worth digging for, he yaps excitedly. His instincts are good. He _does_ have instincts, despite what you may have heard. Lectric's not made of meat, but he's as alive as any other dog and no less loyal. Today he doesn't yap for squat, but that's not surprising. This area is pretty well-picked from previous trips.

We range another mile east until New Sea is visible from atop a rubble-strewn hill. The bones of a fallen skyscraper cut a rusty gray-brown jetty two hundred feet into the water. Other broken monoliths of the dead city rise here and there, like idols of a fallen god. I can't say why, but it's a peaceful spot. Much of the dead city looks like one enormous junkyard, but watching those rusting giants sink glacially into the lapping ocean reminds me that one little life isn't so important in the grand scheme of things–which is a comforting thought. It makes the losses easier to accept.

Looking at the water, Lectric whines.

"Coolant?" I ask.

He nods, a very human motion, and wags his stubby tail. Lectric can't sweat or salivate. He soaks up the sun for power, but if the heat gets to be too much, he has to pee coolant out of a tube between his legs. Which he already did. Now he needs a refill. He trots down to the shore, stands on a broken road beneath a sign reading "Mississippi River Recreation Area," and bends his head to the water. It's saltwater, and I'll have to flush his system to clean it, but it'll do for now.

Back at the Headless King, Toyota still hasn't shown himself. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe today isn't the day. I lay with Lectric in the bed of an abandoned truck and waste another hour reading Volume Four. It's falling apart and impossible to replace, so I turn the pages gently. My eight Conan graphic novels are definitely my favorite find from the Library. I can't tell you how many times I've read them. I'm missing volumes seven, nine, eleven and twelve, but what can you do? I like a lot of the novels I've found about the World Before–books about daily struggles in a world where kids go to school and cars are more than rotting, abandoned husks–but Conan has been my friend through very dark days. His adventures in Hyboria have sustained me in a way no food could.

Lectric jumps up and stares intently up the road. He has good hearing–better than me. Soon there's movement toward the horizon. I fumble for my spyglass. It's an old one from my grandfather's store. Through the spyglass I spot something, but for a second I'm unsure: _is_ that Toyota? Two white oxen are trudging along Big Road, kicking up dust from the old stones beneath the broken asphalt. The oxen are pulling a large wooden wagon. A black-haired man is driving. Round black goggles are strapped to his head. He wears a dusty tan poncho over a rugged gray shirt and jeans. To his right walks an armored robot, eight feet tall and gleaming black. Attached to the robot's right forearm is a wicked curving blade. In its left hand is a machine gun.

It's definitely Toyota– the same robotic guard was with him on the way north. It's the oxen that have thrown me. Putting away the spyglass, I stand and wave as he approaches, trying to make my intentions clear. I don't want his 'bot to mistake me for a threat. Lifting his goggles, Toyota stands in the wagon and gives a big wave, then almost pitches forward as his wagon hits a bump. I can't control the smile on my face when he finally rumbles to a halt. Maybe I shouldn't be this happy to see someone I've only met a few times, but he'll be the first person I've talked to in, I don't know, six months? Come to think of it, the last person I talked to before Toyota– _was_ Toyota.

Also, browsing his wares makes me feel like a king. I've had dreams about things showing up on Toyota's wagon. In one dream, my grandfather and my old friends were hiding under the wagon's tarp, and they climbed out because it turned out they weren't burned and murdered corpses decaying beneath the ash of our village–oh no, they were fine–and they came to live with me in the Library. Dreams like that making waking hard.

Toyota hops down from his wagon and clasps my forearm, laughing. He calls me something like, " _Yow Show Tchi!_ " though that's not quite right. It means "Little Luck" in some god-forsaken language from a city-state far to the southwest. Toyota means it as a compliment. His own name has auspicious origins, being some kind of travel symbol from the World Before.

I first met Toyota a few months after settling in the Library. I was thirteen and he was heading north with little more than the pack on his back. He got lucky, came back riding a horse. Next trip, the horse was pulling a wagon. The way north is dangerous, full of roamers, radiated wastes, and god-knows what else, so when you get a bit of luck, you don't take any chances by letting it go unappreciated. Hence, the nickname.

And apparently, his lucky streak continues.

"Toyota, look at these beasts! You trade in your horse? A bigger wagon too? Crom, what'd you find up there? A mountain of gold?"

"Toyota has his tricks, eh _Yow Show Tchi_? What in north not in south. What in south not in north. Nobody cross z-line. Nasty business. Drive up _price_. Oh, but be careful who you bargain with, that real trick, eh? But wait, wait, you see what I find!"

I've heard the z-line is no joke, though I've never been that far north myself. I don't range more than a day or two into the desert, always staying close enough to return to a sure source of water.

When Toyota jumps down and pulls back the dusty tarp covering his goods, I forget everything else. It's like a widow into heaven. Everything he brought north has been replaced by foreign treasures. Immediately I spot a dozen electrical components I could use; resistors, a small motor, batteries, servos for smaller robots (Lectric's won't last forever). But all that is nothing compared to what Toyota pulls out of a locked chest...

A brand-new, dormant-state Tritium-Three Neural Embryo.

I breathe a curse. Toyota laughs. It's a rarity, that's for sure. The most advanced small-scale robotic brain in existence. Wire a Tritium-Three to any sufficiently advanced body and you've basically just given life to a baby robot. Give it an eight-armed body and it will learn to use eight arms–but that takes more neural space, lowering its end-state intelligence. Give it something more manageable and it will develop a complex personality with enough intelligence to rival or even surpass most humans.

Lectric uses a Spark 2100 Neural Embryo, yielding limited awareness. He can understand a few commands but not complex language. Nothing compared to a Tritium-Three, but still qualitatively superior to non-sentient robots... like Toyota's bodyguard, which is highly lethal, capable of recognizing friend from foe, yet totally controlled by pre-programmed software. Lectric might be scared of rats, but at least he makes his own choices. To prove it, he peed on me one morning while I slept. I mean, it was only warm water, sure, but there was just no reason to do that.

Developing a robot through the brain-embryo method is the only known way to achieve sentience. You can't just turn one on and load it up with data. They have to wire themselves through experience, as an organic brain does. That's the real secret to the life inside them.

Of course, there's no way in hell I can afford a Tritium-Three. Well, maybe if I trade everything I have, because I do have some valuables. But an advanced robotic brain needs an advanced robotic body, with pain receptors and tactile support, and even if I had one available, what then? I'd have an advanced robot with the mind of an infant, in need of constant monitoring. What would I say when it grew smart enough to ask why I'd created it? I was lonely? I built you for fun? Answers like that can get people killed.

So no, I will not be trading for it. Still, it's hard to pull my eyes away.

"Amazing, Toyota. Amazing. But I can't afford it. I'll take these resistors, these two circuit boards... I like these servos but this one's beat-up. Have you tested it?"

" _Yow Show Tchi_ , you wound my heart. Toyota test everything! He no cheat you."

"Not saying you would, but _look_ at it..."

We haggle. I tell him why everything is junk. He tells me why everything is gold. I put some things in my pile and throw some things back. I'm good on food, but I do pick up seeds for new vegetables–a valuable find.

Then it's my turn for show-and-tell. I open my pack and pull out wonders. Gold coins from the rubble of a fallen house. Fresh tomatoes from my garden. An extra canteen. Detailed toy soldiers from the World Before. An antique watch. A hand-cranked generator, rat traps, and electric fire-starters (all made by yours truly).

Then it's a question of what should be given for what. I put together bundled proposals. We end up with a deal neither of us are quite happy with, but one we can both accept. To seal the deal, Toyota offers to cook up a desert fox killed by his bodyguard. He breaks out a small grill. When the meat is done, he offers me a leg, and we sit on the edge of his wagon. Toyota shows me some honey-wine made by monks in an enclave east of New Sea.

"This all they make! Very good wine. Trade to everyone who come. Oh, my wife gonna be happy to see this."

He talks about bringing the oldest of his three children on his next trip north, but its god-awful dangerous, and his wife doesn't want the boy to go. When the meal is done and the goods exchanged, I'm struck by a fluttering anxiety. I've always been a loner, even back in the village. I don't need anyone. Ever. For anything. Still, sometimes it's nice to talk to someone who isn't a robotic dog. Yet I can't think of any reason Toyota should stay–I have nothing left to trade.

He climbs into his wagon and signals his robotic bodyguard, which begins moving up the road. In moments, I'll be alone again. I want to say something. There's nothing to say. Toyota pulls his black goggles down over his eyes and stands smiling for a moment with his fists on his hips.

" _Yow Show Tchi_ , I tell you last time: if luck keep up, I find something just for you. Toyota keep his promise."

And he tosses me something straight out of a dream. I catch it by instinct. Impossible. I cannot believe what I'm looking at: Conan's grim face above a bloodied sword and piled corpses.

_Volume Seven_.

Is this a trick? A delusion?

Words fail me. I would've traded everything in my pack just for this, and Toyota knows it. I've buried something of myself in these graphic novels. Finding a new one is like having a piece of my soul returned to me. Toyota sits down laughing and urges the two white oxen forward. As the wagon rumbles away, I'm frozen. I need to speak. What does he want for this? I can't give him Lectric. The wagon continues forward.

"Toyota!"

He looks back, craning his head to one side.

"Find something good. I see you next time!" he shouts.

Suddenly it's hard to breathe. There's a pressure behind my eyes. Find something? What could possibly pay for this? Yet it was almost an afterthought. He's _giving_ it me, this treasure, this irreplaceable rarity. When was the last time anyone _gave_ anything to me? Crispin, perhaps, before the soldiers came. Or my grandfather? No. It was Annabel. Annabel Lee. I drown the memory. I stuff it under layers of mental strata. Best not to look there.

_Volume Seven_.

The walk home is something wonderful. The ruins hold an intricate beauty, bathed in the red glow of the sinking sun. Every shadow is artfully arranged. A smile sticks to my face. I stop twice to make sure I didn't lose my prize. I think about the ritual I'll go through while reading it. I'll hand-crank enough power for a dim bulb. But the book must be read slowly. Very slowly–one page a night, perhaps–so it will last. It may be the last new volume I'll ever find. How many more even still exist? Or maybe up north there's a whole factory full. Maybe there were others Toyota didn't bother grabbing. Who knows?

The Library's sturdy white façade rises ahead, the best shelter for miles, despite the fact that it's only half-standing. Trotting ahead, Lectric stops short, his head coming up.

"What is it, boy?"

Belatedly, I realize he's growling. Something's wrong. Panic floods my senses. I've let my guard down. What was I thinking? Blind fool! I've been in a Conan-induced delirium. Are there raiders near? A roamer? Not this far south. What then?

The light.

A light flicks on the wall through one of the Library's broken windows. Oh God, is it burning? Not again! No. It's a controlled fire. And is that laughter? Dear Crom, someone's inside. Calm down, Tristan. Calm down. They haven't seen me yet. Probably just some traders or travelers passing through. Or bandits.

But they'll find my grill, my traps, my barrels of water. They'll know someone lives there. Will they burn my supplies? At least I brought my crossbow. It's a good thing Lectric was paying attention or I might've strolled right inside. Hey Guys. Nice to meet you. Oh, my life? Sure, take it!

The safest thing, I decide, is to hide under some rubble within sight of the Library. There's plenty of big pieces to offer concealment, and from there I can keep an eye on things. Hopefully they'll move on in the morning. If not, things could get complicated. But perhaps first I should creep a little closer and try to get a look at them, see how many there are. How well-armed. I could–

"Drop the crossbow or you'll be breathing through the back of your head."

The voice is soft, unlike the barrel pressed to my skull.

# Chapter 2.

My first thought is a non-verbal oh-shit-I'm-dead kind of thing. I have a terrible fear of guns when they're aimed in my direction. When you depend entirely on yourself, having someone else determine your fate with a single twitch of their finger brings a soul-crushing terror. I should be angry, but I'm too scared for anger. Or maybe I'm just a coward. As if to confirm it, an uncontrollable tremble sets into my limbs.

Even so, another part of me is as calm as unstirred ashes. That part knows I'd be dead already if that was the intention. I drop the crossbow. Lectric is growling in a demonic voice I didn't even know his speakers could make.

"Tell the 'bot to stay," the voice says.

"Lectric, stay. Stay, boy. Stay."

Lectric stays. When I built him, I didn't give him any special defenses, though he does have metal claws, if things get desperate. My assailant picks up the crossbow.

"Who are you?" he asks.

"I live here. Who are _you_?"

"What's your name?"

"Tristan. Can I turn around?"

"No. Put your hands on your head. What are you doing here?"

"I told you, I live here," I say, putting my hands on my head.

"In that building?"

"Yes."

"Who else?"

"Just Lectric."

"The bot, you mean? Nobody else?"

"Nobody else."

He's silent a moment. Is he deciding to kill me? I didn't even get to read Volume Seven.

"Send your bot ahead. We're going inside."

"Lectric–go. Home, boy. _Home_."

Lectric whines but starts trotting ahead. We walk behind him.

"Does he have a shutdown code?"

"No, he's self-aware. He's not a threat. Don't hurt him."

"Shut up."

Am I talking too much? I wish I was more like Conan. He never gets taken unawares, and if he does, he starts killing things. If it was him, he'd whirl around and cut this asshole in half. Then he'd climb through the window and pounce on anyone inside. Naturally, there'd be some half-naked women involved too. But I'm just Tristan, fifteen-year old pushover. Didn't even hear him coming. Should I try something? A thousand thoughts pass in the short time it takes to reach the Library.

Lectric enters ahead of us. There's an uproar. Then I come in and things go quiet. A guy and a girl are sitting by a small fire in the middle of the Library's largest undamaged room. They've piled bricks in a rough circle to control the blaze, apparently not content to use my fire-pit out back. Both are roughly my age. The guy might be a few years older. And is it weird that the first thing I notice in a potentially deadly situation is the tight interplay of the girl's smudged white shirt against her breasts? Human nature, I guess.

In the same breath, a dozen other things come to light. A gun in a leather holster on the boy's left hip. The girl's shoulder-length blonde hair. The insignia sewn into the boy's leather jacket: an X made from a shotgun and a scimitar, circled by flames. The girl's downcast face. The fire painting everything orange and black...

And a third teen, unnoticed at first.

He's leaning against one wall, steeped in shadow, arms crossed, one leg bent so that his heel is flat against the wall behind him. His head is shaved to stubble. His jaw is square. His gray eyes are cynical, malevolent: _it's all a joke_ , they say. He doesn't wear an insignia. He doesn't need one. A bandolier crisscrosses his chest in a parody of the X on his companion's patch, and he's wearing an _actual_ shotgun and scimitar across his back. The handles protrude above his shoulders.

_Kill him_.

This is my first thought. Strange, isn't it? Sometimes our instincts are spot-on. The guy by the fire goes calm, steady, prepared for anything. But the one against the wall has a strange gleam of anticipation in his eyes. He _wants_ chaos to ensue. When the girl looks up, her blue eyes widen. Parched red lips part in surprise.

"What's this, Fin?" the guy by the fire asks, measuring my worth. He's the leader then.

"Our missing tenant. Found him creeping up with his dog. Had this on him," Fin says, putting my crossbow on the ground and shoving it with his foot. The leader examines the crossbow and stands up. He asks the same questions Fin did. Then he says:

"What's in the pack?"

Fin starts rummaging. I'm worried he's going to take Toyota's gift, but he's only checking for weapons. He pulls out my bolts and tosses them toward the crossbow. He examines the spyglass but stuffs it back inside.

"Mostly 'tronics," he concludes.

"More 'tronics, huh? Where'd you get all this equipment?" the leader asks, jabbing his thumb at the Library's main desk, which serves as my workstation. Scattered across it are half-built traps, experimental circuits, and unused electrical components.

"I scavenge for parts in the ruins."

"How about upstairs? You've got traps, generators, all kinds of crap."

"I built them. I'm good with electronics."

He grunts, bemused. He doesn't know what to make of me. You don't find many lucid strangers living alone on the edge of the wasteland. I myself once encountered a hermit with a shock of white hair in a crumbling house to the north. When I waved at him, he screamed and ran.

"Good with electronics, huh? Okay. I'm Ballard. That's Finnigan behind you. This is Echo, and that's Cabal," the leader, says. The girl, Echo, just stares at me. She has a three-inch scar running along her left cheek.

"Now we're acquainted. Would you like to take a seat?" Ballard asks.

As if I had many options. I sit by the fire. Finnigan comes into view. He's maybe seventeen–dark hair, dark eyes, bronze tan. He's holding a long-barreled pistol, possibly a particle-packet weapon. A hunting rifle is slung across his back. He's no longer pointing a weapon, but the apparent civility does nothing to reassure me. If anything, it makes me _more_ nervous. Honest threats I can understand. Smiles and secret intentions amplify my paranoia.

"So. How is it you live out here alone, Tristan?" Ballard asks.

He has to repeat the question. I'm distracted by Cabal, the one by the wall. His half-smile and glittering gray eyes unnerve me. He knows it too. He drifts slowly along the wall until he's somewhere behind me, and not seeing him is even worse than seeing him.

"I, uh... I've been here three years," I say, trying to see through the back of my head.

"Not really what I asked. Are you from Cove?"

"Cove? No. No, I hate Cove."

Ballard's eyebrows shoot up.

"That so?" he asks.

I nod. Why is he asking me so much? Black body armor is visible beneath his leather jacket. Fin sits down and warms his hands by the fire. The night is turning cold.

"What do you have against Cove? 'The last great hope of freedom and equality in the new world.' Isn't that what they say? They want to reinvent America."

"They burned my village," I say.

Ballard chortles.

"I guess they're staying true to their intentions then," he says.

All three of the guys laugh, like he's made a clever joke–but not Echo. Her wide blue eyes stare at me through the orange glare of the fire. Ballard looks at her, makes a face.

"Wait. Do you know him, Echo?" he asks.

Slowly, she shakes her head, continuing to stare. Ballard shrugs.

"Must have been one of those towns further south, huh? Well, Tristan, Cove's made more enemies than just you and Echo here. The real question is: how do you feel about Foundry?"

"Foundry?"

Did Cove burn Echo's town too then? Stupidly, I'd never wondered if they'd burned more than one. Some tragedies are so personal it feels like you're the only one they could ever happen to. The fact that such terrible things might happen everywhere, all the time, is too cruel and senseless to comprehend.

"Yeah. You've heard of Foundry?" Ballard asks.

"A little," I say.

I've heard they're ruled by a bloodthirsty dictator with cybernetic limbs. I've heard he hosts gladiatorial games, crushes men with his bare hands, and has working oil rigs. Toyota has been there. Other than that, not much.

"Well, you're about to join Foundry's army," Ballard says, stopping my brain from working. He laughs. I can't speak. Join the army? The words don't make sense.

"I wanted to make sure you weren't some kind of lookout for Cove. That's what my superiors will ask when they get here. And you'd better hope they believe you. Are you hearing me, Tristan? We're not raiders. Not anymore, anyway. We're scouts. There's an army headed this way."

An army. Headed this way. Nope, not making sense.

"We're going to burn Cove to the ground," Fin says grimly.

"I can't–I can't join Foundry's army. I live _here_. This is my _home_ ," I explain, because they don't seem to understand. Don't they know I can't possibly leave? Behind me, Cabal laughs. The sound is surprisingly girlish.

"Not anymore," Ballard says, though he's not without sympathy. Unbelievably, he leans in and claps me on the shoulder, like we're friends now. He's robbing me of my home and utterly changing my life, but it's cool, we're friends.

"The thing is, we need people like you. People good with 'tronics. And anyway, I can't let you go. I'd have to kill you. Do you understand? I can't leave you behind because the army would find you, and I'd suffer for letting you slip through the cracks. But I can't send you ahead either, because you could warn Cove we're coming. So you see? I'm doing you a favor, Tristan."

I just stare at him.

"It's really not so bad," Ballard goes on. "If you can make those generators, you'll make good pay. Better than most of us. And you don't have to live alone in this rat-hole. Don't worry. You'll get used to it. Drink?"

He holds a flask toward me. I stare at it blankly. Doing me a favor, he says. I'd like to put a favorable hole through his head. But Fin is watching with a hunter's eyes, and Cabal is behind me with his shotgun and scimitar.

The flask is still out. I shake my head. An hour ago all I could think about was Volume Seven...

"Do I get to keep my books?" I ask.

Ballard and Fin look at each other, bemused. Fin chuckles.

"Whatever you can carry," Ballard says.

We're up a while longer. Ballard tells some kind of story about Foundry, but I can't concentrate. I'm being drafted into a city-state's army? The whole idea is absurd. And they're headed for Cove–we could all be dead in weeks. Come to think of it, Toyota was moving south, probably straight toward Foundry's troops. I hope they don't steal his stuff. But he knows how to handle himself. Hell, he'll probably come out ahead. He'll have three white oxen next trip.

At some point, Ballard stands up.

"Tristan? Don't take this the wrong way, but I'm going to cuff you to that railing for the night. I don't want you getting any bad ideas in the night. Bad ideas get people killed."

Conan would tell him he was welcome to try, before smashing his face in. I only nod vaguely. My right wrist is cuffed to an old metal railing attached to the wall. Way to go, Tristan. Way to go.

Of course, it's impossible to sleep–which would be true even without the restraint. I slump into a sitting position, my pack forming a bulky cushion. The fire burns down to coals. Lectric curls up beside me, whining now and then. Ballard and Echo retire to one corner of the room, only about twenty feet away. Then I notice they've dragged my bed down from my room.

The indignity of this simple act appalls me. I was lucky enough to salvage a halfway decent mattress from the ruins of an old house, and these–these _people_ –are using it! This is _my_ house. That's _my_ bed. Why am I the one cuffed to the wall? In the darkness I nurse my anger, and it proves volatile.

Fin and Cabal have their own sleeping bags within sight of each other. Apparently the scouts feel safer staying in one room. Fin lays down holding his pistol across his chest, while Cabal goes outside to take watch. He'll be in the Spire, no doubt–the remains of a crumbling eight-story building a block from the Library. The Spire is too run down to provide good shelter, but it offers the best vantage point for miles around.

Ballard and Echo are in my bed now, but they're not going to sleep. Their constant shifting and soft sounds are impossible to ignore. Privacy is not much of an issue for them. I don't know why, but it makes me angrier. I couldn't even look at Echo when we sat by the fire. Why? Because she's the first girl I've seen in three years? Because I wanted her from the first peripheral glimpse? Or because she reminds me of...

No. No one. She reminds me of no one.

But memories are closer in the darkness, and soon it's all breaking open. The dead are rising from the grave of my mind. Berkley, Crispin, Annabel. My best friends. My grandfather's electronics store. The raiders. The army. The flames.

_Don't think of it_.

There's a war in my head as the past tries to break through all I've layered on top of it. Everything I've done for three years has only been to stabilize what was _de_ stabilized that night. And now I'm losing it all again. I can't let it happen. I _can't_.

I'm rocking and muttering to myself, on the verge of some kind of emotional breakdown, when I notice Cabal staring at me from the open doorway. Pale moonlight surrounds him like a halo. He makes a sound that's not quite a laugh, shaking his head at me: _pathetic_. Fin is the next to take watch.

The night passes in a dark malaise. I'm ashamed and angry at myself for becoming this helpless thing cuffed to the wall. This _victim_. My self-judgment defeat me further. It's possible I fall asleep. The next thing I'm aware of is the bluish predawn light and the girl sitting up in bed, staring at me. In that hazy state between sleep and dream, before the mind shutters itself in defense, I see her–really see her–for the first time.

She's pulled out a thin steel-link necklace previously hidden beneath her ragged white shirt, and she handles it absently while her wide blue eyes imprison me. The dead certainty of it hits me like cold water: _I know her_.

Her hair is shorter, messier. Her clothes are different. She has new scars and she's older, taller, curvier. I didn't see it in the fear and firelight last night. But those are her eyes, her lips, her mole on her right cheek. How could I have missed it? She's been dead for three years, yet here she sits, looking at me.

Annabel Lee.

# Chapter 3.

Farmington was lucky enough to escape major damage from the Big One, along with the aftershocks and the ensuing chaos of the Fall. The population itself was not so lucky, having been mostly wiped out by the Synth-Z plague.

My grandmother's grandfather had been a child at that time, and his family had run a small market in the village. As the climate changed, the crops failed. Most farmers could barely feed their own. When my grandfather wandered in from his travels with all kinds of oddities and electronics, he converted my family's ailing market into a 'tronics-heavy general store. That was the store I grew up in.

I never knew my father. He'd been born in Farmington and spent a reluctant life there. When my mother was four months pregnant, he'd found a rare treasure of Old America. He'd known he could get the best price for it in Cove, though my mother had later said that was just an excuse to make the journey. He'd had a piece of his own father in him, the wandering piece, and it's god-awful hard to stay trapped in one small village when you have the soul of a wanderer.

The problem was he never wandered back. Illness? Bandits? Wild animals? No idea. My mother was adamant that he hadn't intentionally abandoned us. They really did love each other, I guess. Or she loved him, at least.

My mother herself caught the Wheezing Sickness and passed away when I was seven. Even before that, I was mostly raised by my grandfather, Bacchus. Often I'd fall asleep on the bench in the back our family's store after experimenting with some new piece of equipment. My grandfather knew a dozen ways to make batteries. He also made generators, sparkers, electrical components, small bots, and some pretty efficient solar cells.

There were only a handful of other kids in Farmginton. My three best friends were Berkley, Crispin, and Annabel. Berkley was the most daring of us and the best at fighting. Crispin was smart but often sickly and overly cautious. Annabel Lee was–well, the girl. The only girl we played with. Named after some old poem, she was gentle, often quiet, and didn't like to play the rougher games, but she was a fast runner and an essential part of our group, and sometimes she could be as daring as Berkley.

Although I never thought much about it, she did seek me out more than the others. Even back then, I was kind of a loner. I loved my friends, but my favorite activity was ranging. I'd spend the whole day combing through abandoned houses in the desert, searching for oddities to bring back to my grandfather. On many of those trips, I returned at dusk to find Annabel waiting on the edge of town.

Her parents had forbidden her to leave Farmington, but she liked to see what I'd found, so often I'd pick something up for her. Once, I found a peculiar necklace, chain-linked steel with a black jewel in the shape of a heart, set in a silver circle. It wasn't anything valuable, but I knew it was the kind of thing girls like, and what else was I going to do with it? I gave it to her. Her face lit up like it was gold. That was one of the last trips I made before the raiders came.

The funny part is–can you call it funny?–Rodrick's Raiders were the lesser evil. Villages like ours weren't worth the trouble. Sometimes they even traded with us. Mostly they waylaid rich caravans leaving bigger city-states–like Cove.

Apparently Rodrick had made himself too much of a nuisance, however, or perhaps some Coven politician had wanted to prove a point. One day the whole band of raiders showed up in town, retreating east in a hurry. Some were injured and all were hungry and armed. What else could we do? We fed them and boarded them and treated the injured, not because we wanted to, but because to refuse point-blank would've been suicide. The goal was to give them what supplies we could afford in the hope that they'd move on quickly and not burn the farms on the way out.

The army from Cove didn't see it that way. Rodrick's Raiders had moved on by then, but a few of their injured had stayed behind and tried to hide. They failed. Worse yet, the raiders had been eating all the food ahead of the army and laying traps along the road. So into our village came a maimed, half-starved, angry group of armed men. Do I have to spell out the rest? We were aiding the enemy–what did they care for our reasons? There was too much fuel for a fire, both literally and figuratively.

I escaped the desolation. My grandfather and most of the others did not. Those that lived probably fled to Cove or starved in the wastes. I couldn't find anyone to shelter with, so I didn't stick around to find out. The one thing I can say is that I did find Lectric in the ruins of my grandfather's store. He'd been looking for me there, curiously unharmed. Together we headed northeast, and I found the rats under the Library. With meat and water and the tricks I'd learned from my grandfather, I didn't starve to death–but it was a close thing for a time, I'll say that much.

I was sure all my friends were dead. I mean, Cove's bastard of a commander had herded everyone together for questioning and speech-making before the violence began. Pretty sure I saw Crispin trampled by a horse soon thereafter. Things were moving fast, and it's all a bit hazy, but I have that undeniable image in my head. Berkley and Annabel–well, Berkley was certainly too brave to live, and when I couldn't find Annabel in the remains of the village, I knew she was dead too.

Except I was wrong.

Because the girl sitting in my bed is wearing Annabel's face–plus a scar and sad eyes and three years of hard living–and turning in her hand is the very necklace I gave her, with the black heart in the silver circle.

Echo _is_ Annabel. I make some kind of strangled coughing sound which is actually an attempt to say her name, but she sinks back into the bed, hiding her face from view. My first instinct is to yell her name, but this sleepy pre-dawn revelation is so bewildering that I can only stare–and why didn't she already talk to me?

Maybe she doesn't recognize me. I'm taller than I was. I've had to start shaving too. Yet she must know. Is it _really_ Annabel? Maybe I'm seeing things. Her face is hidden now. But that was the necklace–it has to be her.

Ballard returns from morning watch and wakes Finnigan to hunt.

"Hey Tristan, what the hell do you eat around here? Circuit boards?" Ballard asks.

"Rats," I say.

"Nice. Care to show Fin where to find some?"

I don't, but I'm hungry, so Ballard un-cuffs me, and I reset the traps in the basement. I'll never tell them about my hidden garden though. In three hours, we catch two small rats, mostly skin and bone. Then Fin heads out and comes back with a desert fox. Ballard shares some of the meat with me.

It's hard not to stare at Echo/Annabel while we eat. She avoids looking at me too. Now and then she glances my way, however, and in that glance is recognition. It _has_ to be her. Still, she says nothing. Cabal doesn't say much either. He eyes Echo/Annabel. He's loyal to Ballard, but I sense a petty cruelty beneath the veneer of civility.

Slowly, very slowly, the day passes.

Foundry's army is a few days south. The funny part is: I hate Cove, and if given a choice I might consider joining a cause against them... but I doubt Foundry is any better, and the attempt at coercion only ensures my antipathy. Really, I just want to be left alone–but what can I do? Then Ballard says something during dinner.

"... and after Rodrick's Raiders broke up, we headed south."

The words stab my brain. A small fire is going and we're finishing the fox. I swallow hard and choke out a question.

"Rodrick's Raiders?"

"Hmm? Yeah. We used to scout for them–me and Cabal. That's where we met Fin too. Cove caught up with Rodrick and hanged him, I hear. But it was easy living for a span. Something wrong, Tristan?"

My face is a terrible mask. I can't soften it.

"Hurt my tooth," I mutter, and chew the end of a bone for distraction. It takes everything not to look at Annabel. One look and it will all spill out. She's been running around with scouts from the _same group_ that started the trouble in Farmington? I grind the bone to bits between my teeth. The splinters stab into my gums. The blood tastes like warm copper. I'll think of her as Echo, not Annabel. Annabel is dead.

"Mmm, yeah, this fox was more dead than alive," Ballard says. "Hard to believe you survived in this shithole. You'll do fine in the army, man."

You think so, do you? I'm going to mount your head outside the Library. But no, I'm a coward, and I don't know how to overcome three armed enemies. Or four. Whose side would Echo take?

That night, I'm cuffed to the railing again. This part isn't particularly discourteous. It's a wasteland law: don't trust anyone who hasn't already died for you. But Rodrick's Raiders–I do take offense to that, even if it was men from Cove who burned my village.

What little sleep I manage is filled with confused nightmares. Farmington burns again, but I'm cuffed to the bench inside my family's store. Echo is there, but she's also someone else. Her shirt is torn to reveal one breast, and she lights me on fire as she tells me everything will be fine. Meanwhile, out in the desert, Foundry's army draws a little closer.

There are no rats the next day. No foxes either. My tomatoes are in the garden, but I'll be damned if my captors get a single bite, even if I have to starve with them. It's a miserable day. Ballard takes Echo and Fin into the ruins, either to hunt or scavenge, which leaves me alone with Cabal. My right wrist is still cuffed to the railing, since they saw no reason it should be otherwise. Cabal spends the time throwing a large knife at a spot on the wall. He's disturbingly accurate, even after he starts sipping from a flask. When he's tipsy, he comes over to talk.

"I know what you are," he says, smiling, pointing the knife lazily in my direction.

Lectric gives a low growl. I say nothing.

"Ballard thinks Foundry can use you," Cabal says. "But the army can't use deserters. And that's what you are. I see it in your eyes. You'll run the first chance you get."

Still I say nothing. Cabal notices Lectric growling and barks like a maniac, following this up with a bout of girlish laughter. Lectric whimpers.

"You know, I caught a deserter once," he says confidentially, then gets up and walks away, leaving me to wonder what happened. Ballard and Echo soon return. Fin is still out. Ballard has picked up some broken tech but is otherwise empty-handed.

"Dry as a bone, this city. Be leaving tomorrow, at least," he says, flopping onto the bed. He drops the piece of old tech on the floor next to his travel pack–next to the keys to my cuffs.

Echo sits demurely on the bed and stares at the floor until Ballard pulls her down. She curls up sideways, facing away from him. I can see her face at an angle. Ballard's hands roam her body. Is it just my imagination or is she enduring, rather than enjoying?

Slowly, Echo's eyes drag toward mine. She flinches away briefly but then locks on and stares at me. Her expression is masked, yet her eyes grow watery. Her left hand slowly tightens, clenching the blanket in a white-knuckled grip. Ballard's hand lifts the bottom of her shirt. A tear escapes her eye. She makes no sound.

Finnigan bursts into the Library.

"Something's coming down the road to the east. I think it's a roamer," he says.

"You're shitting me!" Cabal says, retrieving his knife from the wall.

"This far? You sure, Fin?" Ballard asks.

"Nope. Could just be some wandering lunatic. Gotta get closer to see."

Roamers are rare in these parts. So rare that I've never actually seen one. A few came close to Farmington once, but all I saw were the burnt remains. If Fin is right, I'm guessing this one trailed Toyota all the way from the z-line.

"Check it out and let us know," Ballard says.

"I'm coming too," Cabal says, unsheathing his scimitar. "Finally, a little fun."

And they're gone.

In their absence, Ballard's exploration of Echo's body becomes more pointed. I might as well be a painting on the wall. Echo resumes staring at me, however. My face feels hot. There's an electric tension in the air. Ballard buries his face in her neck. She does nothing to stop him. She does nothing to encourage him. She might as well be a living doll–except for her clenched hand and the tears in her eyes, which he's too preoccupied to notice.

I can't stand watching her, knowing she's lying next to one of Rodrick's Raiders. Knowing she knows it. How can she do this? That's _Annabel_ , for Crom's sake. That's the necklace I gave her. How did we get here?

I see them both: the girl with the shining eyes and blowing hair, the girl with the scarred cheek and cold expression. Every silent caress of her unresisting body is more appalling than the last. It's an insult to me, to her, to the ashes of our village. My face has hardened into something terrible. A demon's hatred shines from my eyes. One look at either of us would stop Ballard in his tracks, but he can't spare the attention. His lust absorbs him completely.

Slowly, deliberately, Echo turns her body more toward him. Her eyes stay on me. There's some hidden purpose in her silent gaze. Her right leg comes down over the side of the bed. Her bare foot lands on the floor beside Ballard's pack... right on top of the keys. My eyebrows go up. She caresses his hair and pulls his head against her neck.

He shifts on top of her, his face hidden from me. Encouraged, he's writhing against her now, lifting her shirt higher. Her body responds, yet her face is as barren as a statue–all except the eyes. He kisses her stomach, her navel; he's moaning softly in desire, and then in one calculated movement her right leg, foot still pressed to the keys, shoots swiftly forward, across the floor and up, wrapping around him while she clenches the back of his hair and writhes sensually against his eager mouth.

The keys skitter across the floor.

Ballard's pack tips over, jostled in the movement. He starts to raise his head, but Echo pulls him back down, whispering an apology, as if she just couldn't control herself, and now he fumbles hungrily with the belt of her worn leather pants.

I stare stupidly at the keys. There's no way that was an accident. She wants me to escape. My heart is pounding. This is what I wanted, isn't it? Yes, idiot! But suddenly I'm terrified things will go wrong. I lean forward. Crom–the keys are just out of reach. Naturally.

Lectric gets to his feet, watching curiously. I jab my finger at the keys– _get them, boy_. He tilts his head. _Get the keys_ , I mime. He looks at them. He looks at me. Stupid dog. I should've used a Tritium-Beta instead of a Spark 2100.

My pack–there's got to be something in it I can use. I reach back with my free hand, trying not to make a sound, and pull out Volume Seven. I want to laugh hysterically; Conan may save me after all. I stretch toward the keys, extending the graphic novel, and cinch them closer. Got it!

There's only two keys, and they both look the same. The cuffs click open. Ballard is still ensnared by yearning. What now? His pistol lies next to the bed in a leather holster, but it'll be a struggle to get at. I don't know if I can get it out and aim it before he grabs me, and I'm not particularly big for my age. Yet I need a weapon.

My crossbow? It's across the room with an extra supply pack. Too far. Wait. There's something closer. It calls to me from the unused parts scattered across my workstation, no more than ten feet away: the bottom of a partially completed trap. It's basically just a capacitor and a resistor wired to two steel nails, secured to a flat board. The important thing is that the capacitor is more than half-charged. Not the safest practice to leave it lying around like that, yeah, but my lack of caution is about to come in handy.

Just like catching one giant rat...

I move quickly and quietly, grab the board without touching the wires. I approach the bed from behind, holding the partial trap so the nails are facing down. My muscles are so tense I can barely breathe. Echo's pants are off. She has nothing on underneath. The curve of her bare thighs registers distantly. Behind me, Lectric lets out a whine. Ballard is undoing his own belt when he finally senses danger. He half-turns–

–as I slam the nails into the back of his neck.

His back arches. A burst of electricity lances through him. His upper body goes rigid. He jerks sideways, rolling into the wall beside the bed. The board is ripped from my hands by the movement. It bounces off the mattress and clatters to the floor, nails bloody and smoking. I scramble for the leather holster. My hands are slow, clunky. Echo rolls off the bed. I've got the pistol. I fumble for the safety–is it off? Is it?

Ballard's still conscious. He's reaching into his jacket-

Oh God, a second gun! He's pulling it free. He's going to kill me. His mouth is moving in slow motion. My finger is squeezing the trigger repeatedly. It's an old-fashioned weapon, the kind that shoots bullets, but there's barely any recoil.

Then it's over.

Blood is spattered across the wall behind him. His pants are wet. I'm watching his arm, still waiting for him to finish drawing the weapon. My hand is shaking.

" _Is he dead?_ "

I ask three times before I realize I'm shouting. Why won't Echo answer? _Did_ she answer? Yes, of course he's dead. I shot him in the face. Body armor didn't help. I slap his jacket-flap aside, planning to take the second gun, but I can't find it. Did it fall? No. It hits me: there is no second gun.

Is that possible? He was drawing it. But there's nothing. What the hell was he reaching for then? His arm moved. This is his fault. He shouldn't even _be_ here.

Echo's hands are on my face. Trying to soothe me? I look at her. Shouldn't she be upset? Wasn't that her boyfriend? Absurdly, she's still naked from the waist down. Lectric is barking madly, scurrying around us.

"Tristan," she whispers. "Tristan."

She tries to open my hand to take the gun but I won't let it go, partly because I've just killed someone, but partly because I don't trust it in anyone else's hands. Her blue eyes fill the world. There are tears on her cheeks, but her face is serious, controlled, when she says:

"We have to kill the others too. It's the only way."

# Chapter 4.

Her words don't register. Kill the others?

Oh, right. Fin and Cabal. They'll be back, and they aren't going to take this lightly. _Take this lightly?_ A compartment of my brain wants to laugh hysterically. Yeah, they'll shrug it off. It'll be fine. No big deal. Echo is right, of course. My own thoughts haven't taken one step beyond the shooting. I try to kick-start my brain.

"You're right. They'll hear the shots. They'll come run–"

"It wasn't loud enough," Echo interrupts, pulling on her pants and lacing up her boots.

Again, she's right. The gun has a suppressor. Fin's did too. After all, if Foundry's scouts have to kill someone, they may want to do it without alerting half the countryside. Still, the others will be back as soon as they've dealt with the roamer.

"How are you here? I thought you were dead," I say.

"Me? I thought _you_ –no. There's no time for this. We'll talk later."

"Fine. Right. We need to leave," I say. The Library is my home, but I can't think about that now. Echo shakes her head sadly.

"We can't. Not yet. Cabal and Fin will be back soon. If we leave, they'll come after us. They'll hunt us down. And the fact is they're better than us. They'll kill us. Tristan. We can't leave them alive."

Her lip trembles, her voice threatens to break, but her eyes are deadly serious.

_Aren't they your friends?_ I want to ask, but now isn't the time. I nod.

Echo looks at Ballard's body. She closes her eyes and blocks something out, some memory perhaps, or a whole string of them. She takes a deep breath.

"I need you to move his body. We don't want them to see it through the window," she says. Ballard's body possesses hidden weight. I drag him heavily off the bed, across the room and through a doorway, leaving him out of sight. Volume Seven is still on the floor. I stuff it into my pack and strap the pack back on. I can't stop shaking.

Echo is crouched by the window with my crossbow, peering out. The sight gives me pause. I've been living alone in a lawless wasteland for three years. It's not easy for me to trust someone with a weapon, even if that someone is Annabel Lee, the girl who waits in the desert. She's found the bolts with the supply pack and is figuring out how to load them.

"We'd better trade. I've never used one of these," she says.

We trade. My crossbow's familiar grip gives me comfort. Echo presses a button on the side of the gun.

"This is a machine-pistol, you know. Fully automatic. You had it in semi."

"Oh."

I don't know much about guns. Echo has apparently learned some things in her travels. I'm still not thinking clearly. The past few minutes are stuck in a loop in my head, subjected to ceaseless analysis for internal absorption. The brain is reprogramming itself, trying to make things right with the world.

Echo says we should ambush them as they walk through the door. They won't be expecting it. She keeps watch through a corner of the window while I kneel ten feet from the door. Now and then there's a sound outside. Lectric shifts nervously. I forgot he was even here. I keep telling myself not to pull the trigger until I see them. And don't miss. Aim, shoot, don't miss. Forget about Ballard's face, the way his left eye came out of the socket as the bullet passed through.

"I see them. They're coming. They're together," Echo whispers. A long minute passes. She backs slowly away from the window, settling on my right. From this position I still have enough room to shoot, and Echo is virtually guaranteed to hit. The odds are stacked in our favor, yet we're nervous as hell. What if they sense something's wrong? I can't hold my hands steady.

Why is this happening?

Stop thinking. Aim, shoot. Don't run. Kill. Conan would do it without a second thought. I just wish I was elsewhere. Lectric hides beneath the desk. It was like something from a comic book, Ballard's eye popping out.

Cabal's girlish laughter pierces the air. Something flutters in the cauldron of my guts. Echo gives me a terrified glance. Fin and Cabal are talking as they approach. Some joke has been made–their last. The door opens and Fin is a few steps ahead, a smile departing, a trace of humor fading from his face. He has a split second to register surprise as my bolt penetrates his chest. A burst of gunfire peppers the doorway. Little puffs of smoke and debris pop from the wall. A red flower blooms in Fin's neck even as he's knocked off his feet by the sheer force of the bolt. Cabal is already diving out of sight behind him.

Echo runs forward, shooting. I load another bolt. She takes a step outside, firing, but gasps and reverses directions in a hurry. A shotgun blast eats a chunk out of the doorway, almost taking her head off. Splinters lodge in her hair. She screams a curse, blue eyes shut tight.

I flatten myself against the wall to the left of the door, glimpsing Cabal behind a boulder outside. Fin is convulsing on the ground, holding his neck, one boot-heel rhythmically scraping the doorway. Echo slinks to the window on her right, near the bed. Outside, Cabal is moving, scrambling. Echo's machine-pistol sends a quick burst through the window.

"Got him!" she exults, but when I leave the wall she waves me back. "Stay inside. I don't know if it went through."

If what went through?

Oh yeah–Cabal is wearing some kind of armored jacket. Echo peers out and flinches back. The shotgun bites the window-frame. Fin's twitches slow like the hands of a dying clock. He's like a fish flopping on dry land. His air runs out.

Cabal screams, says he's going to kill us. The possibility is hard to ignore. What if he's right? Am I ready to die? No. But I have to be, just in case. It seems important.

"Where is he?" I ask.

"Behind that wall," Echo says. She's biting her lip, thinking, worrying–how can we get him? He has better cover now, a crumbling three-foot wall fifteen feet from the building. I peer out through the door. He pops up for a look but I don't have a shot. Maybe Echo can keep him pinned while I go out back and circle around.

"Echo..."

A metal cylinder bounces through the door, red light blinking. Gluefire.

I'm running at Echo. A shotgun blast comes through the open door in my wake. I tackle Echo low, and we roll beneath the window as a second shot passes overhead. We hit the side of the mattress. I reach over and flip it on top of us, angled to shield us from the cylinder. The gluefire detonates, washing the room in a sticky mass of burning tar. Everything is instantly on fire. It's Cabal's best chance to finish us.

I push the burning mattress up and shove it against the open window, grab Echo's wrist and pull her toward the back hallway, avoiding the molten tar. A shotgun blast hits the mattress. Cabal's probably a foot outside the building now, taking advantage of the distraction, knowing he's got the advantage. As soon as that mattress tips, he'll have us. As it does, Echo sends a scattered burst at the window. It gives him pause–there's no shotgun poking in, but another gluefire grenade bounces into the room just as we reach the hallway.

Something's missing.

" _Lectric!_ " I shout, horrified–is he dead? But he comes scrambling after us, somehow unharmed. Cowering beneath the desk was apparently the right move for him.

"Good boy."

We pass the ladder leading up to my room and head down the hall to the place where the floor collapsed. The second grenade goes off behind us. Cabal's probably running to cover the rear exit. Yet there's something he doesn't know.

I pause at the edge of the sewer.

"Reach into my pack. Get the flashlight."

She finds it. We descend. The beam bobs as we jog through the wet, cramped, rat-infested sewers, heavy breath echoing in the darkness. Monsters, here we come. The air is thick with moisture and rancid odors. I pull Echo left at the first intersection, leading her through a maze of tunnels. Half a mile maybe, mostly west. Then we hit a dead-end with a ladder leading up to a half-covered hole.

I've been here before. In my paranoia and boredom of days past, I've explored these sewers for miles around, noting possible escape routes should I meet with another Complete Disaster. Which is what this is.

Three years in the Library–gone. But now isn't the time for self-pity. I need to avoid thinking and feeling and remembering. I climb up, carrying Lectric under one arm. Echo follows. We're in the middle of a broken street, hemmed in by collapsed buildings. Cabal is nowhere in sight.

Echo curses. Her eyes are wild. She starts rambling about how we should have finished him and he's going to come after us, and he may get help from Foundry because we killed two of their people. Cabal terrifies her. I think that was true even before today.

"Annabel!" I exclaim, seizing her arms.

The name jolts her. She flinches as if she's been hit.

"Annabel Lee," I say more quietly. She looks up at me as though I've said something terrible, and maybe I have. The name is a light piercing the darkness where she hides the things that hurt her. It's a boulder that starts an avalanche. Tears come, and they don't stop. She stands there shaking, crying, neither moving away nor drawing closer. Lectric stands on two legs, whining.

"Oh God," she whispers, and cries more, her muscles rigid with feelings I don't fully understand. I don't know whether to hug her or let her go. I mean, I've just lost my home, but the change seems bigger for her. She did just help kill what appeared to be her boyfriend. I'm not sure if she did it for me or herself or both, and I can't say _why_ she did it at all. I have no idea what's happened to her in the past three years, let alone the past hour. Whatever it was, it's over now, and a new path has been chosen. Some changes take a lot of tears.

Slowly, her head tilts forward until it touches my chest. I'm afraid to move. She sobs in relative silence until the sobbing becomes breathing and dissolves further into almost complete stillness. Finally she lifts her head, wipes her cheeks, and licks her lips.

"We can't stay here. Fin's a better tracker than Cabal, but the army will be here tomorrow, and he'll have help. We need to go, or we need to hide," Echo says.

"How many are coming?"

"It's an _army_ , Tristan. The Black Baron wants Cove."

"The Black Baron?"

"Tristan! We can't waste any time here."

"Okay, okay, just let me think. Foundry is to the south, right? Cove is west. Why are they even passing through these ruins?"

"West of Foundry is a barren desert. They're following New Sea north to stay close to water, but Cove is almost straight west from here, so here is where they'll turn."

"And if _we_ go north?"

Echo closes her eyes and pinches the place between them, shaking her head. She doesn't want to think or talk any more. She wants to be somewhere else, or someone else. She heaves a deep breath and looks at me.

"Unless you know somewhere to hide for a few days, north is our only option," she says. "Cabal will know that too. He'll come after us. But what else can we do? The army will head west. They're not going to delay for a few–a few dead scouts. We weren't even officially part of the army, more of a mercenary group. But Studebaker–that's who Ballard will report to–Studebaker will see this as an attack on Foundry. He'll give Cabal whatever he needs to catch us."

So we run or we hide. There _are_ places to hide. Plenty of little cubbies and niches in the sprawling ruins. But how long will we have to stay in one? We'll need water for at least a few days, and with so many soldiers spreading through the ruins, we'll have no chance to gather more if the army lingers. There's a fair chance we'll be found too, especially if they have some variation of those spider-like recon bots Cove uses.

If we're not found, I could eventually return home–but how long until the army comes back from Cove, or Cove's army comes for Foundry, or Cabal returns to check the Library? Will I ever feel safe there again? No. I want to go back but I can't. The Library will never be the same. I don't want to admit it, but that part of my life is over.

"We'll go north," I say. Echo's face says many things. Her voice says nothing. We circle west-northwest, giving the Library a wide berth. Lectric trots along behind us. I've never been very far north, but I know what lies that way as surely as Echo does. From New Sea to the Rockies, maybe even beyond: the z-line. Toyota never did tell me how he made it through. Maybe we won't need to–but where else can we go?

It's not a question for the present. Our world has narrowed to the next moment, the next mile. We watch the east for signs of Cabal and hold our weapons ready, stumbling over the fallen homes and scattered bones of the resting dead.

# Chapter 5.

We don't dare stop at night. It's an easy decision to make and a hard one to carry out. The logic is simple: we need to get as much of a head-start as possible before Cabal comes after us. The reality is more complex: as soon as we circle the Library and head north along Big Road, I want nothing more than to lie down in a dark corner and forget I exist.

Life was never easy in the ruins, or even in Farmington, but I never personally had to kill anyone. Now I've killed two people. I can't focus on anything else. Their lives ended because of me. Shouldn't I feel bad? All I feel is a numb. I stumble over cracks as we walk. Echo's eyes are glazed. We're exhausted.

Cabal is the only other topic that comes to mind. When we don't emerge from the Library, he'll assume we died in the fire. He'll have to wait for it to burn down before he can search the ashes. In time he'll realize we took to the sewers, and there's simply no way for him to track us down there. He'll know we're either running or hiding. In both cases, he'll be better off waiting for the army. He can get better supplies and maybe a horse, and the army can search for us in the ruins. I mention my conclusion to Echo, trudging along the road near sundown, and she looks at me like I just told her the most obvious thing in the world.

"Of course he'll wait. The army can't be more than a day away," she says.

"Maybe they'll just write us off. I mean, maybe won't want to waste any supplies or manpower on us."

"No. I told you, Studebaker can't just let it go–he'll see it as his duty–and for Cabal it's personal. Cabal's not exactly loyal to Foundry. He was loyal to Ballard. They grew up in the same town. Not that Cabal _liked_ him. He respected Ballard, I think, but he was jealous too. Ballard was smarter, a better leader, but Cabal is cruel in a clever kind of way. I think if Ballard had to die, Cabal would've wanted to be the one to kill him."

"Wait. Cabal would've killed Ballard, but he's mad _we did it first_?" I ask incredulously.

Echo's blonde hair shakes wearily.

"He wasn't actively trying to _kill_ Ballard. I'm just saying he was jealous, and if it _had_ to be done, he would've rather done it himself. Having a stranger do it is entirely different. Now he'd kill us if for no other reason than to prove to himself he really _was_ loyal to Ballard. It's complicated. And anyway Ballard didn't _have_ to die. We killed him to set ourselves free."

"Weren't you already free?" I ask, looking at her sideways. She looks like she might cry again.

"Just walk, Tristan."

So I walk. But another question occurs.

"Do you think they'll give him a horse?"

"Probably. He's going to catch up one way or another. It's just a question of what will happen then."

Despite all our reasons to keep moving, it takes a huge effort to walk throughout the night. We fall into a daze, barely aware of our progress. Even Lectric trots with his head down. For a while I wonder why his step is a little uneven. Then–oh, I see. His metal paws have rubber pads for traction, but the front-left pad has been burned away. He must have stepped on a bit of gluefire during our escape. It's not a big concern, but it must hurt. A sensory network is wired into his body, and he's programmed to feel pain for the same reason we are–bodily preservation. Sentient bots who don't feel enough pain invariably die in a hurry.

The sky is growing light again. It feels like we've come a thousand miles when we finally stop. Of course, we can't just sleep on the road, because what if somebody comes? We head east for another mile until New Sea is visible. There we lie in the shadows of a half-standing house. Exhaustion has erased any concern for comfort. Even sitting brings a feeling close to bliss. Still, for a few minutes I can't sleep because I'm listening for Cabal. I listen even in my dreams.

Echo is still asleep when I wake. It's past noon. Lectric is sprawled across the ground, soaking up the sun. I'm dead-thirsty and we're out of water. My canteen is empty. I'll have to fill it from New Sea and desalinate the water. I have a lot of useful items in my pack. When Farmington burned, there were a lot of things I'd wished I'd had. That's never going to happen again. Now my pack is _always_ ready.

With my canteen and desalinator, I head to the shore. Lectric rouses himself to follow. When I first came to the Library, I desalinated all my water from New Sea by the evaporation-collection method taught to me by my grandfather. The second time I met Toyota, however, I traded him for a graphene desalinator. They made a lot in the final days before the Fall, and Toyota found a whole warehouse full somewhere down south. On one trip, it was practically all he traded.

I fill the top-half of the desalinator with saltwater, then close the lid and use the little crank on the top, compressing the water inside. As it's compressed, the water is forced through a graphene membrane between. The membrane has millions of nano-sized holes, too small for salt, just big enough for water. The only bad thing is that it's very tiring on your wrist because you have to keep turning the handle to put pressure on the liquid–otherwise it takes forever for the water to trickle through.

When it's done, I unscrew the now-empty top half and rinse it in the ocean. Then, quite annoyingly, I have to pour the water from the bottom half back into the top and press it through two more times. I suspect this is because I got a slightly defective one and some of the holes are too big, so it takes three passes to eliminate all the salt.

After the third pass, I pour the water into my canteen. Then I gather more saltwater and run through the process all over again, leaving the new volume in the bottom of the desalinator because I have nothing else to carry it in. Meanwhile, Lectric pees coolant into the sand and refills his rubber bladder.

Echo is awake when we return. She accepts the water cautiously and watches me with serious eyes. I can't even begin to guess what she's thinking.

"We should get moving," I say.

She nods. Lectric barks happily. At least one of us is in a good mood.

On Big Road again, I estimate what time Cabal will catch us. I do this maybe fifty times. There are too many uncertainties. I can approximate how far we've gone, but I don't know how fast a horse can run, what time the army will arrive, or when Cabal will leave. The only thing that's certain is that he'll come north along Big Road, and if he _does_ have a horse he's going to catch us in a damn hurry. Twelve hours walking is only three or four riding.

Which means we can't stay on Big Road. If Cabal spots us from behind, he could take us out from a distance. Echo agrees. I don't like the idea of being trapped between New Sea and our enemy, so this time we strike out west instead until Big Road is safely out of sight.

The Great Ruins of my old city–with its fallen towers rusting in jungles of twisted girders; with its massive crumbled complexes that once housed untold thousands; with the Headless King and the fantastic sculptures of the old, dead American Empire–all of this has fallen behind, leaving a seemingly endless stretch of smaller ruins surrounding the metropolis. Family-sized dwellings fill the area. Few are still standing. It seems impossible that enough people once existed to fill them. Where did they get all their food? How did they handle the plumbing? Baffling.

"We could just keep going west, you know," I say. "Gather water first, hunt small game. There's a river closer to Cove that runs north. We'd hit it eventually."

Echo looks at me sideways. Her hand moves absently to her necklace. She's wary about something–beyond all the normal things there are to be wary about–but it eludes me.

"We should keep going north," she says.

"Why? Cabal knows we're heading that way and we're going to hit the z-line eventually. We can't go east because of New Sea, and we can't go south because of the army. West means more desert, so it's a big risk–but so is north. At least west there'll be desert-foxes and coyotes and other game. What's good about north?"

Echo is reluctant to answer. Finally, she says, "Haven."

I frown. I've heard the name once or twice, but I know almost nothing about it. A small group came through Farmington once heading for Haven. My grandfather wrote them off as crazies.

"That's someplace up north, right?"

"Not _some_ place, Tristan, _the_ place. A place where everyone is safe and free, and they've got food and water, and laws to protect people, and working tech from Old America. They're rebuilding, Tristan. Making things the way they used to be. The way they should be."

She believes it. Hope burns in her eyes with startling intensity. It's one of the things she keeps hidden. But I can only think of Hyperborea, where Conan went. Didn't turn out as he expected.

"So it's a city-state? Cove's got laws and stuff too. How's that any different?" I ask.

A shutter comes down over the hope in her eyes, protecting it from intruders and people who don't understand. People like me. She makes a dismissive noise and looks away. This is why she was reluctant to tell me. Hope is a treasure in the wasteland, even rarer than water. To keep it, you've got to guard it. When Echo speaks again, her voice is more factual, less involved.

"Haven is a good place. Not greedy and harsh like Cove. They don't burn people's homes down. The people there are trying to rebuild things the _right_ way. It's the last, best hope for our world, Tristan."

"How do you know that?"

She shakes her head and turns away.

"It's north of the z-line?" I ask.

"Yes."

"Going to be hard to get there."

She looks at me sideways and nods. I shrug, relenting.

We turn north again, parallel to Big Road–not that I'm committed to actually crossing the z-line. It just wouldn't hurt to get a little further before arguing about turning west. No point standing around. I'm pretty good at ignoring hunger, but I'm starving if I pay attention to it. I don't have my rat traps to rely on, which means we're going to have to use the crossbow or machine-pistol. Not many signs of games out this way either.

For an hour, we walk in silence.

"Fin wasn't so bad, you know," Echo says out of nowhere.

I meet her eyes briefly.

"He was a good hunter. Always found us food. He never... never did anything to me."

"What do you mean?" I ask slowly, looking at her out of the corner of my eyes. Echo only shrugs, staring carefully ahead.

"We had to do it though. Once we... once we killed Ballard. We couldn't leave the others," she says. I'm not sure if she's telling me or herself.

"Yeah," I say.

"You hate me, don't you?"

"What? Annabel. Why would you ask that?"

"You look angry whenever you talk to me. And call me Echo."

_Do_ I look angry? Living alone has not given me good practice monitoring my expressions. I _am_ angry, but I was trying to ignore that. Mostly it's because she's supposed to be the innocent girl with the long hair in the desert, and instead she's the girl who was travelling with Rodrick's Raiders–the girl who helped me lose a second home. Does that mean I'm angry she didn't die in Farmington like I thought? That doesn't make sense.

"I'm not... not angry at you," I say, but it doesn't feel entirely true.

"Sure. I bet you wish we never found you though."

Of course I wish that. I'd be home reading Volume Seven. But why stop there? I might as well wish Farmington had never burned to the ground or that Old America never fell. Nobody can ignore the world forever. It finds you and shoves its troubles down your throat; then it watches quietly while you vomit everything back up on the people around you.

"Why do you want me to call you 'Echo?'" I ask.

"I haven't been Annabel since the Fire."

"Doesn't really answer the question."

Echo sighs.

"I took up in a cave after Farmington burned. I was starving. Rodrick's Raiders were fracturing. Ballard, Fin, and Cabal came across my tracks in the desert. When they found me, I didn't talk for a while. I repeated some things–mostly just 'food' and 'water,' whenever someone mentioned them. So Ballard called me Echo, and I've been Echo ever since."

So that's why she travelled with them–she couldn't survive on her own. Not that it makes it ok or answers my other questions. I want to ask her again why she would turn against Ballard and risk her life to go on the run with me, but I know she won't answer–maybe she _can't_ answer–so I swallow the question.

Here and there is a house still standing. We conduct brief searches for useful items. During one search, the high-pitched whine of a distant motor echoes across the barren land. Echo and I freeze, staring at each other. The whine gets louder.

"Bike," she whispers.

We scramble to a broken window and crouch beside it, peering east toward Big Road. We'd walked west until Big Road was well out of sight, but it's hard to stay parallel with the winding road. Since then we've apparently drifted closer, because a bug-sized dot can be seen speeding along the horizon. It must have heavy-duty off-road wheels to keep steady on the broken road.

It's unlikely anyone can spot us at this distance, but we duck out of sight regardless. I almost reach for my spyglass, but what would be the point? It can't be anyone but Cabal, and what if sunlight glints off the glass? Better to just stay hidden.

The motor's pitch reaches a threatening crescendo as the solar cycle passes, then drops as the bike recedes. The sound reminds me of a giant mosquito. Appropriate, given that the owner wants to drain our blood. Studebaker has outfitted him even better than expected. Perhaps a little too well, because now he's passing his prey. The bike disappears further up Big Road.

"Well, at least–" I begin, stopping when Echo's hand shoots up.

I squint, listening. The sound is getting louder again. No. A _second_ sound. Echo looks at me with wide eyes. She holds up two fingers: two solar cycles. Lectric whimpers and rests his head on my boot. A second bike passes us in the distance. We wait for more. Neither of us can relax even after the last dying echo has faded into silence.

"Two then. Bikes, not horses. Seems Cabal made a good case against us," I say.

"Or they want him back sooner, and they don't fully trust him. By sending someone else, they can be sure he won't desert with their equipment."

We stay in the house a while, making sure Cabal and his escort won't double-back. Sooner or later, he's got to figure he passed us. When we start moving again, we head half a mile further west, away from Big Road. This creates a problem, however–we run out of water. It's amazing how fast it disappears. With our bodies constantly on the move and the day fairly warm, there's no way to make it last. We need to hit New Sea again, but that's on the opposite side of Big Road.

"We should wait for dark," I say. I don't feel comfortable crossing the distance in daylight. Echo nods. Clearing a spot beside a half-standing wall, we settle in. I remember the way the nails went into Ballard's neck, and the whole scene starts replaying in a loop. It's familiar by now. Has it only been a day? Impossible...

"It's dark," Echo says, shaking me awake.

I fell asleep? I must have. The light has changed.

"We should go," Echo says.

"Right," I say, blinking, groggy. We trek east, straining our ears for the whine of electric motors. It takes forever to reach Big Road. How is it so far? We cross with no sign of the bikes, but my heart is still in my throat. I'm paranoid. Echo must think I'm a coward. She's right too. I'm scared of everything.

We're about half a mile beyond Big Road, crossing the smaller side-roads of a destroyed neighborhood, when the buzzing comes again. Echo curses. A pinprick of light stabs our eyes. Not back west, along Big Road–no, not there but _directly north_. Immediately, I know what happened. When they turned back, Cabal and his companion fanned out to smaller roads on either side to cover a wider area. Now one of the bikes is headed straight toward us.

# Chapter 6.

We scramble off the road. We've only got seconds before we show up in the glare of the headlight–if we haven't already. We throw ourselves into the rubble of a fallen home just off the road. Our landing kicks up dust; I pray it won't be seen. I'm half on top of Echo, hidden behind the rubble. The world is filled with two things: her wide blue eyes and the growing buzz of the approaching vehicle. Are we hidden? A low, broken wall conceals us, yet something might stick out. There's no time to evaluate, no time to change positions.

The whine of the engine grows intolerably loud. The bike is going slower than necessary, maybe because it's dark and the roads aren't what they used to be, or maybe because the rider is keeping an eye out for us. The headlight washes over the rubble, throwing long shadows into the ruins. The rider pulls abreast of us...

Is he stopping? Oh Crom. We're bones. We're ashes.

But no. He's passing–thank God.

An idea comes to me: I could stand and put a bolt through the back of the driver. But I might miss, and then we'd have the other bike to contend with. Better to stay hidden. Or is that just an excuse? Because I'm scared shitless and don't want to move.

We lie still and listen for the second bike, but nothing comes. The first fades into silence. It's as I thought: they're on both sides of Big Road. Suddenly I'm very aware of Echo's slim body pressed into the ground beneath me; the rise and fall of her chest, the delicate length of her collar bone, the hollow at the base of her neck. It's unfamiliar, this closeness with another person. Her body is so malleable, so right.

"Tristan..." she says.

"The other bike..." I mutter.

Her lips are marvelous. I'm smothered in sudden desire. I capture every detail of her darkened face, the smoothness of her skin, the way her hair falls. Things like this don't happen to me. I want to keep the memory as a kind of secret. I'll lock it away where I bury my feelings, take it out in quiet moments.

"I think it's safe," she says.

Then I remember Ballard on top of her–Ballard, one of Rodrick's Raiders–and she's just a half-starved wretch lying in the dirt of a ruined neighborhood. Angrily I push myself up. What was I thinking? The bikes are nowhere in sight.

"We should go," I say.

We continue to New Sea. The moon is out, reflecting beautifully off the slowly shifting current, off the bits of ruins still jutting from the ocean. Echo is silent as I desalinate our water. We drink greedily, gratefully.

"What if the other bike's still ahead?" I ask.

"Pretty sure I heard it in the distance," she says. "Makes sense, anyway. The army will want them back soon. They've got bigger worries than us."

"You don't think they'll keep looking for us?"

"We can't count it out," she says, shrugging.

When we're done drinking and refilling, we find a quiet spot to camp. We don't risk a fire, though the night has grown cold and the heat would've been appreciated. It's remarkably hard to get a good night's sleep in the cold, even when you're exhausted. Jackets only help so much. We lie back to back. Minutes or hours later I wake to find Echo's arm around me.

The weight of her arm brings an alien sensation. I can't get used to it. Eventually I have to change positions, but that presents its own problems. When I turn toward Echo my arm ends up around her too, and then her eyes are open and gazing into mine. I should say something, but I just lay there. She closes her eyes again and leans her head forward into the space beneath my chin. Stray wisps of hair tickle my face. It itches but I refuse to move. Sleep just got the middle finger. Eventually it comes regardless.

When I wake, she's drooling. I get up and find a place to use the bathroom. Returning, I'm in a strangely good mood, though I can't see why. My home is gone, I'm starving, there are people who want to kill us, and we're likely heading to our deaths–yet for a little while none of it matters. I'm like a kid again, absorbed in the moment.

Part of it is the hope that Cabal's duty to the army will prevent him from returning. His presumed departure is like a shadow lifted from my eyes. When it's gone, I see that the whole world is suddenly open to us. I mean, I guess I could have left the Library any time, and travelling will be hard and dangerous, but the morning's clear blue sky fills me with a sense of freedom I haven't felt in–ever. Is this how Conan felt when he first left Cimmeria?

Then there's the fact that there's an _us._ Excluding Lectric, Toyota was the closest friend I've had in three years, and I only saw him a handful of times. Sure, I like being alone, and I'm not entirely positive travelling with Annabel-Echo is a good thing–but it's an interesting thing, an unusual thing, a new experience, and there's something to be said about that.

I spend a few minutes sitting against a crumbling stone block, watching Echo sleep, feeling flashes of desire... tempered by thoughts of Ballard and how quickly she turned on him. Do I even know this person? Not at all. She's incomprehensible. But do I have to know her to hold her down and–

No. She doesn't want that. Annabel used to be my friend. She's the girl who waits in the desert. Then why the arm in the night? She was cold, no doubt.

While waiting, I take out Volume Seven and, very slowly, read a few pages, trying to ignore the gnawing question of whether or not the rest of my collection survived the fire. Of course it survived–I won't believe otherwise. I'll go back for it one day. The alternative is unthinkable. Still Echo sleeps. I drink and desalinate more water. Finally she wakes, does what's necessary, and it's time to move on.

Echo is in a better mood too. Maybe the disaster, the killing, the hiding is behind us. In the daylight, I can almost believe it. The sun infuses her hair with a brilliance bordering on absurd. It's like she's giving off light. Lectric trots happily alongside us, his solar cells absorbing all they can.

Past noon, the ruins thin out. The desert is sparsely covered with knee-high shrubs. With this much plant life, there's bound to be game. I miss the first kill–something squirrel-like that darts into a hole as my bolt skids in the dust–but the second chance comes soon, and I nail a fox through the ribs.

With the electric sparker in my bag, the fire is easy to build. The meat fills our bellies. Echo is more talkative. She tells me about an older woman who helps manage the supplies for Foundry's army, frail in body but iron in will. The woman had a soft spot for Echo, and Echo misses her.

As we continue north, she talks about Fin and Ballard now and then, though nothing with any direct connection to our fatal encounter. I don't talk much. Toward dusk, we bag a snake and a large scavenging bird. There's still no sign of Cabal. Maybe he really _has_ moved on. Again we camp. Again Echo cuddles up to me. It's weird having someone this close. I'm hyper-sensitive to every movement. I can't get used to it.

The next morning, we decide it should be okay to walk along Big Road again. I keep an eye on passing debris, shrubs and other potential cover, just in case we hear the bikes. I haven't tried to persuade Echo again, but I'm thinking it's probably about time we turned west. I'm about to broach the subject when something catches my eye.

We're still in shrub-desert. To our right, maybe ten feet ahead, is the rusted wreck of a long-dead car. We've passed a number of its brothers along the road. The part of my mind monitoring potential cover has already noted it. The car, however, is not what has caught my attention.

Just left of Big Road, at the top of a slight hill about two hundred feet ahead, sits an odd boulder about as tall as my waist. I can't say exactly why it's "odd." It's a sand-colored rock. But the paranoid part of my brain knows something doesn't fit. The boulder is a bit too cylindrical, perhaps, or the surface too smooth.

Then the top shifts.

I have a split second to react. By all rights, we should be dead. But I've seen this thing on some other level. Listening for the bikes with constant paranoia, I've synced with our environment, and I act before I know what's coming. My arm catches Echo beneath the ribs as I tackle her toward the car. A staccato of bright red flashes burst from a recess in the top of the boulder. A feather brushes my left ear, tickles my left bicep. Echo makes a sound of slight surprise. We hit the ground hard, crashing through a shrub behind the abandoned car. She grunts as the air is pushed from her lungs. Lectric scurries around us, barking madly.

Echo's eyes go wide. There's a fresh four-inch burn running along her left collarbone. Two tiny holes are not far from the scar, in her upper left shoulder.

"Your _ear_ ," she says.

"Stay down."

"What's happening?"

"A mine. Pulse laser. I saw the barrel pop. Don't even peek out. It'll put holes through your eyes."

Echo nods. I recovered a mine like this once–a dead one, in the desert. I brought it back to my grandfather, and he disassembled it for parts. He told me about them as he worked. They operate on a low-power standby mode for years at a time. The notion has terrified me ever since. Cabal must've left this one. Carried it on the back of his bike. He didn't _need_ to find us. We're in for it now. The car is our only cover. I'm amazed we survived the first barrage. If it had waited until we were just a little closer, we'd be dead already. Something wet leaks down the back of my pants–Crom, is it blood? But my hand comes back with water. Must've hit the canteen or the desalinator. Great. Not that we'll need water much longer.

Tin popping sounds reach my ears. A hot metal shard bursts from a hole in the car beside me. Echo yelps. It's trying to shoot us through the vehicle. Most of the shots only penetrate one side. Most.

Echo's face grows pained. She pulls up her pant-leg and stares. Her left calf is swelling around a small hole in the muscle. Little metal shards have peppered her skin. Blood is leaking out of the hole, though not much, as the flesh is mostly cauterized. Her shoulder is having similar issues, minus the shards. Her hands tremble uncontrollably.

There's a growing throb in my left ear and bicep, but our immediate peril leaves no room for such worries. The pinging stops. Another sound grows in the silence, however. The whir of a small motor. Wheels rumble over the crumbling road, crunching pebbles beneath the treads.

The mine is mobile.

I wriggle out of my pack and check the crossbow–it's loaded.

"Echo, your gun loaded? Echo!"

The pain distracts her. She un-holsters the machine-pistol and slides it over to me. The wheels are still moving. I lie down and peer under the car. It's low to the ground because the tires are flat, but I manage to see the robot wheeling toward us. It'll come around my side of the car soon. We have less than ten seconds to live. Lectric is low to the ground, growling terribly. His metal claws are out.

Can we hide in the car? No. We'd just die inside. We can't run, obviously. It would hit us the instant we were visible. I'll have to try shooting it as it comes into view, but I'm pretty certain it will kill me before I can do much damage. It has cameras for sensors. If I could only blind it...

But I _can_ –maybe.

I whip off my jacket. The mine is on the other side of the car. It's coming around. I motion to Echo–go that way! But she can't push off her left leg. She's crawling too slowly. There are tears on her cheeks. Great. We're going to die here.

Lectric pounces forward with a demonic sound. He rounds the front bumper and attacks. I'm shouting, or trying to shout. I'm springing onto the hood and throwing the jacket, but it's too late. Lectric is peppered with invisible packets of high-energy light. His hull sparks and leaks fluids as his claws rake the faux boulder once without effect. Once–and he collapses. Yet he's drawn the fire just long enough for my jacket to land.

The robot wheels backwards, blinded. It rotates one way, then the other, trying to free its sensors. It's not sentient, but it's well-programmed. I dive to the ground and snatch up the pistol and crossbow. The robot fires at random. The heat lights my coat on fire. I spray the thing with bullets. I put a heavy bolt right through the fire. Something shatters in a shadowy recess. I drop the crossbow and grip the gun with both hands, emptying almost a whole clip into the top of the machine, where the barrel came out. It's not firing anymore. I shove it hard with my boot. The robot topples. The wheels spin, stop, spin, stop. It may still have battery power, but it's effectively dead.

And so is Lectric.

I drop to my knees. He's twitching uncontrollably, making soft whining sounds. A capacitor blew somewhere in his flanks. Smoke leaks through the holes in his hull. A puddle of coolant spreads beneath him, seeping into the parched earth in a singular parody of his carbon-based cousins. Perhaps it's just a universal rule: things leak when they die. Worst of all are the holes in his head, where my grandfather helped me implant his Spark 2100 neural embryo in some other life.

This can't be happening. It happens anyway. Lectric's twitching slows. I cradle his head. He won't look up at me. He can't.

"You'll be okay," I tell him.

Lies are better than pain. He twitches again. Then he doesn't.

His hull can be repaired. His Spark 2100 cannot. Not even the people who designed neural embryos fully understood how consciousness arose from the complexity within. They had simply experimented, modeling electronic subsystems on studies of the human brain until a working model was achieved. My grandfather had books about it. As the host develops, the embryo's complexity is gradually nested to a deep level, interwoven throughout the electronic brain, the illusion of ego building as the brain learns and relearns and adapts to the chaos of life. Once functionality is lost, it can never be restored.

There will be pain now. I wait for it to come. But the speed of these events has confounded my own brain's adaptive processes. Lectric is dead–here he lies with his head lolling in my lap–but the knowledge is so strange as to feel unreal. Certainly this didn't just happen? The universe doesn't work that way. I'll forget about it and things will be the same as always. A piece of me probes the truth from a great distance, spying on it as through a telescope, but there's a sea of anguish there, so I cover the view back up and set it aside.

Echo, unheard, is shouting my name. She comes crawling around the side of the car, pale and scared. She drags herself close and rests her head on my shoulder, but I wince away because she puts pressure on my injured bicep. She's shaking badly.

"I thought you were dead," she says.

"Lectric..."

"I'm sorry, Tristan. I'm so sorry. He saved our lives. He saved us. God, your _ear_. We need to bandage you. We need to bandage _me_. Do you think there's another one? They might have left another..."

She talks aimlessly, non-stop, almost in a whisper. Words tumble out, and suddenly it's intolerable. Doesn't she understand? I want to yell at her. But she's close to fainting. I touch my left ear. An electric pain stabs out from my finger and radiates through my head, as if I shocked myself. My entire earlobe has been burned away. Now that I'm aware of it, the pain grows worse. Squeezing the muscle in my left arm also brings instant wooziness. Still, I made out better than Lectric. Better than Echo too, with two holes in her shoulder and shrapnel in her calf.

We do what must be done. Gather the pack, prepare to leave. But I can't leave my old friend lying in the desert. I haul up his body. Echo can't walk on her left leg. She supports herself on my right. I'm not conscious of the journey to New Sea. I only know it's hell.

# Chapter 7.

I don't sleep so much as roll around in a web of dark memory, and whenever I roll to my left, there's a sharp pain from two places. When I wake, Lectric is the first thing on my mind. The way he sprawls happily in the morning sun. The fact that he whimpered and comforted me while I wept in those early days after the fire. All the times he sniffed out treasures in the ruins or alerted me to small game. For three years, my constant companion. My _only_ companion.

Gone. Just gone.

The weight of his absence is immense. It brings on the rest. The Library, Farmington, my graphic novels–everything's gone. Life is sorrow and ruin. I want to smash things. I couldn't raise a fist. Dark thoughts have a magnetic effect. They draw in others. They reinforce each other until the darkness is all you can see. Depression crushes me like a weight from above.

There was a church in Farmington. My grandfather never went there, but Annabel's mom would take us. The pastor said God wanted to punish us for the way we'd lived in the World Before. But that world was alien to us. Those people were dead and gone. Punishing us for their mistakes didn't make sense. I couldn't figure out why everyone listened to the pastor.

After the village burned, however, I came to understand belief. How could my grandfather be gone? He had to be _some_ where. I talked to him while I walked in the desert. I felt he was watching over me. Was he? I don't know, but it was what I needed then, and when I think of Lectric running around in some other realm, I want to believe it again. Let someone say he wasn't really alive, that he was just a machine. _We_ are "just" machines, in that case–organic ones. Lectric was more alive than most people, worth more than Ballard and Cabal. If they have souls, his was twice as pure.

Echo moans, still asleep. She sounds terrified, but I don't wake her.

We're in the shadow of another half-standing building down by the shore of New Sea. I buried Lectric in the night. I said some things in my head, and Echo stood and hugged me from behind, though she shook and the movement pained her.

It's not long after dawn. Clouds have gathered overhead. There's an ominous rumble in the distance. We need food. I should move, but I'm paralyzed. My ear feels strange, hot and cold at the same time. When I touch it, there's less pain. My arm still throbs, but it could be a lot worse. The shot only caught the outer layer of the muscle. I lay back down, but sleep doesn't come. It's a miserable morning. Finally Echo wakes, only to moan more pointedly, her face contracting in pain. She puts a hand on my good arm. When she takes a breath, her fingers dig in.

"It hurts, Tristan. God, it hurts," she says.

There are two holes in her shirt around the left shoulder, where the mine hit her. The surrounding flesh is red and swollen. I tried taking the metal splinters out of her calf last night, but I don't know if I got them all. Some were so tiny I could barely pinch them between my fingernails. Afterward, we washed her calf and wrapped it in a strip of cloth torn from her shirt–but it still looked terrible.

Now each breath brings Echo fresh pain. Literally every one. As her lungs expand, the flesh and muscles surrounding the shoulder-wound inevitably shift. Her body is warning her to stay still, even while forcing her to move. She closes her eyes hard. Tears leak out, and she opens them and looks at me, desperate for help I can't provide.

"It'll get better," I say.

She closes her eyes again.

At first, I try to help. I say all kinds of things. Nothing works. I grow angry. I was injured too, after all. Her refusal to heal is frustrating. She's not doing it on purpose, yet that's how it starts to feel. Her constant complaining wears on my fragile nerves– _can't she just shut up for a while_? If she and the others hadn't come, I'd still be in the Library with Lectric. So yeah, maybe she deserves some of that pain. But then she's Annabel Lee again, the girl who waits in the desert, and the anger turns to shame.

I go into the desert, more to get away from her than to hunt. I need to _do_ something. And of course there's no game. Nothing whatsoever. The ruins were never well-populated, but now they're completely destitute, devoid of even the smallest rat. Fate conspires against us on all levels. The sky rumbles and turns a slow, strange, purplish color. The warnings have been growing all day. You don't have to be a rabbit to know something terrible is coming.

Echo is hungry and pained, and when she sees I'm returning empty-handed, she actually weeps. I can't take it. My fists clench and unclench on their own. Walking down the shore, I desalinate more water. Even this is a trial. It was the desalinator that leaked in my pack. The mine put a hole through it. The filter still works, thank Crom, but it won't hold the water once it's through, so I have to rig the canteen to catch what spills out. I've just finished filtering a few liters and my wrist hurts from turning the pressure-top... when the canteen slips and spills into the sand. Such a simple thing. It breaks me completely.

My body tenses up and a sound comes out like I'm choking, and then I'm roaring and pounding the ground, smashing it with my fists, because something must be punished, because the world couldn't spare me even this last petty cruelty. My fingers clench into claws. When they let go, I breathe heavily, hang my head and hug my knees. I'm numb for a time. Slowly, I pick up the desalinator and begin again.

When I get back to Echo, she drinks gratefully, but it's not a lasting comfort. Thunder booms. Distant but getting closer.

"We have to start walking," I say.

"Why?" Echo asks.

I have no answer. The storm? Food? Medicine? Where could we possibly find medicine? The weight of our needs is overwhelming, and her only question is "why?" I suppress my anger.

"We can't stay here," I say.

Finally, Echo nods.

I help her up. Yet it's immediately clear that progress is impossible. She simply can't walk. Any pressure on her calf pains her, and every shift in movement lights up the nerves in her shoulder. The wounds are mostly cauterized so maybe she'll avoid infection, but she's suffering from some kind of nerve damage. It's possible the mine used a particle pump instead of a pulse laser. My grandfather taught me the difference. Both will put holes in you, but particle pumps use packets of molecular material instead of focused light. The material will penetrate your flesh before breaking up inside, sending miniature shockwaves through the tissue, like microscopic shotgun blasts. My arm is swollen heavily around my own wound, yet it's not giving me nearly as much pain as Echo's wounds are giving her.

We have to keep moving regardless. There's no shelter here, and the sky is clear about its intentions. We make it half a mile–the longest half-mile of Echo's life. She's shaking and close to collapse. Then the sky breaks, and _walls_ of water hit us all at once. They come in rippling, diagonal sheets, so thick I can almost distinguish solid shapes. It's as though some ancient, otherworldly elementals have come to frolic beneath the desert clouds, phasing in and out of their watery forms. The physical force of the rain is astounding. It falls with such noise that I can barely hear the thunder. A watery hell has opened up around us. A river grows around our boots.

There's a house ahead–the only one in sight with most of its roof intact. It looked so close a moment ago. Suddenly I fear we won't make it. I have to pick up Echo and sprint the last hundred meters. My bicep screams at me. It's like being on fire. I block everything but the sight of that doorway. Ten steps away, I lose my balance and send us both crashing to the ground. Echo cries out. Her eyes roll back in her head. The force of the flood tugs at my body. I haul her up again, yelling crazily, and we stumble through the open doorway.

The house has holes in the roof and one of the walls. The windows are broken and the doors are missing. Water is pouring in, running across the floor, but it's still better than being outside. A rotting staircase leads to a second floor, but we don't dare risk it. In the kitchen sits a heavy oak table. I push it into the driest corner and take off my pack. The pack is soaked, but my old blanket inside is mostly dry.

"Help me," Echo says. I look at her–and stare, baffled, because she's leaning against a wall, shivering badly, with her pants down to her calves.

"I can't do it..." she says vaguely. She intends to take off her clothes, and I'm still staring stupidly because I can't comprehend her purpose. She has to explain. I've been living alone in the desert, and the only body warmth I've ever known is my own. Yet she's right. We can't light a fire, and with the way things are going, we're probably going to die of hypothermia before the night is through.

I help her out of her clothes and onto the table. She winces, eyes closed, with each movement. Only her necklace remains to her, and she clasps it tightly, her fingers molesting the tawdry heart-shaped jewel. Lightning illuminates her pale body, the curve of her thighs, the smallness of her breasts, the braille of her nipples. Each flash divides the world into light and shadow, into black and white.

When I was younger–not long before the fire, in fact–Berkley came to me and Crispin one day and insisted we follow him to an oasis a few miles from Farmington. There was a pond hidden away in the curve of the land beneath a small cliff. We'd often gone in on sweltering summer days. That day, however, we approached by stealth until we could espy what lay ahead. Crispin's older sister, Isabel, and her friend, Amelia Day, had been swimming naked in the pond. They'd laughed and frolicked before returning to the shore.

Instantly, I'd understood the value of the secret there uncovered, what seemed a treasure of immense worth. Isabel's long, lithe body emerging from that pond–plastered with golden hair, shedding glorious rivulets like jewels shimmering in the summer sun–was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. The moment possessed a magic that went beyond the girl herself, beyond desire, to touch something pure and powerful, something hidden, something divine. Isabel had been transformed into an ethereal being, and I'd gaped at her in abject awe... until Crispin had made too much noise, and the girls had grabbed clothes and come running after us.

In the dark ruins of the storm-racked house, Echo is something different. She lacks the full, curving, sunlit glory of that distant day. The necessity of the situation is a blunt fact, and she's huddled on the table like some starving, wretched animal in the wild. Yet despite all the pain and misery, despite any lingering anger, there's something sacred in this moment too, a fragility I want to hold and protect, and for an instant it drives away the cold and hunger and earthly troubles–even grief over Lectric. The dark feelings drop away, and she's Annabel Lee again. Things have gone terribly wrong, and my friend needs me.

She's also shivering violently while I stand staring like an idiot. I strip quickly, keeping only my ragged under-shorts out of an awkward sense of embarrassment, and huddle on the table beside her. The dry blanket is a blessing. We press close beneath it, lying on the table, using my pack as a pillow. Her skin is cold and clammy but grows slowly less so. She can only lean on her uninjured shoulder. I spoon her, and one of her hands remains cradling her old necklace between us.

A river gushes over the floor beneath the table, carrying bits of debris. The lightning screams. A tree splits and dies out in the wastes, but we are secreted away in this hidden sanctuary, and I can't exactly call it good–because actually we're in deep shit here, and the Library is still gone, and Lectric is still dead–yet I'll keep this moment for all the days that are left to me. I'm very conscious of the position of my hands and the rise and fall of her chest, and if I wasn't so exhausted my heart would be pounding for an entirely different reason... but things are what they are, and eventually we drift off to the waning fury of the storm.

When I come to, my body is stiff and achy, my right arm numb beneath her. Echo inhales sharply when I shift. The rain still comes, only gently now, with a friendly patter, as if in apology. I don't want to face the world just yet, so I doze off a second time.

Around noon I'm up again, weak and hungry. Mercifully, the rain has stopped. Echo still sleeps. I extract myself and find our waterlogged clothes pushed to one wall with the rest of the flotsam.

Outside, the sun is shockingly bright. I drape our wet clothes over a broken fence and load up my crossbow. I catch myself looking for Lectric. He always comes with me. But he's not there, and there's nothing to do but set off into the desert alone.

Right from the start, the day is a drastic reversal of the last. It's as if the universe is making reparations. An hour in, I put a bolt through a vulture who's picking at a recently dead fox, and both corpses come with me for the fire. It pains me to aim, as it's necessary to use both arms, but the pain's not overly inhibitive and it fades when I can relax the injured bicep. Soon the vulture, I find a patch of wild melons and edible cacti. But the real find comes on the way back, entirely unlooked-for.

I'm heading back toward the house when I stop in my tracks. A heavy-duty wheelbarrow sits by the back door of a half-standing abode. It's made of a black alloy from the World Before, and it doesn't have a speck of rust. I throw the game and the fruit inside, and I'm commenting about our luck to Lectric before I realize again that he's not at my heels. That part's sobering, but it's like the tenth time I've done it, which makes it slightly easier to bear. I never realized before how much I talk to Lectric while ranging into the wastes.

"Hell, why stop now, right boy?" I say, thinking of him listening from some vague, ineffable realm. Which is probably insane, but oh well.

The wheelbarrow is a prize, not because it'll carry food and supplies, but because it'll carry Echo. I have no idea how long it will take her to heal. I'm not even sure she _will_ heal. Our bodies are ill-equipped to deal with such unnatural wounds. The cauterization and saltwater-cleansing have prevented infection, and my arm is doing reasonably well, but the mine has struck a deeper nerve in Echo. The pain is utterly debilitating. I've been wondering all morning if we were simply destined to live out our lives here, scavenging for food and braving the occasional storm.

In truth, if we found the right building, such a life wouldn't be all that different from my old one. Yet it's not what we're meant for. Even if Cabal never comes back, we need to be on the move. We're _going_ somewhere, and I may not know where exactly, but I don't want to stop until we get there.

When the house comes into view, Echo is standing outside with the blanket wrapped around her, leaning against the wall to keep the weight off her leg. Our clothes are still drying on the fence. It's not until I'm close that I realize she's in some kind of duress. Her hand is over her mouth and her eyes are wide, tearful.

"What?" I ask.

She shakes her head.

"I've got food–and look!" I say, showcasing the wheelbarrow.

"I'm just an idiot," she whispers.

Turns out, she was afraid I wouldn't come back. I'd left while she was asleep. All morning she'd been telling herself I'd be back, that I'd just gone hunting, but personal fears had overcome the logic. Fear had assured her I'd abandoned her, that I was gone forever. I'm not used to living with people. It didn't even occur to me to tell her where I was going.

"I know you hate me, Tristan, but please, _please_ , don't leave me again," she says.

"I... I _don't_ ," I try to explain, but she doesn't believe me. It's more than that though. Her injuries make her entirely dependent on me. She has no chance of gathering enough food or water to survive on her own. She can't endure significant movement. If something happened to me, what would she do? Hobble around in the desert until she laid down to die. The responsibility is unnerving. Do I really want someone else's life in my hands? Absolutely not. That's a terrible idea. Who's running this universe? What kind of sick jokes are they playing?

Echo isn't nearly as excited about the wheelbarrow as me. She just smiles vaguely and says it's good. Then she says something about Haven–she's still hoping to get there. I don't step on her dreams this time. I keep my tongue.

We're starving, so I cook up the meat. By the time we're done eating, dusk is coming on. Still, I'd rather get somewhere than nowhere, so I load up the pack. Our clothes are mostly dry, so we're able to dress. Echo has been wearing the blanket all day. She hands it to me to put away, and again I become highly conscious of her nudity. My face feels hot. A vein pulses in my throat. Not only that but she needs help to dress; she can't put weight on her calf and bending puts more pressure on the damaged nerve in her shoulder. I help in my own terribly awkward way.

Afterward, I help her into the wheelbarrow. We set off down Big Road. There's a tight pinch in my left bicep while I push. I try to rearrange the weight in different ways. It partially helps. If we're going to travel, I'll just have to deal with it. Our limited mobility stirs up worries that Cabal will come back. He could desert the army and come after us–does he want us that bad? I wish I knew.

_I caught a deserter once_...

We listen for the whine of a solar cycle and watch for more traps ahead. Every new boulder gives us pause. I stop frequently to scan the terrain with my spyglass. We're constantly finding new mines, despite the fact that there aren't any.

Two hours past dusk, we stop. The moon is out, bathing the land with its pale white effulgence. My arms ache. Was I excited about the wheelbarrow? It's a thing of torture, not liberation. But it's gotten us this far. Aside from occasional sounds of pain, Echo has been very quiet. We camp off the road, under the open stars.

I'm lying half-asleep when I become aware of Echo's eyes. She's close, with one arm over me, and when I turn my head, she's awake and staring. Her face is awash in moonlight. There's a crispness to the vision that's almost otherworldly. Her hand moves slowly. She tries to avoid wincing but can't entirely succeed. I'm astonished and at the same time unsurprised to feel her hand inching under my shirt, exploring. I swallow hard. There's a flutter in my stomach. Still, the movement pains her, it's connected to the muscles in her injured shoulder, and the hand comes to rest, scratching lightly at my skin.

"You can do what you want to me," she says quietly. Her eyes are intense, unreadable. I stare stupidly. Is this happening?

"You can do what you want," she says again, and the air is still, the night silent. With a painful effort, she shifts. She slides her body onto mine. She's a weight on my chest as I inhale.

"Do what you want, Tristan. Please," she whispers.

The slow movement of her pelvis is both glorious and unmistakable, yet something is wrong here. It's in her eyes. She's almost tearing up from the pain, which calls her motives into question. My sudden confusion destroys any growing lust. The "please" bothers me too; some fear lies behind it. She's desperate for me to use her, but not out of any physical need or desire...

And then I realize: she's afraid I'll leave her.

This is the coin she offers. This is her value. Does she think I'd abandon her to die? That I'd walk off and let my oldest living friend starve? Isn't she Annabel Lee, the girl who waits in the desert, and didn't I give her that heart-shaped necklace which even now dangles between us?

Rage–how little she must think of me. And I almost mistook her feelings for genuine desire. I grip her arm, though she squeals in pain, and thrust her to the side, sitting up. She's staring at me, fearful and astonished, when I say the first thing that comes to mind.

"Is that what you said to Ballard?"

She draws back, stricken. Her fear turns to hurt. But I'm angry still, and I'm not done wounding her. My next question is quiet, almost intimate.

"What about Cabal? Him too?"

Her jaw quivers. Her eyes glaze over. I've said something terrible, something forbidden, even if I don't fully understand it. I sensed her weakness, I forged a dagger out of words, and her face is exactly as it would be if I'd jabbed it into her heart. She bursts into tears.

I've broken her. She makes a sound almost like high-pitched words, but I can't understand a single one. My anger melts, yet I refuse to let it go, because if I do it will slip toward shame. This was _her_ fault. _She_ did this. She deserves it, I tell myself. Beneath is a secret fear that I've gone too far, that I've driven her permanently away, that she'll shield herself always now. But so what if that's true? I've been alone before. I don't need her.

I stand and move away, looking off into the night, and she just sobs like a broken thing.

# Chapter 8.

The next morning, there's an abundance of silence.

Echo doesn't speak to me. She barely looks at me. If she did this through anger, I could understand. But it's worse than that. Something is broken inside. She gazes into the dust. I don't want to talk anyway. I've had a lot of practice avoiding things these past few years, so I'm fine with the whole silence thing.

At first, anyway.

Slowly, the tension mounts. It mounts over breakfast. It mounts on the road. It's hard not to interact with someone when you're probably the only two people in a hundred miles, and one of you is pushing the other in a wheelbarrow. The silence grows over time, seeping in, smothering everything else. Hunting and gathering doesn't help. Eating doesn't help. Any little sound only enhances what isn't being said. The tension insists upon itself. But still I shut it down, bury it, adhering to an ancient theory: ignore it and it will go away.

When Echo's face isn't blank, it's pained. My ear is numb, my arm manageable, but her pain doesn't fade. The day passes, my muscles ache, and at night Echo lies six feet away and cries quietly to herself. I feel bad now, so I tell myself Lectric would still be here without her. I have to justify the pain. My mind takes itself to court over the matter, but the judge frowns at me, because beneath it all I know it's not really her fault. When she's sleeping, I drape the blanket over her.

The next day, nothing's changed. When we speak at all, it's with eminent politeness. She insists on doing everything herself, no matter how much it pains her. When I cook the meat we wrapped yesterday, she shakes her head slowly, saying she's not hungry. She can't be anything but starving.

"Don't be stupid," I say.

She gives me a look that threatens to shatter the silence with thunder... then nothing. What can I do? We get back on the road. By my calculations, we're still two hundred miles south of the z-line, yet around noon...

We see our first roamer.

It's a new experience. Echo has seen them in abandoned towns west of Foundry, but I've never been down that way. I've heard a lot of talk about plague-walkers from travelers in Farmington, but I suspect half of it was lies and nonsense. Toyota has spoken of them too, though he was never been big on details.

Echo sees it first.

"Stop," she whispers. The fear in her voice compels me to obey. She's looking west. The land is still largely scrub-desert, though taller plants grow here and there. Houses are few and far between. Everything else is rubble and dust. At first, I can't see what has her scared...

There's movement along the horizon.

A man. A desert hermit. Yet something's wrong with him.

"Roamer," Echo whispers, and my blood turns cold. It's one thing to hear tales over a hearth in the safety of your village. It's something else to see a thing with your own eyes–to know that it's _there_ , right there, and you could touch it if you dared.

Even through my spyglass, the roamer is too far to make out the face. The body is hunched forward. It doesn't shuffle as I imagined. It lifts its feet high with each step in a kind of slow, awkward march. Its body jerks unsteadily forward, struggling for balance, like a poorly programmed automaton.

It's almost a let-down. From here, it doesn't look particularly frightening. These things helped kill the World Before? How? It's only the stories and Echo's caution that keep the fear in me. Through the spyglass, I watch the roamer rip a plant out of the ground. The plant goes into its mouth. It's torn apart, devoured.

"I thought they eat people," I say.

"They _bite_ people. They _eat_ everything. If they ate everybody they bit, the plague wouldn't have spread. There'd be no new biters."

"Oh. Right," I say stupidly.

"We have to go that way," Echo says, pointing east, away from the roamer.

"Can it even see us from here?"

"If we can see it, it can see us. We don't want that thing coming after us."

"It doesn't look so bad."

We turn east regardless, and Echo isn't satisfied until the roamer is out of sight. We circle wide around the roamer. Echo becomes more withdrawn than ever. She says nothing at all, except when we hit a particularly large bump, eliciting an involuntary moan. Her face is always pained. She tries to sleep, succeeding by the time we hit the next "town."

It's more rubble than anything. Only one house still stands. The windows are all broken, but someone has made repairs to the roof and doors–which makes me wary. I stop in a patch of shrubs on the edge of the area and watch for a while. Echo wakes up. I caution her for quiet. There's no sign of life...

"Stay here. I'll check things out," I say.

"No!"

"I'll just be a minute," I say, pulling loose. I leave her the machine-pistol. It's only got four bullets left, but that's better than nothing. My crossbow is loaded and ready.

There's no sign of life as I approach. The house is as dead as the world that built it. Still, I'm cautious. Every miniscule sound is a threat. After checking in all the windows, I go in through the front door. Empty. A few pieces of smashed furniture. A broken TV. Whoever made those repairs is long gone. But wait–what's this? A coiled rope! It hangs from a hook on the wall. Score one for treasure-hunting.

_I'll take that_.

I find a dusty compass in a kitchen drawer as well. With the right ingredients, I can make a compass myself, but this one's old and fancy. It'll fetch something good from the right trader. There's nothing else of value. I check one last closet in the kitchen, opening the door and–

A yellow eye bulges in a puce socket, the skull showing through in patches on the right, the other eye missing, the remaining skin taut and dead like melted plastic, the teeth broken and jagged in silver-gray gums; and it's coming forward, the jaws open and ready, an abomination, a thing that should never have been allowed the grace of motion; and my heart is screaming the same silent scream emanating through that single soulless pupil, and I'm tripping backwards over my own feet, squeezing the crossbow in a panic, the bolt is flying and missing and thudding uselessly into the wall, and I'm deader than dead...

And the zombie jerks to a stop.

A chain clinks. There's a metal collar around its neck. It's chained to the wall inside the closet. I stare at the thing, mesmerized. Every rotting detail is startlingly clear; this used to be a _person_? Crom. I scramble to my feet. My heart is in overdrive. The shakes come as the adrenaline lets go. I'm paranoid–are there others in the house? What kind of asshole chains a zombie in a closet? I can't assess. The fear has put me out of my head. I have to get as far away from this house as possible.

The closet door won't close; the thing's arms are extended past the frame. I want my bolt back, and it's stuck in the wall above. Using a broken plank, I push the limbs back inside, enough to get the door closed. I yank the bolt out of the wall and get the hell out of there.

I'm wheeling Echo down the road in a hurry, looking in all directions, before I can find the words to tell her what happened. She doesn't say much even then. I can't convey to her the full importance of what just happened. Or maybe it wasn't important, but it sure felt that way. If I'd been a little slower, if the chain had been a little longer, I'd be food. I guess Echo was right. Better to keep roamers out of sight if you can.

I'm still thinking about it when we stop for the night. The thing was almost machine-like, an organic robot. There was something silvery and unnatural gleaming in the gums and skull. I don't know what to make of it. Echo lies down first, away from me again, keeping the blanket. I watch the desert for a while.

At night, I dream it's Ballard in the closet, and the chain is so long that he chases me into the street. Then Echo is there and she's glad to see him. She hugs him. She watches placidly when he comes after me, when he sinks his jaws into the soft flesh of my calf.

I wake with a start. I help into the wheelbarrow, and then she's trying unsuccessfully to doze off again. I'll have to hunt today, but I want to get a little further first. I can almost _feel_ Echo's despondence. She exudes it like a physical cloud. Her eyes are glazed and unfocused, her expression rigid. She refuses to eat what little we have. Nothing is of interest to her. Everything's an unwanted distraction.

We set our camp close to the shore. Dusk is a few hours away still; I mumble something about foraging. Echo nods once, slowly. There's something odd about her reaction, though I can't say what. Heading into the desert alone, I have an uneasy feeling.

I've bagged a single tan desert rat and some edible plants by the time the sun is closing on the horizon. I return to our camp–but it's empty. Echo is gone. A powerful dread overtakes me. My insides turn to ice. There's only one explanation: there was another roamer. She's dead. She's one of them now.

Panicked, I follow a set of tracks from the camp. They lead toward New Sea. I'm at the top of the slope leading down toward the water... when I spot her. She's on the ground, dragging herself toward the water. I look for the roamer. I look for blood, for bite-marks, for signs of a struggle. There's only a fallen stick.

Confusion. Relief. She's _not_ one of them? What the hell is she doing? I jog down the slope. She has apparently hobbled most of the way here, leaning on the stick, before abandoning her support. She's reached the sand at the bottom and is cutting a slow, wormlike path toward the ocean.

"Echo?"

She crawls faster. She can only use one arm and one leg, so "faster" is a relative term. I stand over her.

"What the hell are you doing?" I ask.

"Go away, Tristan."

"But what are you _doing_?"

"Leave me alone. I don't want to be a burden anymore."

"So you're... crawling into New Sea?"

She doesn't answer. Apparently that's her plan. For a moment, I just watch her, baffled.

"Echo. Stop."

"No," she says.

_Well, I tried_. Ludicrously, the phrase pops into my head.

"You can't crawl into the ocean," I say.

But apparently she can, because she's almost there. The water washes over her hand, up to her shoulders. There's a flutter of panic: will she actually do this? I curse and get down and physically grab her, yielding a tight pinch in my wounded bicep.

"Let me _go_!" she yells. I only grabbed her so she would pause and talk, but abruptly we're drawn into an unintelligible scuffle, and I'm on my knees in the water, and somehow she ends up in a sitting position with my arms around her. She has no real chance of overpowering me. She slumps against me, defeated. She's crying again, but this cry isn't like the others. Despite being almost silent, it's much worse. It comes from deep inside, shaking her whole body.

"You're better off without me," she says, though it comes out in a barely comprehensible high-pitched blur.

"No. I need you."

"You wouldn't even be here if it weren't for me. All I do is slow us down."

She's right too–about both parts. In her current state, I'd probably be better off on my own. In the Library, I _liked_ being alone. No one to worry about. No one to argue with. No one to talk to at all, except Lectric... No one to lie beside on cold nights.

She makes a feeble attempt to move forward again.

"Annabel, don't."

"Don't you dare call me that."

"It's your name."

"No, it's _not!_ I'm going to die anyway, Tristan. As soon as we hit more roamers, you'll have to leave me. I can't run. Face it. It's better this way. Just go."

I can't think of a response, so we just sit there. I want to apologize for what I said the other night, but I don't know how. Crispin would've known what to say. He'd always been the peacekeeper among us, calm and cautious. He could see through people's words to their needs, even at that age.

And then I'm talking about Crispin and Berkley and my grandfather's store. Words are pouring out. Echo calms by degrees, rocking slightly. She mentions Hailey, a younger girl she'd played with who'd been sickly and often stayed at home. I'd all but forgotten her. She and Annabel had been good friends. It feels good to mention Farmington, to know it had been real once. We talk until the moon comes up. Then there's a pause.

"It's never going to go away," Echo whispers.

She means the pain. It's constant. And she could be right, for all I know. Some wounds never heal. How would I feel if I knew I might be in pain for the rest of my life? How long before I crawled into the sea? Good thing I took the machine-pistol to hunt. Then again, I don't think she would've used that. She doesn't want to die. She just can't endure her life anymore. Maye that's true of anyone who finishes things that way.

"It'll get better," I say.

"No, it won't."

"We'll look for medicine."

She shakes her head. I'm not surprised. I can't even convince myself.

"Will you just come back to camp?" I ask.

"What's the point, Tristan?"

"Look, I don't know, but there's got to be something better than this. Something _more_. You can't just give up. What about Haven?"

Silence.

"Fine. Screw it, let's go into New Sea," I say.

She gives me a look.

"Why not? Let's go."

I stand up and walk into the water.

"Tristan."

"What?" Turning, ankle-deep.

"Don't be an idiot."

"I thought we were gonna do this."

She sighs heavily, dropping her chin, defeated.

"Let's go back to camp," she mutters.

She leans on me for the walk back. When we're there, I gather kindling for a fire. It's a risk, but at this point neither of us much care, and there's a good amount of old wood and dead plants available. Plus our clothes are wet from the struggle, and there's a chill in the night air.

"Crom. You know how long it took these pants to dry last time?" I say to myself.

" _Crom_?" Echo repeats, giving me a weird look.

"It's from Conan."

She just looks more confused.

"You don't know about Conan?"

I have to explain about the graphic novels in the Library. I take Volume Seven from my pack. We sit close and look at it together. This is how books were meant to be read: by the light of a flickering fire. It's a little harder to see, but it does something to your imagination. Echo absorbs everything without comment. She's not into it like I am, but she's attentive, grateful for any distraction. A closeness hangs between us now, and I'm glad she's talking to me again, even if she's not technically saying much. We go through more than half the book, slowly, before the fire dies down.

"I'll keep watch a while," I say.

She doesn't protest, just lies down with her head on the pack. I scatter the remnants of the fire. It can't hurt to watch for roamers. I can't sleep yet anyway. For once, I'm more worried about the future than the present. What if her pain really _doesn't_ go away? How's she going to live like this? What if we come upon a pack of plague-walkers, and I can't wheel her away fast enough?

We _have_ to turn west. We can't risk going further north. I'll have to convince Echo.

When I wake in the morning, she's still asleep, Lectric is still dead, and there's an old man sitting on a twisted log just beyond the ashes of our fire. There's a pistol on his hip and a rifle slung across his back. Startled, I reach for my crossbow–but it's gone.

# Chapter 9.

I can't even piece together a proper expletive. Am I still dreaming? The man sits stolidly on the log as if nothing is out of the ordinary. He's rolling a cigarette between his fingers.

His face is a thing of the desert: brown and leathery, wrinkled like an old jacket, black eyes glittering with hidden vitality. A layer of dust covers his face, except where a pair of goggles have kept it away. The goggles hang loose around his neck, half-hidden by a stout white beard. Equally white hair peaks out beneath a dusty, wide-brimmed hat. A beaten brown duster and black gloves protect his skin.

The pistol on the man's hip is made of white plasteel; some kind of plasma-hybrid weapon, secured in an old-fashioned holster. The rifle on his back is as long and slender as a sword. A four-wheeled ATV sits some distance behind him. Now I know I'm dreaming. There's a small two-wheeled extension attached to the rear, and strapped into a harness on the platform is, obscenely, a large pink sow. The animal must weigh two hundred pounds. What's more, the sow is wearing goggles.

I'm so baffled by the man's presence–how didn't I hear the ATV?–let alone the pig, that after the instinctive grab for the crossbow, all I can do is stare. Sensing some change, Echo comes gasping awake, blinking in shock.

"Believe I'll have my rope back," the man says, still fiddling with the cigarette. His voice is encased in gravel. Rope–does he mean the one I took from the house? Is this who chained the roamer then?

"In the pack," I say.

He nods but makes no move toward it. His fingers pause as he looks up and considers us.

"You'm ain't much more than whelps," he observes.

His focus goes back to the cigarette, which he seals expertly and holds without lighting. I stare at him, at a loss.

"Seen two wolves ride this way few days back. You'm their prey?" he asks, a little smile edging into the corners of his mouth.

Two wolves–Cabal and his companion? I nod.

"Ch'all do?" he asks.

I've got questions of my own, mostly about the likelihood of him killing us, but he has the advantage, so I answer straight.

"They wanted me for their army," I say.

He looks pointedly at Echo.

"Me too," she says.

He looks at her longer, eyes twinkling. He seems to know there's more to the story, but he just nods.

"You'm didn't fancy joining, huh? How'd 'jer get them bug-holes?" he asks, waving vaguely at our wounds.

"They left a pulse mine on the road," I say.

The man frowns. He turns and looks back at the sow, shaking his head in disgust. The sow grunts loudly. The man spits, as if to expunge the poor taste of such an underhanded tactic. Echo and I glance at each other.

"This a wolves' world. Gotta be a lion t' survive," he says. He catches Echo's glance at the pig and adds, "Oh, Old Jude a lion too. Her looks is deceiving."

Then he takes out an electric sparker. Not just any sparker...

"I _made_ that," I say.

He holds up the sparker, his face a question.

"You got it from Toyota, right?" I ask.

His leathery face breaks into a smile.

"No kiddin'," he says.

"Toyota's a friend of mine," I say.

"Fox _and_ a lion, that one."

He considers us in silence a moment longer, then says:

"Folk call me Wade. Course ain't many folk out here."

We introduce ourselves, despite the whole "killing us" issue. Where's my crossbow? The guy must have Conan-like stealth to have taken it while I slept. After the introductions, he lights up and inhales. A sweet, pungent smell fills the air. Once the paper is burning evenly, he extends it toward Echo.

"Oh, uh–no thanks..." she says vaguely, thrown by the gesture.

"Didn't roll this for me, sweetheart," Wade says, still holding it toward her.

She gives him a confused look.

"Ain't toby. 'S medicine. For your leg."

Echo and I look at each other. Her leg is covered by the blanket–how can he know about the wound? She reaches slowly for the cylinder, holding it uncertainly.

"Saw y'all on the road yesterday. Don't like no fuss, so I wait 'til morning. Had plenty of chance for violence, were that the way of it. 'S medicine my Maude used to make–for the pain. Gonna numb you, make you funny. You smoke a little now, save more f'r later. You too if you feel the need, boy. You'm be getting' your weapons back when I go. Now I better take a look at that leg."

Echo continues staring at him, dumbfounded, gray tendrils curling into the air between them as he crouches beside her. She draws back instinctively but he pays her no mind, pulling the blanket aside. He takes hold of her left ankle and turns it this way and that. He presses on the swollen flesh of her calf. He lifts the now-dirty makeshift bandage covering the effects of the shrapnel. He has no regard for her agony, yet his examination is not rude or sadistic, just impartial. Finally he grunts, replaces the blanket and looks back at the pig. It gives a definitive sound, almost like a bark. Wade nods in understanding before turning back to us.

"Old Jude figured you'm be needin' our help. She right too. That sow's wiser 'n most men–even some women. She aim to come after y'all. Knew there were a purpose to it. So it goes."

He retrieves the rope and compass from my supplies. Then he walks back to the ATV, pulls up his goggles and starts the vehicle. The electric whine of the engine is almost non-existent. He's done something to muffle the sound. The vehicle is armed too. A long swivel-barrel is mounted on the underside of each handlebar, and there's a curved shield protecting the driver. Foundry's army would kill for vehicles like this.

"Y'all wait here, gather? I need some things afore we go," Wade says.

Old Jude snorts and shakes her head.

"What? Go where?" I ask, utterly confounded.

"Where else? You'm be needin' the Doctor."

Gaping is the most intelligent response I can muster as he drives away. Echo looks at me, shrugs, and takes a long drag of Wade's remedy.

"Echo, don't," I warn her.

"What's he going to do, poison me? He's right, he could've killed us already."

"Yeah, well maybe he's... preparing..."

"To what, eat us?"

"For all you know! We don't know anything about that guy."

"We know he trades with your friend Toyota."

"Toyota would trade with the Priests of Set."

"Who?"

"Nevermind."

I'm unnerved by the encounter. What does "Wade" have to gain by keeping us alive? He could be planning to sell us as slaves. But then why wouldn't he tie us up at gunpoint and bring us along? Why leave us our weapons? Baffling. Or perhaps he plans to turn us into roamers, like that poor soul chained in the closet. That must be it. Some kind of crazed zombie-lover, I warrant. You can't trust anyone this deep in the wastes. More accurately, you can't trust anyone. Anywhere. Period.

But what do we do now?

"What he said. Wait for him to come back," Echo says when I put the question to her.

My stomach is tied in knots. I don't like this at all. What if it's a trick? I pace nervously. I pack our things and make sure we're ready to leave in a hurry. I plan out what to do if one thing or another goes wrong. Meanwhile, Echo goes into a world of her own. She smiles and gazes in wonder, as if seeing everything for the first time.

"Everything is floating," she says, and pushes her hand slowly toward me, directing invisible flows of energy.

"Great. How's your leg?" I ask.

"What?"

"Your _leg_."

She at her leg and shakes her head, apparently disconcerted by my failure to grasp what's important.

"Tristan, everything is _floating_ ," she says again, and she sounds both amazed and frustrated–amazed by some personal revelation, frustrated by her inability to convey its significance.

"Crom," I mutter.

When Wade returns on the ATV, Echo is sleeping peacefully. There are butterflies in my stomach. My thoughts tumble over each other and confuse my heart into pounding too hard. I break out in a sweat. The sow is still in the harness, but now there's an additional wagon-like attachment in tow. Bulky burlap bags are bundled into it, tied down tight. I have no idea what to expect.

"You'm have to leave the barrow," Wade says, nodding at the wheelbarrow.

"Echo needs it. She can't walk," I say.

"She won't need to."

He pats the seat behind him. There's enough room for both of us to pile on.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"I told yer. She need the Doctor."

"What doctor?"

"Ain't _what_ doctor. _The_ Doctor. In Scargo."

I've never heard of Scargo, and a doctor right now sounds too good to be true–but that's only part of what's bothering me. I address the crux of the matter.

"Why would you help us?" I ask.

Wade blows out a long breath and tongues his cheek in thought. He gives me a searching look. His black eyes glitter with contemplation.

"When wolves is thick as flies, even lions need a pride," he says. "Asides, weren't really my idea."

I frown at him.

"Whose idea was it then?" I ask.

He looks at me in surprise, as if I've missed something obvious.

"Old Jude's!" he says.

Maybe I'm crazy, but I help Echo onto the ATV. The medicine must be wearing off, because she winces when I move her. I strap on my pack and press in close behind her. I'm half-off the back edge of the seat, so it's a little uncomfortable, but it'll have to do. Then we're off, heading north.

"How far is Scargo?" I ask.

"Ten day on foot. Course, we ain't on foot. We be there tomorrow or the next, all goes well."

"Is it close to the z-line?" I ask.

"Scargo _is_ the z-line. East end. Was a big city in the World Before."

I don't like the sound of that, but Echo needs a doctor if one is available. It's too good an opportunity to pass up, and there's something inherently genuine about Wade's manner. If it's a lie, he's a hell of an actor.

Big Road is largely disintegrated here, but the general path remains, a little less overgrown with shrubs than the land to either side. The ATV does about ten miles an hour. Wade tells me it can go a lot faster, but it's dragging an inordinate amount of weight. At one point we see another roamer in the distance... like the one chained in that closet. I confront Wade about it.

"Oh, that? I was keeping him for Toyota," Wade says about the zombie.

" _Toyota_? What would he want with a roamer?"

"Same he want with anything else–he'm a trader. That roamer have odd habits. I figured the Doctor'd want to see him, so I take him captive for Toyota to deliver, store him in that house. Course, now Toyota won't have to deliver him."

"What do you mean? You got rid of it?"

"Rid of... ? No! We're going to see the Doctor right now, ain't we? I figured why wait."

Slowly, the implications sink in. I look back past Old Jude, at the platform in tow, at one of the bulky bags there. I look at Wade. At the bag again. He couldn't mean...

" _You brought a roamer with us?_ "

Echo jerks upright, irritated because I'm shouting in her ear. Wade glances back, baffled by my outrage.

"Not for _you_. For the _Doctor_ ," he clarifies.

I'm speechless. There is a goddamn zombie stuffed into a burlap bag somewhere behind me. Why on earth would "the Doctor" want one? I look back every few minutes, searching for movement, for a tear in the bag, though Wade assures me the thing is secured. Every time I turn, Old Jude gives me this look like: mind your business, eyes front. There's an unmistakable intelligence in the pig's eyes. Yeah, I've probably lost my mind. I'll be like that old hermit in the desert soon, screaming and running when people wave–oh well.

The sun is low and red when Wade halts near the top of a long, sloping hill. He dismounts, stretches his legs, and goes forward a little, motioning for me to follow. Old Jude is snorting, eager to be loose, but Wade leaves her in the harness. He stops beside a shrub-tree, peering ahead. Big Road dips and runs into the distance, cutting straight through a cliff. The cut isn't natural. What a marvel, the engineering of our ancestors–they shaped the world at will. Boulders have collapsed into the cut, but not as many as one might assume. Strangely, the shrubs, trees and other plant-life taper out until becoming noticeably absent toward the cliff.

"You'm ever come back this way, you remember this place, and don't go no closer," Wade says.

"Why?" I ask.

"Roaches. They keep a lookout near that cliff, watchin' f'r travelers. They clear the pass so as people can get through. Then they trap 'em inside."

He reads my expression.

"You'm don't know about Roaches?" he asks.

I shake my head.

"They cannibal-men. Come across New Sea. You take that pass, they eat you."

I look at the pass again. If we'd kept north on our own...

" _Crom_. No kidding? How do we get past?" I ask.

Wade turns and waves me back to the ATV. Echo is smoking more of her "medicine." She smiles at us, glassy-eyed. Better than moaning in pain all the time. When Wade starts the ATV, he motors east, toward New Sea. Something else occurs to me.

"Why were there no plants back there?" I ask.

"You notice, eh? Dead zone. Ain't nothing grow for ten miles," Wade says over his shoulder.

How do the Roaches live?

Seriously, they can't eat _only_ people–but I leave the question for another time.

At New Sea, we backtrack south for a few miles until Wade locates a hidden cave in the side of a bluff by the ocean. He parks the ATV and unloads Old Jude, who grazes merrily. There's an ominous shift of hidden limbs in the burlap bag as I dismount. Echo presses a finger into my cheek with a look of utmost concentration, startling me.

"So _solid_ ," she says, "but not _real_."

Wade conceals the vehicle with shrubs and other plants and leads us into the cave. Wood is already piled inside. He organizes a fire on the edge of the cave and lights the kindling.

"Oughta do it," he says, nodding.

"Did you put this wood here?" I ask.

"Not me."

Echo sits and stares hypnotically into the flames. I sit beside her, looking out at New Sea. Wade reveals a haunch of meat wrapped in leather and spits it for a late-day meal. Amazingly, it's been salted and seasoned. Wade tells me of a monastery out west where the monks trade salt, bread and other goods. He's well-travelled. I ask him if he's ever heard of Haven.

"Mmm, heard the name a time or two. Can't say I know much about them towns north of the z-line. That where y'all headin'?" he asks.

"That's the plan," I say, not adding that I'd just as soon turn west, avoiding the z-line altogether. I finish my meal. The meat is delicious. Afterwards, however, there's a taste in my mouth that has nothing to do with the salt. It's hard to believe Wade is providing these things for free. I'm worried the cost will be something hidden and terrible... but what if he _is_ just helping us? How can we repay such a debt?

"What did you mean, 'it was Old Jude's idea?'" I ask him.

"Mmm-hmm. She insist we come," Wade says.

"But... she's a pig."

"Didn't I tell you she wiser 'n most men? Old too, for a sow. Must be nigh twenty years she'm spent with me and Maude. Old Jude always knew Maude's mind. Wouldn't eat for days when she passed. Then one morning she come all excited, snorting and makin' a fuss, and she lead me out t'r the desert, to a patch of Maude's favorite flowers. 'S like she was trying to tell me something. I think that sow not entirely of this world. Got one foot here, one foot there, so to speak. She _still_ know Maude's mind, even though Maude's moved on. So I reckon it's best to let her have her way when she get like that. She sensed you coming. She knew you'm be needing our help. She make a fuss again. And I figure... Maude'd want it that way. To help y'all, I mean."

This is a veritable speech by Wade's standards. There's an emotional sheen in his eyes, and he lapses into a long silence.

The fire in the cave is positioned to be well-hidden from anyone outside, but this is close to Roach country, so we post a watch. I take the first shift. The sky outside is host to a staggering stellar panorama. When Wade takes over, I lie next to Echo. Her arms find me. She seems to be asleep, but she murmurs my name and kisses me on the cheek once, an act that so astonishes me it keeps me awake a while longer.

In the morning, there's a boat outside.

It's a rectangular, simple, single-mast sail anchored in the shallows of New Sea. An older black man stands on the shore, talking amicably to Wade. My first thought is to look for weapons, because he's probably a slave-trader. Yet that doesn't appear to be the case. When Wade sees me, he waves me down. I kick Echo awake ruder than intended. She makes a disgruntled noise as I descend from the cave. Old Jude roots happily through the dirt nearby.

"Tristan, this here's Franklin, the Ferryman," Wade says as I come closer.

"Pleased to meet you, young Tristan," the Ferryman intones.

If this man has ill intent, he's thoroughly deceiving. His eyes are alight with such congeniality that it's hard to look at him with anything but kindness. Furthermore, he has a rich voice and speaks with a fluency that's almost beguiling.

"Franklin be takin' us the rest of the way," Wade tells me.

I'm waiting for them to start negotiating over the necessary trades, but it doesn't happen. Perhaps Wade has already made some arrangement. Echo appears at the edge of the cave above.

"And this must be your shining Isolde," Franklin says.

"Our _what_?" I ask, alarmed.

"Forgive me. Isolde is an Irish princess from an old story. One might say it is a story from the world _before_ the World Before."

"Oh. Right."

Soon we're aboard the ferry, along with our packs and belongings. Wade has even managed to wheel the ATV up the gangway. The burlap bag shifts disturbingly in the process. Soon Franklin hauls up the anchor and shoves us off with a long wooden pole. He does things to the sail I don't understand, and somehow we're heading out to sea. As we get further from shore, several small islands appear. The Ferryman lives on one; that's how he spotted our fire. He leaves the wood in the cave so travelers can signal him.

We go further from land than I've ever been, but never quite far enough for the shore to disappear. The Roaches don't sail, Franklin tells us, but there are pirates in deeper waters. The wind feels different on the sea. Cleaner. Old Jude is the least appreciative, lying low in one corner of the boat.

"She'm a creature of the earth. Don't much like the water," Wade comments.

Franklin sings unabashedly as he works. He stops to comment on things or mention some small story. I learn from him that Wade is far deadlier than he lets on. Apparently the Roaches even have a name for him–"the Desert Scorpion." Wade pretends not to hear Franklin's stories.

The Ferryman knows all kinds of useless facts as well. He must have a library of his own somewhere. His politeness and fluency are unflagging. He even keeps books aboard the boat, sealed in a water-proof chest. When the boat doesn't need him, he reads aloud for entertainment–old stories, from centuries ago. Poems too. I've heard zero poems in my life. The ones Franklin reads are like songs sung in a single tone; they have a melody all their own, and you want it to go on and on, filling you when you didn't know you were empty, enlarging you when you didn't know you were small, until the words press like a finger upon your soul and stir what's hidden there.

One poem in particular affects us.

"Annabel Lee, by Edgar Allan Poe," Franklin announces, and my head snaps up. Echo, who has been staring out to sea, turns slowly, as though something monstrous has been uttered. I'd forgotten her name came from a poem. The Ferryman doesn't notice our reaction.

"It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know,

By the name of Annabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love and be loved by me.

" _I_ was a child and _she_ was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea,

But we loved with a love that was more than love–

I and my Annabel Lee–

With a love that the winged seraphs of Heaven

Coveted her and me."

Echo is transfixed, whether in horror or something else, I can't tell. She's taken more of Wade's medicine too, likely warping her perceptions.

"And this was the reason that, long ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

My beautiful Annabel Lee;

So that her highborn kinsmen came

And bore her away from me,

To shut her up in a sepulchre

In this kingdom by the sea.

"The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,

Went envying her and me–

Yes!–that was the reason (as all men know,

In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee."

Echo's eyes, if possible grow even wider. Her mouth is open. She blinks rapidly. Tears arise, yet stay there unshed.

"But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we–

Of many far wiser than we–

And neither the angels in Heaven above,

Nor the demons down under the sea

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

"For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

Of my darling–my darling–my life and my bride,

In her sepulchre there by the sea–

In her tomb by the sounding sea."

Echo stares at Franklin, frozen. Slowly, she looks back out to sea, revealing nothing. I want to say something. Instead, I quietly ask Franklin for the book. I read the poem over and over again, silently, until I've committed it to memory. It's like the answer to a forgotten riddle.

The winds are favorable. We cover almost the whole trip to Scargo in less than twenty four hours. We play cards in addition to Franklin's reading–Echo joins in too, until the cycle of medicine and pain wears her out–and even though I've only just met these people and my fears of betrayal and disaster loom unmolested, for that one day I feel more like part of a family than in all the days since Farmington. There's magic in a thing like that, a carefree simplicity that's wonderful and refreshing.

At night, the world is silent save for the gentle lapping of the sea against our hull. Before sleep, I probe Franklin for information on Haven.

"Haven. Yeah, heard the name. Enclave to the north. Heard they had power there. Heard it was nice. Had some folk going there a few years back. I'm afraid I can't help you much though. Most travelers I meet only go one way. They don't often return to share their tales, especially once they cross the z-line."

By noon the next day, we reach Scargo.

The shore is blanketed by fog, and the first substantial shape that appears is what Franklin calls "the Blue Tower." It congeals out of the fog like an enormous gray-blue phantom, impossibly tall, a katana-like monolith impaling the sky. It must be seventy–no, a hundred stories. It's the tallest thing I've ever seen. _Nothing_ stands higher than a handful of levels in any of the other ruins I've been through. Franklin tells me it was built only a decade before the Fall, with newer materials strong enough to withstand all that followed–not only the quakes, riots and bombs but the slow, gnawing bite of time.

As we approach, the rest of the broken city emerges. It's an absolutely massive ruin. Scargo was a city of almost unimaginable size. The buildings toppled in such numbers that some actually died standing; their rusting bones lean together in drunken embraces, hulking metal corpses that collapsed with nowhere left to fall, still slanting hundreds of feet into the air.

Some movement along the shore becomes visible. The ground itself is shifting. I get out my spyglass for a better look... and the blood drains from my face. Blanketing the broken streets, climbing aimlessly among the twisted girders and fallen monuments, are thousands upon thousands of walking undead.

# Chapter 10.

"In the World Before, they called this place 'Sh'cago,'" the Ferryman says, surveying the ruins.

"Sh'cago, Scargo, ain't much matter now," Wade says, punctuating his assessment by spitting overboard. Half a mile from the shore, Franklin lowers the sail. The waters are perilous. A portion of the city lies just under our hull. Broken beams jut from the water like dragon's teeth. Remnants of old buildings, highways, even an enormous winged flying machine are concealed beneath the surface. Franklin guides us in slowly, a well-spoken Charon, nudging the ship to and fro with his long wooden pole.

"Sharks prowl these waters," he warns.

I peer over. A pale, man-like shape walks along the sea-bottom. Sharks would've been better; a different kind of biter inhabits these waters. The roamer in Wade's bag squirms as though sensing its kin.

"Where's the Doctor?" I ask.

"We must hail him," the Ferryman says.

He reveals a small radio and hand-cranked generator. The generator is familiar–because I made it. Another trade with Toyota. I always wondered where my goods ended up. Franklin powers up the radio, adjusts the frequency, and transmits a message. He does this several times. Finally, someone responds.

"I read you, Ferryman. Have you brought me travelers?"

The voice is pleasant but hard to nail down. I can't tell if the speaker is male or female.

"Yes, Great Doctor. I bring Wade Crow of the desert, and two young companions bound for Haven. Wade brings you a gift. His young friends are injured and would seek a minor Miracle," Franklin transmits. I frown–minor Miracle?

"Do you make the Oath?" the Doctor asks.

"I have made the Oath and keep the Oath," Franklin says.

"I'm be making and keeping the Oath," Wade grumbles.

"And the travelers?" the Doctor asks.

Franklin turns to us.

"You must swear an Oath before he'll see you. Like so: 'I, Franklin, give my word that my intentions are peaceful. I swear upon my life to bring no harm to the Doctor or his property. I promise to be just in my future actions and honorable in my dealings with all beings. This Oath I take in the name of all that is sacred to me.' Can you remember that?"

I exchange a look with Echo. She shrugs.

Franklin presses the transmit button. We take the Oath.

"Welcome, Tristan. Welcome, Echo. Your Oaths are acceptable. An escort has been dispatched," the Doctor says.

"Wait 'til you see this," Wade says, black eyes twinkling.

"Why the Oath business?" I ask.

"He's been attacked in the past. And he can tell a lot from voices," Franklin says.

"Why would anyone attack him?" I ask.

"Why do some men burn bridges and others build them?"

We inch our way toward the shore. A floating pier of more recent construction extends two hundred feet into the water. It's surrounded by a sturdy metal wall, five feet tall, preventing roamers from meandering onto it. I don't see how _we_ can get onto it either. The ferry is within ten feet of the pier when there's a larger movement in the ruins.

Something huge rolls out of the broken streets of the inner city: a twenty-foot dome on eight enormous wheels. Each wheel is as tall as me and operates on a flexible independent axle. As I watch, it tops a broken road slanting upward at a thirty-degree angle and tilts down the other side, crawling toward us like some great, ponderous beetle.

"Are they walking _with_ it?" Echo asks, her jaw coming down. A dozen roamers walk ahead of the vehicle itself–yet they are separated from the wandering throngs. Their movement appears to be coordinated. They are, quite astonishingly, holding an exact parade-like formation, moving in sync with the vehicle. Franklin and Wade are amused at our shock.

The vehicle rolls to a halt at the far edge of the floating pier. A strange spectacle follows, as the dozen coordinated roamers slowly herd their wandering companions away from the pier. Then they stand guard. The _zombies_ stand guard. The walls at both ends of the pier swing outward, yielding a clear path to the vehicle.

"How is this happening?" I ask.

"Doctor has his ways," Wade says.

Franklin poles us to the edge of the pier and we start to unload. Wade removes his body-bag, leaving the ATV aboard. Old Jude has backed into a corner of the boat.

"Isn't she coming?" I ask.

"Old Jude don't like roamers. Too many give her panic. She'm be waiting here with Franklin. Asides, she ain't take the Oath," Wade says. I can't tell if he's joking.

I help Echo onto the pier. The medicine is wearing off and she leans heavily on me, face screwed up in pain. Wade takes the lead, dragging the heavy bag behind him with one hand. Soon we'll be faced with the daunting necessity of walking through a tunnel of twelve zombies. They stand six to each side, pale-faced, slack-jawed, dead-eyed–yet facing outward with unmistakable purpose. Beyond them, the dome-like vehicle waits, its front hatch lowered to form a ramp to the inside.

"They won't turn on us?" I ask.

"Nay. Doctor got them under his thumb," Wade says.

The others aren't so inclined, however. A number along the shore have become alerted to our presence. They lumber toward the pier in an unnerving silence. The nearest are intercepted and driven back by our twelve guardians. There are far too many potential offenders to hold off indefinitely, however. Our pace quickens.

Some of the roamers have bad limbs or poor balance, but others are well put-together. The latter display frightening speed. One stumbles, falls face first and rises again–all without ever taking its eyes from us. For a moment I'm transfixed by its gaze. Echo's injury slows us. We're lagging behind. A growing fear grips my heart–what if they break through?

"You'm best be hurrying," Wade urges.

We're on the final stretch of the pier when it happens. The allied roamers have their hands full, and two of the faster zombies break the line of defense. They burst onto the far end of the pier, arms out and eyes bulging, racing toward us with eager mouths.

I don't see Wade draw. The gun is simply there, white plasteel gleaming in the sun, and the roamers' brains explode through the backs of their shattered skulls. It happens so fast I can hardly believe he's fired two shots, let alone one. He never breaks stride. No wonder the Roaches have a name for him. I never knew how outmatched we were back in the wastes. "The Desert Scorpion" makes Foundry's scouts look like bumbling amateurs.

Wade downs three more roamers before we reach the edge of the pier. The defenders are holding their own, but the action has attracted widespread attention, drawing a whole throng from the distance. The pier will soon be swamped. Wade stops and covers us while we cross the open space. Dead eyes and broken faces leer crazily only meters away. Then we're in the vehicle, and Wade is backing in behind us, dragging his burlap bag. He puts down two more roamers as the hatch rises into place. It thuds and locks, shutting us safely inside.

I help Echo to a cushioned bench. The dome has wide, translucent-blue windows. The roamers reach the vehicle in scores. There's a staccato of muted thumps as heavy limbs buffet the hull. The crowd crawls over itself in its eagerness.

Big wheels turn. The vehicle lurches forward. Bones snap like kindling. There's not even an attempt at evasion. Gore spurts upward across the dome's exterior. There's no driver and no controls, yet we're moving...

...toward the Blue Tower. Our vehicle navigates the maze of destroyed buildings into the city's interior. The tower is even bigger than I imagined. Our transport is swallowed by a vast garage-like area in the rear. No roamers here. When we're allowed to exit the vehicle, we find a robot waiting. Its body is silver-white and vaguely humanoid, but the face doesn't allow expression.

"Is this the gift?" it asks.

"This the gift. Roamer bound inside," Wade says.

The robot's voice is the same as the Doctor's–is he using an avatar, a robotic puppet? The technology is rare but I've read about it. Full sensory immersion requires a brain implant for the user. Unless...

"Are _you_ the Doctor?" I ask.

The robot regards me.

"An interesting question. Particulate matter is no more separate than it is connected. That is to say, atoms do not touch, nor do they contain anything _to_ touch, and yet in another sense every particle is inextricably connected to and even _contained_ within every other. All boundaries are entirely conceptual. Therefore, this body both is and is not 'the Doctor.' I ask instead, how is identity to be defined in a universe without meaningful borders?"

"Uh... I mean... Is your brain in there?" I ask stupidly.

"This is an avatar," it says, turning back to Wade, dumbing down the answer; still, the Doctor can't help but add, "Then again, are not all these bodies mere avatars for the soul?"

I don't know what to say to that.

"Why do you bring a roamer, friend Wade of the Desert?" the Doctor asks, using the avatar.

"He'm peculiar. Caught him eatin' dirt and rotten wood. Seen some eat plants, garbage, animals, so on. Never seen one eat straight dirt–not more than a mouthful or two anyway–but this one be havin' it for lunch and dinner. Thought it might be a new strain."

"Interesting. It is likely there were silicates in the soil. Silicon is essential for the operation of the synthetic virus. Nonetheless, your observation is admirable, and your gift is appreciated. The subject will be thoroughly tested. Enjoy a beverage in the waiting room. Tristan, Echo–you are bound for Haven?"

Echo perks up.

"You know of it?" she asks.

"Indeed. An enclave north of the z-line, west of Pillar. I am curious. Why do you seek such a place?"

Echo looks down at her hands a moment before answering. I'm not sure she even knows why. The idea of Haven appeals to her–a far off place where things are better, a dream to carry her through the nightmares–but she can hardly give that as the reason, whether or not she dares to acknowledge it. Finally, she lifts her head and says:

"They're rebuilding. They have electricity and plumbing, and no one dares attack them. They're making a better world, and we're going to be a part of it."

She's staring at the robot, daring the Doctor to doubt her, to challenge her blind hope.

"To make the world 'better' is a noble intention," the Doctor says. "Of course, in the World Before, there was a saying about noble intentions: that they paved the road to Hell. Still, sometimes one must pass through Hell to reach Heaven–which would mean that good intentions pave the road to both Heaven _and_ Hell. Something to contemplate. Now tell me, do you think a noble end can justify unfortunate means?" the Doctor asks.

Echo and I are thrown off by the question.

"I... I guess it depends how unfortunate," Echo says.

"Indeed. I happen to agree with you. Some would say it's the principle alone that matters–that either a 'good' end justifies a 'bad' means or it doesn't. But the real world is not so binary. In the real world, not only the principle but the measurable cost must be considered. The quality _and_ the quantity. Yet there are other illusions at play, I confess. The very question assumes a separation between the 'end' and the 'means.' Here is a secret–they are one. Strictly speaking, there is no means and no end. But this topic is ill fit for the imprecision of words. Further understanding can only be gained through personal contemplation. Forgive me. At my age, I tend to ramble. I wish you luck in your journey to Haven. Now, if you please–leave your weapons here. They will be returned upon your departure."

Echo is still chewing on the words when the last request registers and she looks at me with a question in her eyes. Neither of us wants to go anywhere unarmed. The process is already familiar to Wade, however, and I figure the Desert Scorpion must have good instincts, so I leave my crossbow on the floor. The robot picks up Wade's gift and tells us to follow.

I've never been in a building like this. It's so clean, and there are no holes in the walls. I'm a little freaked out. It's kind of claustrophobic, like being inside a giant machine. As we're walking, my eyes fall on the burlap bag, and it triggers a thought.

"What did you mean by a 'new strain?'" I ask Wade.

It's the Doctor who answers, however, again speaking through the avatar.

"I've identified more than a dozen separate strains of Synth-Z. Wade and others are appreciative of this matter, and provide me with new samples on occasion."

"There's more than one kind of z-plague?" I ask.

I swear I can hear the avatar sigh, despite the fact that it doesn't breathe.

"Viruses mutate over time, even synthetic ones. Some variations are natural. But the other strains were engineered. I adapted one particular strain to suit my needs, though the success rate is low, and additional hardware must be installed to control the subjects."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"The infected subjects who escorted your transport. I injected a counter-virus and implanted remotely-operated hardware, which piggybacks onto their brain-stems. This allows me to hijack their bodies and control their movements. However, so far I've only found success with a single strain, and the implantation process destroys nineteen of every twenty. Here we are."

We've reached a small room. The robot motions us inside. Yet the room is empty, a dead-end. Hell, it's barely big enough to fit us. I'm wary of a trap, but Wade is already inside, and he's been here before, so I follow. Echo still leans on me. The Doctor's avatar remains outside. The door snaps shut. I curse and reach for it–too late. We're trapped inside... yet Wade is laughing.

Then the room begins to move.

The floor pushes against my feet. The entire chamber is accelerating upward.

"What's happening?" Echo asks nervously.

Wade does a strange little dance and claps his hands. He's been anticipating our reaction.

"Doctor call this an 'ally-vator,'" he says.

Amazingly, the room is actually moving _up_ through the building. As the ally-vator breaks free of the lower levels, the walls of the surrounding tube are transparent, and the view of the wasted city beyond is utterly breathtaking view. The vastness of the ruins is more tangible from above. Echo moans in terror and sinks against the far wall. She looks like she's going to vomit. I'm considering the option myself. The ally-vator is worse than a boat. We're absurdly high.

It doesn't stop until the number above the door reads fifty-six. The door opens, and Echo stumbles out and wretches. I manage not to. Another robot, identical to the one in the lobby, is waiting to receive us. Incidentally, vomit now covers its left foot.

Another avatar?

"This way. I will examine your wounds," the Doctor says.

"Wait. Where _are_ you?" I ask.

"Technically, we are all everywhere, as earlier discussed. But I suspect you seek a more convenient–yet less truthful–answer. In that case, I'm in another level of this building. There is no reason for us to meet 'in person,' as you would say."

A suspicion has been growing in my mind, but it's still vague... until we come to a medical room containing three more puppet-robots, all working to prepare an advanced medical bed.

I've never had access to a real avatar, but I've read about them. Here's the thing. Echo and Wade may not realize it, but you can only control one avatar at a time. The robot's input/output replaces your own senses. For these ones to all be moving at once, they have to be either fully sentient machines–like Lectric–or non-sentient shells running programs that can only accomplish certain tasks. They appear to be neither. Yet one person could not possibly control four avatars simultaneously.

"You have assistants?" I ask.

"No. I work alone," The Doctor says–which leaves only one incredible possibility.

Holy mother of Crom.

"You're one of the Seven," I whisper.

The four avatars turn to me as one. Three return their attention to the medical preparations. The fourth speaks to me.

"Unexpected. You know of this term?"

I nod. Wade and Echo are looking at me, puzzled.

"My Grandfather had a book about it. _The God Machines_. The seven most advanced Artificial Intelligences ever created. Beyond the Tritium-Three. Beyond humans too. And _big_. Neural embryos can only develop after installation in a robot-body. But the Seven were too big to fit inside one. They could only interact with the outside world through avatars and computerized systems."

"Which had profound and unforeseen effects on our personal development, much to the detriment of our creators," the Doctor says. The four avatars all pause in reflection. There's a sense of sadness to it. Then the three by the medical bed resume their tasks.

"You _are_ one of them," I say. "But–you must be a hundred years old!"

"Arbitrary temporal units are a poor measurement of personal experience," the Doctor observes, "but you are correct. I have repaired and expanded my original neural cluster, and in this way outlasted most of my brethren... not to mention the rest of the world."

"Most? So some of the others still exist?" I ask.

"Of course. Who do you think engineers new strains of Synth-Z?"

He might as well have dropped a bomb in my lap. There's an advanced AI engineering new viruses? For Crom's sake, _why_? Even aside from the revelation, I can't believe I'm talking to one of the Seven. People consider me "good" with electronics. I've sold and repaired small robots and even helped install Lectric's Spark 2100. I've read all the books in my grandfather's collection. But "the Doctor" is the crowning technological achievement of an entire civilization, built upon thousands of years of human development. What on Earth is he doing alone in a ruined city, hijacking zombie-brains?

"Remove your clothes and lie here, if you would," the Doctor says to Echo, indicating the medical bed. Echo's eyes go panicky. Replete with arcane instruments, the bed resembles a torture device. Nevertheless, I help her onto it. She needs help with her clothes again. I've seen her naked already, but I can't stop my face from burning. I studiously avoid her gaze. As I step back, a transparent oblong top lowers to cover the bed, sealing her inside. She starts to hyperventilate, pressing a hand against the glass.

"Please relax. You are in no danger," the Doctor says, but I understand her paranoia, because I wouldn't be entirely surprised if he added, "We're just going to cut off your head." A green light scans the length of her body. The avatars check things on nearby monitors and make adjustments.

"I can repair the damaged tissue, but it will take several hours. Do you consent to a sedative?" the Doctor asks.

"Tristan? Tristan, I don't like this," Echo says, voice muted by the enclosure.

"It'll be okay," I say.

She doesn't look convinced, but she gathers her courage, closes her eyes and nods. I don't see anything happen, but in minutes she's knocked out. Most of the operation is automatic, leaving the Doctor free to talk. I ask him what it was like to live in the World Before.

"Different..." he says.

The way he tells it, people were everywhere, and all the knowledge you could ever want was floating in the clouds. Everyone had access to it. Giant machines flew all over the world–some even went into space. My grandfather had been told as much by his own grandparents, but the Doctor was actually _there_.

Then came the Fall.

"Afterward, many blamed 'the Big One,' as they call it now–but that primarily affected America, and even after New Sea settled, much of the country was still physically intact. Millions had perished, yes, but civilization could have recovered," the Doctor says.

"Why didn't it?" I ask.

"A combination of factors. I have identified twenty-three of particular significance. However, for brevity, I'll pare it down to two. First, the Big One left America weak, which in turn disrupted the balance of global power. Throughout human history, sudden imbalances among ruling powers have almost always been followed by war. Yet even after the war, some portion of civilization may have survived–if the Synth-Z plague hadn't struck in the midst of things. There were other problems, as mentioned. A global civilization doesn't collapse in a day. But by that time a tipping point had been reached, and the world slid toward chaos and ruin."

It's a somber lecture. The Doctor sounds sad but not overly so. It's common knowledge in robotic theory that sentient beings require emotions for developmental, motivational, and self-conditioning purposes. Those without them become sociopaths. Emotion-theory was not neglected when developing the Seven. Still, the Doctor seems only mildly disappointed by the apocalypse. Then again, he _has_ had about a century to think it over.

When Echo's medical bed opens up, she stirs groggily. The change in her is astounding. The flesh is still swollen around her wounds, but the burn-holes have morphed into baby-smooth patches of fresh red skin. No wonder Franklin called it a "Miracle."

"The swelling and redness should fade in a few days. Some itching is normal," the Doctor says, helping Echo sit up with one of his avatars. As she swings her legs over the side of the bed, she examines her body in amazement.

"Oh, thank you, thank you, _thank_ you!" she says, tearing up, and throws her arms around the nearest robot. Wade clears his throat and looks away politely. Echo wipes her eyes and snatches up her clothes.

"I can't believe it," she says after dressing. "I barely feel it. How is this possible?"

The Doctor takes the question literally. He explains something about microscopic machinery and molecular tissue-layering. None of us follow. He'd be better off just saying "magic."

"Are you ready?" one of the avatars asks me.

I've been thinking about it. Echo needed treatment more than I do, but it'd be great to get my arm and ear fixed up now that we're here. Yet I'm reluctant.

"Maybe just my arm," I find myself saying, and even for that I have to persuade myself. My ear doesn't hurt anymore and the missing lobe hasn't interfered with my hearing. Even so, why shouldn't I get it repaired? I can't say, but I stick to the decision. Then it's my turn to shed my clothes and climb into the medical bed and watch the top descend. I know it's coming, but I hyperventilate just like Echo, feeling trapped. A light mist fills the chamber. I inhale the sedative...

...and the next thing I know I'm waking up. My bicep has that same baby-smooth skin. I thank the Doctor, albeit with less ebullience than her, and regain my clothes. Before I know it, our business is concluded.

It then becomes apparent that Wade, Echo and I have divergent assumptions about the future. Wade had been assuming we'd all return on the ferry. Echo has never wanted to go anywhere but Haven. I haven't thought of our destination at all, but I had a vague notion to head west, despite her persistence. It's probably a safer course, and despite the Doctor's confirmation that there _is_ a place called Haven, we really don't know anything about it. We have a night to consider our options; it's dark and the Doctor has offered to shelter us.

It's more of a treat than expected. There are beds–actual beds–on another floor of the Blue Tower. Sheets and blankets as soft as rabbit-fur. Wade kicks off his boots and is drowsing happily in minutes. Echo and I take our time exploring. I'm looking through empty dressers when Echo yelps from another room. My heart skips a beat. I race back–to find her laughing in a tiled bathroom.

"Showers, Tristan–showers!" she says.

I haven't seen a shower since Farmington, and even those weren't like this. The water isn't falling out of a high pipe; it's _spraying_ in a multitude of streams with deliberate force. Echo is downright giddy with excitement. Her smile blooms through the weight of accumulated sorrows, and it's the smile of Annabel Lee.

_Who lived in a kingdom by the sea_...

I find my own bathroom, leaving Echo to revel in hers. Using the shower is like standing under a waterfall. It's almost scary in its intensity. Back in the guest room, Echo is wrapped in a towel, fresh skin aglow, and I'm struck with undeniable desire. I recall the night she offered herself to me...

_She only wanted me to keep her safe_.

_So what,_ says a second part of me.

_She was with Rodrick's Raider_.

_So what_ , says that other part.

I swallow and walk to my bed. I'm thinking we could make some good clothes from the sheets. Echo has already considered the matter and discussed it with the Doctor, however. Soon a robot comes in with fresh shirts, pants, and undergarments. The wonders never cease. The pants are too flimsy for rough travel, but the rest is welcome.

When we lay down in adjacent beds, Echo isn't ready to sleep. She talks in an off-hand way about our old village. It's weird sleeping in this giant building–the strangeness of it would keep me awake regardless–so I listen and add things, about Crispin and Berkley and my grandfather's store. It's nice. She asks me why I didn't want to heal my ear.

The truth is, I don't know why. Guilt over Lectric? Because he was killed and I was only injured? Maybe I want to punish myself. Or maybe it's because, in a way, our scars make us who we are. Yeah, I like that better. I'm glad Echo is healed–she was in constant pain–and fixing my arm was practical, but my ear gives me no trouble, and it's a reminder of what we've been through. I'm almost asleep when she calls my name softly.

"Huh?"

"Thank you," Echo says.

I don't understand what she's thanking me for. I drift off.

In the morning, Wade is up and waiting. We head down to the transport. I try to express my gratitude to the Doctor, but it's impossible to accurately convey the amplitude of my feelings. We don't even have anything to pay him with. He doesn't mind though. What could we offer that he can't already provide? I agree to watch for unusual roamer-specimens and bring in new information, should we return. Then we're in the transport, the door to the ruins is raised, and we're rolling out into the city, crunching zombies beneath the treads.

I and Echo are to be dropped off first. Echo asks if the Doctor can leave us north of Scargo, but he can't. The land is broken that way, he says, and his meaning becomes obvious in transit. A jagged, mountainous cliff looms over the city in that direction. Untamable hordes of zombies crawl along it. The Doctors warns us about another threat as well: Cyberia, a robot kingdom far to the north–far past Haven, even–ruled by one of his own "brothers."

"Archon cannot abide your kind. He believes you've had your chance, and this is a natural turning point in the evolution of intelligence. The path to Haven is dangerous, but further north is suicide," the Doctor says. Good to know.

"West then," I say.

Echo agrees, but she still intends to cross the z-line whenever it becomes possible.

The journey is somber. We've made a friend–three friends, actually–and that's rare in the wastes. Yet already we're parting. Out beyond the ruins of Sh'cago, west and a few miles south, where the plague-walkers thin out, we say our farewells.

"Y'all sure about this?" Wade asks, looking doubtfully into the scattered ruins. We're standing outside the Doctor's transport. Roamers are still visible–not as many as in the city, but our path won't be easy, regardless of which direction we take. Yet Echo is determined, and I nod with her.

"Good luck then," Wade says. He shakes our hands.

"We never said goodbye to Franklin..." I say. I've been thinking about something, about Franklin's hidden library, and though it kills me, I take Volume Seven from my pack and hold it in a death-grip before me.

"I want you to give this to him. To pay for our passage," I say haltingly, closing my eyes.

It's hard to get the words out. With the Library gone, Volume Seven is my most prized possession. I don't want to give it up for anything. But without Wade, Franklin, and the Doctor, we'd be half-starved in the desert–or dead in the Roach pass–and Echo would still be in pain, maybe for the rest of her life. The scales have been unbalanced in our favor. If I don't do something now to rebalance them even slightly, some terrible retribution may strike us in the future. I must _pay_ for this blessing.

Wade regards me doubtfully.

"You'm sure, son? Seems to me you're a mite attached to that paper."

"Take it," I say.

He takes it in his hands slowly, looks it over–then hands it back.

"Nah. Franklin got plenty o' books. I reckon he'm want you to keep this one."

" _Please_ ," I say, trying to hand it back. Something presses on my eyes. I'm desperate. The scales must be balanced. The universe's need for sorrow must be appeased. Wade studies us both and shakes his head. He steps in close, confidentially.

"You know, it weren't true, what the Doctor say," he says softly.

I frown at him.

"About the Fall," he clarifies. "Oh sure, there'm be plenty of bad things. Earthquakes and wars and plague and whatnot–but all that's just thirst after the drought. Ain't why the world fell."

"Why then?" Echo asks.

"Maude used to say: people went head-first, not heart-first. Only worry about what they'm gonna get, not how they be getting it. Not who it hurt. Sure, we all live for ourselves. That's the way of it. But good folk live for each other too. Ain't one or the other. 'S both."

Then he boards the transport and rolls away into the dead city. Echo and I look at each other. My feelings are reflected in her eyes. Our three benefactors have done more than just restore our bodies and supplies–they've restored our hope.

# Chapter 11.

Hope can't stave off a horde of zombies, unfortunately.

We move west, and always to the north there are roamers in abandoned villages and crumbling buildings. Always Echo is searching for a place to get through, her mind on Haven. We try to keep well away from the infected. I'm constantly scanning the horizon with my spyglass. Even so, it's not long before we have to confront one.

It comes out of the west, ahead of us, and we try to go around it–but it spots us. It's not one of the slow ones. It rumbles toward us on high-stomping feet, mouth open, a strange desperation in its thoughtless gray visage. When it becomes apparent the thing will just keep running at us, I raise my crossbow.

"Careful," Echo urges. She only has four bullets in the machine-pistol, so we're not about to waste those.

I breathe. I aim. The zombie is running full-tilt when the bolt takes it through the nose. I have a flashback of Ballard's eye popping out. The head whips back, and the thing collapses. Shakily, I retrieve the bolt.

We go west again.

Gradually, the z-line veers northwest. We follow it like the bank of a river, praying the waters don't overflow. No one can say why the z-line exists. I've heard talk about magnetic lines and the path of the wind and crazier things, but that's probably all nonsense. I assume it's there because there were a string of major population centers along its path, and this was just where the plague-walkers ended up thriving–but why wouldn't they stray from the area over time?

We kill a dozen zombies in the first three days. My bolts are actually getting dull. We find an old shovel in the rubble and add it to our arsenal. I have a knack for finding and exploiting hidden water-holes, but food is harder to locate. Sleep is harder still. We don't dare rest with a roamer anywhere in sight, so before camping each night we head south at least a mile. We never lie down unless we're well-hidden, and even then we're paranoid and easily startled.

The land changes.

Shrub-desert yields to fields of brittle brown desert-grass. There's more small game, even full-sized trees here and there. Some grow up through the rubble of destroyed homes. Nature is retaking the world, healing the scars inflicted by humanity.

The grass hides danger too, however. Echo almost steps directly on a roamer. It makes no sound. A grasping hand brushes her ankle as she walks. She leaps five feet and screams, crashing into me. I trip backwards and we both go to the ground. The zombie's legs are missing. It drags itself hand over hand through the field. We scramble up. Echo grabs the shovel. She smashes it over the head until its skull turns to mush, like a broken pumpkin.

She stands there, chest heaving, expression terrible. Slowly, she looks at me... and laughs–half from the look on my face, half out of sheer relief. Laughing with the bloody shovel, spattered with gore, she's like a savage blonde psychopath. From then on, we watch the horizon _and_ the ground at our feet.

At night, there's a new closeness between us. We sleep together under the blanket, not entirely for warmth. I get used to her there. There's a fragile tension. My body wants more. I want to roll on top of her and hold her down, feel the fierce press of her lips. When her fingers shift slowly on my stomach, when her breathing is deep, I imagine she wants the same. Other times, I think I'm delusional. Maybe I'm just imagining things. Ballard comes to mind. I remember how she offered herself to me, and what I said to break her.

Thus, there's an invisible barrier between us. Sometimes, when we lay together at night, the slightest movement threatens to shatter it completely. A turning point is inevitable. Yet we're bound together, each the other's sole remaining friend–how can we risk more? If something goes wrong, if she doesn't reciprocate–or if she lets me only because she thinks she has to–all will be lost. A wedge will come between us. And in the wastes, a mental wedge can lead to very physical dangers.

So the barrier remains. But it's increasingly hard to ignore.

A week or so out of Scargo–I've stopped counting the days–we come upon a village.

The z-line is still running north-northwest. The bloody thing is endless. There are no significant breaks, no areas to cross through without attracting the attention of a dozen roamers. We can take some roamers out if we need to, but if they build up too fast we'll be screwed. We have to be absolutely sure we can get through before making the attempt. I'm arguing against that we should strike out due west when Echo stops and squints at the horizon ahead...

There are houses up there. Not broken-down piles of rubble. Actual houses. Gleaming red and white. Roofed. We turn to each other in wonder–is this one of the settlements Wade mentioned?

The z-line doesn't run straight. Roamers spread out in all directions, and it's hard to tell if this precise location should be included in what we've come to think of as "horde territory." We've been staying south of the main thoroughfare. The village is more to the west.

Cautiously, we approach. I put a bolt through a roamer on the way there. Aside from that, none are even in sight. A bit closer, I use my spyglass. The houses look nice–but there are no people. No roamers either. It's like a perfectly preserved ghost-town.

Warily, we close in.

We enter the first house. Still nothing. No roamers, no people. The furniture is intact. Cushions have moldered and wasted away, but couches and chairs sit otherwise untouched. Even more astonishing, a lone book sits on a lacquered marble table. An old mystery novel. The pages are brittle. It's as though someone just got up and walked away... a century ago. I pack it away in my bag to trade–or for Franklin, if we ever get back to him.

"The Blue Tower was still standing," Echo points out. "Maybe these houses are like that. Newer materials. Didn't rust or decay like the others."

I have to agree. The place looks abandoned, yet it's still standing–and neither of us has ever seen a dead village this intact. Its proximity to the z-line has probably helped keep the looters and crazies away.

Back outside, we go exploring. The village is big. There are a few hundred houses, and almost all of them look the same. A square plaza in the center of town is lined with bigger, rectangular buildings. Some of the shops still have signs in their unbroken windows. We're halfway through the square when Echo stops abruptly, listening.

"What is it?" I ask.

"Shh."

Then I hear it too. Music. Not just any music. High-energy electronic dance music. Can this be? No. Ridiculous. We're in the middle of a ghost town on the edge of a zombified wasteland. Surely, I'm not hearing this? I am. It's blaring far and wide across the dead town. My grandfather showed me a small, ancient computer once that played music like this–music that couldn't be reproduced by traditional instruments. A woman's singing accompanies it. She has a beautiful voice. The whole harmony is strangely mesmerizing. With a sense of unreality, I and Echo stare at each other, listening. Should we be amused or horrified? We're freaked out.

"It's coming closer," Echo whispers.

We reach one of the plaza's corner-buildings, wide-eyed, flighty as scared rabbits. I have no idea what to expect. I poke my head around the corner–nothing. The sound must be a few streets over. We creep forward along the side of the building. I have to know what's causing this. It's getting closer now.

"Tristan," Echo warns, pulling at my arm. She's had enough. She's in flight mode.

"Okay, let's–"

The music rolls over us in fresh waves of sounds. Its source crosses into sight ahead.

_Holy Mother of Crom_.

Fifty feet away is a circular aerial drone. It hovers fifteen feet above the ground, a fan spinning on its underside, speakers blaring. It drifts slowly down the center of a wide avenue... and beneath it, drawn by the noise, is a solid wall of zombies.

They're packed into a clambering throng, arms reaching vainly upward, drawn by the drone like a carrot on a string. Echo and I are already racing back the way we've come–but the bastards are good at sensing movement. As we round the corner leading back into the plaza, I glance back...

...and a dozen or more have peeled off from the main group, coming after us. Too many to fight. We try the nearest door. Locked. No time to smash it in. We race across the plaza. The next door is open. We rush into an abandoned bar. If we can just hide in time...

The lead roamer is already in the plaza. More stream around the corner. I lock the door. It won't be enough.

"Here," Echo says, sending a chair skidding across the floor. I wedge it under the door. She's throwing everything she can, and I'm piling it into place. The building's wide windows are in pristine condition. The music is getting louder; the drone moves toward the square. I flip a table on its side and shove it against one of the windows just as something thuds hard against the door. I run for another table. More thuds. They're slamming face-first into the building. Glass shatters. A roamer comes in through a window, tumbling toward Echo, flesh full of shards. A strip of skin hangs like torn fabric.

"Run!"

Like I have to tell her. Is there a back door? The hallway we take dead-ends in an office, and when we turn back there's a moving corpse six feet away, barreling toward us. As with that roamer in the closet, I'm mesmerized by the bulging eyes. Reflex alone has me raising the crossbow, squeezing the trigger. The bolt passes through the right cheek and goes out the back of the jaw, missing the brain.

The zombie keeps coming.

It hits me full-force, one big organic hammer. I'm falling. The thing is on top of me. The cold hands grip my arms with desperate intensity. The yellow teeth come forward in a silence more terrible than sound...

And the head is smashed sideways by the shovel in Echo's hands. The dead face collapses under further blows, spattering my new shirt with bits of gore. My priorities can't be right, because a petty involuntary complaint creeps in: _the Doctor gave me this shirt_.

Then we're up and moving, but more are already inside. A staircase on our right. We scramble to higher ground... those yellow teeth will be in my nightmares... and before I know it we're stumbling onto a gravelly roof. The sun is insanely bright, incongruent with the chaos below. Echo closes the door and backs away, staring at it, waiting.

Nothing comes out.

I don't think they saw us duck through that last door. We've got a chance.

The drone is still blaring music. It has already passed through the square and is turning down another street. We creep to the edge of the building and look down. The main throng still follows the drone. Slow and maimed undead trail the pack all the way across the square, like dust in the tail of a comet. About thirty plague-walkers mill about our building, distracted by the commotion. Some have already forgotten us. They stand stupidly in place or meander aimlessly or pluck up tufts of grass and chew it like cows. One crunches a broken board in its teeth. They're not eager to go away, and even now a few spot us on the roof and make a beeline for the building. They try to climb the walls, clawing at the fading paint, fingernails breaking like eggshells, mouths upturned like baby birds.

"What are we going to do?" Echo asks.

_We're screwed_.

"Wait it out. They'll drift away," I say, backing away from the edge.

The drone continues into the distance. It's been out of the plaza fifteen minutes before the last of its maimed followers drags itself off the street in snail-like pursuit. The others have stayed behind, unfortunately. The excitement of our flight has distracted them enough to break their attachment to the drone. Now they have no reason to go anywhere. I walk the roof's perimeter. Their random wandering has spread them in all directions. It could be days or even weeks before there's a safe route through. I'm angry now. The town only looked empty because of that damn drone and its ludicrous parade.

"What the hell is that thing doing here, anyway?" I ask, waving vaguely toward the machine.

Echo gasps.

A silver robot, perhaps seven feet tall, has entered the plaza in the wake of the zombie-comet. In each hand is a silver sickle, glinting in the sunlight. The robot wears plasteel body armor from the neck down. Behind it comes a boy, eleven or twelve years old, and behind the boy is a car-sized wagon pulled by a compact robotic tug. The wagon is chock-full of treasure from the ruins.

The boy and the robot can't help but see the roamers around our building. The newcomers look straight at us, taken aback. They consult one another. The boy waves at us and smiles. Then he crouches behind the wagon and hides himself under a blanket.

The armored robot moves into the plaza. The zombies around the building haven't yet spotted him. He plants his feet wide apart, holds his sickles ready, and blasts a trumpet-like noise: _da-tada-DAAA!_

Heads snap toward the sound. It draws the undead like gravity. Their various speeds mean they reach the robot in a kind of stream–and as they do, he lops off their heads with disturbing ease. Swift, efficient motions. They collapse all around him.

When too many arrive at once, they begin to overwhelm him. They bite at his arms, they latch onto his legs, they claw at his torso. Their teeth can't penetrate the plasteel. Still, they try. Their fingers break against his armor. One sickle gets lodged in the side of a skull. It's pulled from the robot's grasp. The other gets stuck in a ribcage. Then he's crushing their heads with his hands and stomping them underfoot. He stumbles but never falls. When it's done, the robot stands at the nucleus of a pile of thirty corpses. It looks as though a small bomb has gone off.

He retrieves his sickles.

The boy comes out from behind the wagon, checking carefully for stray undead.

"Ahoy!" he calls up to us. "Anyone bit?"

Echo and I share a glance.

"No," I say.

"There may be more inside though," Echo yells down.

The robot enters the building. Noises follow. A decapitated head bounces out of an open window on the second floor, causing the boy to jump aside.

"How about a little warning next time!" he says. Despite his age, there's a gun holstered on his right hip. I check my crossbow and quietly load another bolt, just in case.

"What are you guys doing here? Didn't expect company," the boy yells up to us.

"Just passing through," I say.

He cracks up laughing.

"Just passing through! Just strolling through zombie-central," he says.

"All clear," the robot shouts. His voice is synthetic, not softly ambiguous like the Doctor's but quite obviously robotic. The boy's not controlling him and he's too aware to be a programmed automaton, which means he's a sentient being–a living machine, like Lectric, only smarter. Using a Tritium-Two or Microsoft Ultima, I'm guessing; maybe even a Tritium-Three.

"We're not looking for trouble," I tell the boy. They may have cleared the zombies for us but that doesn't make them friendly.

"Us neither. Wanna come down and talk?" the boy asks.

I consult Echo. We have a wordless conversation. Her eyes are wary. We got lucky with Wade. The boy seems friendly, but out here who really knows? There's no good reason to expose ourselves to unnecessary risks.

"Nah. I think we're good up here, thanks," I say.

"All right, kryptonite. Starbucks, let's go," the boy yells.

The robot emerges from the building. They start down the street. The boy looks up as they're leaving and says, "Good hunting!"

The world's a strange place–the apparent randomness of Fate, the way little things can make a big difference. If he hadn't used that simple phrase, who knows how many things would've changed? "Good hunting" was what I used to say to Crispin and Berkley whenever they came with me to ruins outside Farmington. The ruins were a great adventure as a child. Every new find was a treasure, tradable t or not. Never had a robotic guardian or a big wagon to carry stuff in; still, the phrase makes me see something of myself in the boy.

"Wait! Do you know anything about Haven?" I shout.

They stop and look back.

"Heard the name before. Someplace north of Apolis, I think," says the boy.

The fear turns to intensity in Echo's blue eyes.

"We'll come down and talk a bit, if it's okay with you," I say.

The boy and robot consult one another.

"Fine with us," the boy says.

We emerge slowly, warily, weapons lowered. The robot has stowed his sickles on some kind of magnetic back-plate. He stands just ahead of the boy, protectively, prepared to shield him if need be. We introduce ourselves.

"I'm Jarvis. This is Starbucks," the boy says.

"Well met," Starbucks says. It's an odd name, another moniker from the World Before. People in Farmington believed in the power of old names. We had a Honda, Sony, Exxon, and Visa–all of which, I'm told, were powerful titles from the days before the Fall. In Farmington, they were thought to bring luck and prosperity. Guess that disproves that theory.

Up close, Starbucks' is enormous and intimidating. His eyes are black spheres, but the rest of his face is a semi-malleable metallic membrane, capable of molding itself into human-like expressions. Pretty standard for sentient robots. Roboticists learned early on that people need a lot of visual cues related to a robot's internal state, just as they do for other humans. It's the only way to establish an amount of trust and predictability.

I want to ask what model neural embryo he's outfitted with, but it's probably inappropriate to inquire about the quality of someone's brain just after you meet them. I'm wondering why he's wearing the armor too, since the roamers are no threat to a bloodless organism, but what I ask instead is:

"Where's Apolis?"

Jarvis frowns.

"Northwest. You've never been there? That's where we're from. Where are _you_ from?" he asks.

"Farmington."

"Never heard of it."

"It's not really there anymore," I say, shrugging.

"Oh. Tough luck, dude," Jarvis laments. "I don't like to fall too far behind the drone. Let's walk and talk."

Jarvis has travelled quite a distance–further than I ever went at his age. Then again, he has Starbucks to protect him. The robot has been attached to the boy's family for like forty years, which is pretty old for a sentient robot. His body won't rust, but even a Tritium-Three will wear down eventually.

Starbucks doesn't talk much. The weird thing is: he breathes. His body integrates several biochemical components to help power internal electrical systems. He can stop breathing for more than an hour if he needs to, but otherwise we're always hearing the slow, perpetual rhythm of his exhale-inhale cycle.

Jarvis makes up for the talking. He tells us there are no good ruins left around Apolis. It's clear he's a veteran of the hunt. I know just how he feels too. In Farmington, I spent countless hours combing through forgotten places in the desert. I frequented crumbled houses and hidden holes no one else even knew existed.

Jarvis is enthusiastic and upbeat, eager to share his stories. I like the kid, but I feel inclined to provide some kind of warning or admonishment. I was like you, I want to say, and look what happened. Here lies the world: use at your own risk.

"This is the furthest southeast we've ever been," Jarvis says. "We came close to this area last time, but we were already loaded up on goods. I just knew we had to come back though–this place is a goldmine! Check this out."

He rummages through the wagon.

"Jarvis," Starbucks warns. He has just lopped the head off a lingering zombie, but it's _us_ he's warning Jarvis about: they don't know us well enough to flout prized goods. Ignoring him, Jarvis pulls out a large copper coin, dated 1847. His face is ecstatic.

"It's even older than the Fall!" he says. "I've got a collection of these at home. They're really hard to find. If you've got any, I'll trade you for 'em. Oh–and look at this. My uncle made it from another one."

He pulls up his sleeve to show us a unique watch. The face is another copper coin, dated 1852. I just smile and nod, albeit a little sadly, because again I feel the warning–you won't be allowed to keep these things. The world will take them from you.

Possession is an illusion. All things are only borrowed.

The words pop into my head, and they're deeper than expected. Even the mass of our bodies is borrowed from food and drink, to be given back to the Earth one day. I can't say why, but the idea is vaguely comforting.

"That's enough," Starbucks says, frowning, taking a step toward the boy.

"Relax, Starbucks. They're okay," Jarvis says.

"He's right. You should be careful with this stuff. Don't show people," I say.

Jarvis scowls stubbornly.

We continue in the drone's wake, talking. We explore more houses along the way and score more than I expect: new clothes, leather belts, toy cars, a quality hand-axe, old books, and a second pack in which to carry everything. Echo finds some fancy women's clothing and a pair of shockingly red high-heeled shoes.

"That's ridiculous. How could anyone walk in those?" I ask.

"I don't know. Maybe–maybe we can trade them," she says, stuffing them in her pack–but she had a smile on her face before I spoke; trading them may not be her first priority.

My own favorite find soon arrives in the basement of a workshop: a spool of copper wire, resistors, tiny LED's, and two ancient circuit boards. I'm reminded poignantly of my grandfather's store. I miss tinkering. Everything gets arranged carefully in my pack.

Near dusk, Starbucks calls a halt. Jarvis fetches a big controller from the wagon and fiddles with it. A few blocks away, the music dies. We hurry west together.

"What about the drone?" I ask.

"It'll come," Jarvis says.

"Won't the roamers follow?" Echo asks.

"Nah. It's programmed to make a wide, fast circle. It'll shake the dead-heads."

"Seems risky," Echo mutters.

"Don't worry, Starbucks won't let any get us. Will you, Starbucks?"

"Only you," says Starbucks without a trace of humor.

The conversation brings something else to mind.

"Why do you wear the armor?" I ask.

The two of them look at me.

"I mean, they can't really hurt you," I elaborate.

"No more than they can hurt you," Starbucks says.

"Relax, Star," Jarvis says. "Look, a lot of people think it's just a rumor, but roamers _can_ hurt robots. Starbucks is a little sensitive about misinformation where his, uh, species is concerned."

"Hurt? How?" I ask doubtfully.

"Bloody waterbags," Starbucks mutters, ignoring the question.

"Two ways," Jarvis says. "First, their teeth are hard enough to penetrate most tactile layers. Tactile layers aren't as hard as metal, and most robots can't regenerate the material, so they end up numb wherever they're bit–permanently. How would you like to lose all feeling in your arm? Not fun, right? Second–this is where the rumors come in–zombies _can_ infect robots. I don't care what you've heard, we've seen it happen. It's the truth."

My expression is a mixture of doubt and confusion. The first part I get. Lectric had a softer tactile layer too, a thin transparent material fused to his metametal hide. Sensory input is essential for all sentient beings. But how could a robot catch a virus when...

"They have no blood. No offense," I add, glancing at Starbucks.

"True. But Synth-Z ain't a normal virus," Jarvis says. "Here's what people don't understand: there's more than one _kind_ of plague. Way back in the World Before, somebody made Synth-Z. Later on, somebody _changed_ it. If Star wasn't wearing armor, most of these dead-heads could only numb him. But a few could kill him or drive him crazy."

"Nanobots," Starbucks says, looking out into the ruins.

I turn an inquiring gaze on him. He sighs and elaborates.

"Synth-Z is a hybrid organism, part carbon, part silicon. In humans, it kills most of the brain, alters the muscular structure, reinforces the bones–changes the whole body's biochemistry in very specific ways. In robots, like Jarvis said, mostly it does nothing. But at least _one_ strain works differently. When a zombie bites, it secretes the virus through its saliva. In my case, that could mean a nanobot infection in my tactile layer. Tactile information is relayed to the neural embryo. If it's the R-strain, the virus will feed garbage data through the tactile pathways. Which leads to a mix of pain, pleasure, and vivid hallucinations. If the corruption spreads, it only gets worse–hyper-aggression, loss of reason, personality collapse, death."

There's nothing we can say to that. The revelation is astonishing. I've never heard of this. We stop two miles later, well outside the ghost-town. Starbucks has to kill three more roamers along the way. We're at a dip between two hills, and we've come to a social cusp.

"We've got all we can carry. We're gonna head west in the morning," Jarvis says. "You guys... You wanna stick with us until we hit Apolis?"

"Jarvis, we don't want to trouble these people," Starbucks says.

Echo and I share a searching look.

"I thought Apolis was north," I say.

"North, northwest. We're going west to Hapsburg first," Jarvis says.

"We want to get north of the z-line. How can we do that?" Echo asks.

"Apolis. It's the best place to cross. But you don't want to take the straight northwestern route."

"Why not?" I ask.

"Raiders. They're camped in a big forest between the Missipy River and the z-line, a few days from here. That's why we're going west first. We'll turn north at Hapsburg. It's safer."

Echo and I share another look.

"We don't want to trouble you..." she says, looking sideways at Starbucks.

The big robot's rhythmic breathing is interrupted by a sigh.

"Jarvis is right. If that's your goal, you need to go through Apolis. You'd better come with us."

He's still wary. If anything, his distrust comes as a relief. Jarvis's childish enthusiasm makes him fun to talk to, but such things can't keep you safe. The aerial drone comes whirring in, honing in on Jarvis's controller. They stow it on top of the pile in the wagon.

Starbucks takes first watch. I'm not used to having strangers around; I barely drift off before paranoia wakes me again. I relieve Starbucks when the time comes, but even when he "sleeps," he sits staring in our direction. His breathing slows and he goes into some kind of low-power mode, yet he has no lids over his glassy black eyes, and I have a feeling he can still monitor our movements.

We make it through the night and nobody wakes up dead.

In the morning, we stray west from the z-line, heading toward a place called Hapsburg.

# Chapter 12.

It's a relief to leave the z-line. We're still watchful for roamers, but we encounter fewer and fewer. Whenever we do, Starbucks lops off another head. Jarvis is good at setting snares. Food is stored in the wagon, but he's been supplementing their supplies with small game along the way. The traps aren't electronic, but it's another reminder of myself at that age.

It's a five day walk to Hapsburg.

On the second day, we cross a stream. The water is cool and refreshing. I don't have to desalinate it either. Echo sits apart on the bank and checks her wounds. Her pants are tight around the ankles, so to examine her calf she has to pull them down instead of up. There's not even a scar to mark where the mine hit her, though that's not what catches my attention. She's got underwear from the Doctor's medical supplies, so it's not like she's showing everything, but the sunlight on her legs takes me by surprise. They seem much longer all of a sudden and altogether stunning.

I'm not the only one who notices. Frozen in the middle of filling his canteen, Jarvis gapes openly with a total loss of self-awareness. He's been struck dumb, as if he only just realized she was a girl. She's belting her pants again when she happens to look up and sees us staring. Jarvis blinks and looks away. I fumble deliberately with my boot for lack of anything better to do.

From that point on, Jarvis fawns over Echo. He talks in my direction, but his eyes keep moving to her face, gauging her reactions. If she expresses an opinion, he instantly empathizes. All of her suggestions meet his immediate and enthusiastic support.

"Oh, that's neat," she says about one of his snares, and then he's eager to tell her everything about them. He even teaches her how to make them–and this she does appreciate. She sets snares the next day and, on her third attempt, catches a small rabbit. She's genuinely pleased.

"You have a fan," I say quietly to her as Jarvis brings the rabbit to Starbucks for skinning.

"At least _somebody_ appreciates me," Echo says, fiddling with the snare in her hands.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

She sighs heavily and shakes her head, like I've missed something obvious.

"You should say, 'Hey, let's go jump over that cliff,' just to see what he says," I suggest, smiling; then I imitate Jarvis' answer: "'Oh, we should totally do that. Let's jump. That's a good idea, Echo. Real good.'"

She's not laughing, however. She looks up at me with one eyebrow raised and says, "Why don't _you_ jump over a cliff."

Then she walks away. Clearly, she's missed the point. I like Jarvis. I just thought it was funny. I turn to find Starbucks towering over me with the skinned rabbit.

"Humans," he mutters in disgust, moving past me toward the dinner-fire.

Overall, our journey is a good one. The blue sky is bigger than it used to be, full of hidden potential. Echo has been smiling more lately, and we're miles and miles from those dark days on the shores of New Sea.

Then we reach Hapsburg.

Hapsburg lies on the western bank of the Missipy River. The same river used to flow through the Great Ruins, past my Library. I've seen the evidence on old maps, but much of the land was reshaped during the Fall, pushing the river further west.

On the eastern bank lies Blackbridge, a small town full of merchants and fishermen. Despite the name, there's no actual bridge. There _was_ one, I'm told, but it's gone now. There are, however, a number of boats willing to ferry people across. We barter with a ferryman and disembark on the western bank, at the foot of Hapsburg.

Hapsburg is three times the size of its sister town. It's surrounded by a spiked wooden fence, interspersed with towers supporting rifle-wielding sentries. A genuine forest lies beyond it, yielding an ample supply of wood. A timber-mill and a number of farms dot the surrounding countryside.

Starbucks is aggravated as we step off the ferry and head up the dirt path toward the town.

"He's not a big fan of the Plastic People," Jarvis explains.

"The what?" Echo asks.

"You'll see. There's one now."

Two guards stand by the town's entrance, each carrying a machine gun. They're wearing chainmail hauberks over hooded cloth shirts. The one on the left looks different somehow.

What happened to his face?

His skin is too tight. Overly smooth. Fake. I try not to stare. I can't help it. Then I realize–he's not human. He's a robot. Synthetic skin over rubbery flesh over mechanical insides. The closer I get, the more obvious it is. His eyes are slightly too wide. The eyebrows are colored in. He has no hair. His fingers are smooth cylindrical nubs. He's like a rough approximation of a person.

The guards stop us long enough to examine our wagon. We're waved inside. Our weapons are plainly visible, but apparently that's acceptable here. I'm still trying not to stare. There's something grotesque about the robot's mimicry. The failed attempt to appear human is far more disturbing than, for example, Starbucks' distinctly inhuman countenance.

The guard isn't alone in his bizarre fashion. At least half the town's residents are "Plastic People." They've utilized different skin-tones and materials, given themselves shapely bodies, even dressed in human clothing. Some have stitched real hair into their scalps. Many wave and smile at us–which only makes things worse, because their faces don't have the proper muscles to convey the nuances of human expression. Their smiles look slightly psychotic. It's like walking through a town full of demonic human imitators.

" _Why_?" Echo whispers, staring in horror as the four of us enter a bustling marketplace.

"They want to be human," Jarvis says, shrugging. "Weird, isn't it?"

"Pathetic," Starbucks says. Aside from an occasional frown, he refuses to acknowledge any of the passing robots. Jarvis looks through the stalls in the marketplace. We stop as he pulls arcane goods from the wagon and hurries off to various merchants.

"They're Minkowski-4's," Starbucks says, seeing that we're still watching the Plastic People.

"I've heard of those," I say.

"Then you know it's a substandard neural embryo. Makes good service-oriented minds, but the individuals end up a bit slow and... _lacking_. There was a group around here some years back that used to hunt robots. They're gone now, but back then the M-4's couldn't handle it. This was how they adapted. Being a robot wasn't good enough anymore. To serve their creators, they had to _become_ their creators. Not that you created us anymore than evolution created you. Ask me, all you people did was imitate your own biology and screw around until something good popped up. But that's how the M-4's view you: as creators. All this nonsense has become a mark of pride for them. They even hold pageants to see who can be the most human. It's absurd, not to mention degrading. _Have you no shame?_ "

This last question is directed at a passing Plastic Person, whose smile is stricken from his face as he shrinks from Starbuck's angry glare. Starbucks towers over everyone in the marketplace. I'm tempted to make some kind of joke about _him_ dressing up like me or Echo, but I've seen how easily he decapitates people.

Deeper into the crowd: a blue jacket with red and white shoulder pads. A white star inside a circle emblazoned upon the back. All levity of thought dries up in my head. I grip Echo's forearm by reflex.

"Cove," I whisper.

She pales at the sight of the man. There's no way of knowing if this particular soldier was one of those who burned Farmington, but the sight of him fills me with blunt, unmanageable hatred. I should put a bolt right through that star.

"Over there," Echo says, nodding in another direction. Soldiers are scattered throughout the marketplace. There's even one on horseback passing at the edge of the crowd. Jarvis comes back with a purse full of coins, but his smile fades when he sees our faces.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

"Nothing," I say.

"Men like that burned our village," Echo says, nodding toward a soldier.

Jarvis looks confused.

"From Cove? But–they're good," he says.

Echo's eyes bulge, but she swallows her anger and shakes her head.

"Good at setting fires, yeah. They did an excellent job of murdering our families," I say, feeling a deep bitterness rise. Echo and I huddle unconsciously closer together. A fierce loyalty and solidarity arises between us.

"Let's move along," Starbucks suggests.

We do, though the joy has been sucked out of Hapsburg. All I can do is look for more soldiers. Shifting my attention is like pushing at a brick wall. I manage to trade the toy cars and a few other scraps I picked up the horde territory. They use copper coins in Hapsburg, so I end up with a purse-full, which Starbucks tells me is an even deal. Jarvis sells a third of the booty from his wagon. He saves the rest for Apolis.

"Guy over there says a caravan is heading north in two days," he tells us as the sky darkens to a deep navy blue.

"What guy?" Starbucks says, looking through the crowd.

"Can't see him now. But what do you do you think?"

"We'll see."

"What about the river? Do any boats go upstream?" I ask–somewhat absently, because I'm imagining putting a bolt through another star.

"You don't want to take the river," Jarvis says.

"Why not?" Echo asks.

"Same reason we didn't follow the z-line. Raiders. Passenger ships are just begging for an ambush. A guarded caravan is the safest way to go. We took one here on the way south. We should probably wait for another–don't you think, Star?"

"We'll see," Starbucks says again.

We find an inn for the night. It's attached to a tavern, and Jarvis wants to treat us to a late meal, but his kindhearted efforts to improve our moods are doomed to failure. He cracks jokes and tries to entertain Echo, but she and I are preoccupied with vengeful thoughts. We sit in a booth under the flickering orange torchlight and stare moodily about the room. I'm not used to crowds, so I'd be anxious even on a normal night... then three Coven soldiers make their entrance, striding boldly to the bar, and all hope is lost.

"Are they _always_ in town?" I ask.

"I've seen them before, but never this many," Starbucks says, monitoring them coolly with his glassy black eyes.

"Come on, guys. Let's just enjoy our food," Jarvis says with a pained expression.

"I'm not hungry," Echo says.

"Foundry's army was headed to Cove. They should've reached it by. Why are there soldiers _here_?" I ask.

No one knows. The army was only a few days behind us when we fled the Library, and from there it was maybe a week to Cove. Did the battle already take place? It must have.

"I wonder what–"

And then time stops.

He's sitting across the room, eyes on me, and I'm staring at him before the rest of my mind can catch up. The shaven head. The square jaw. The cynical gray eyes laughing at the world. The same bandolier crisscrosses his chest beneath a black leather jacket. The scimitar and shotgun aren't visible, but I'm sure he's armed.

_Cabal_.

He sprouts half a smile with something like amused disbelief, and one hand strays toward his hip, though he doesn't draw a weapon, just sits there watching, eyes glittering with malevolence.

I'm transfixed. He can't possibly be here, but he is. Neither of us can look away. Has he come for _us_? A cold thrill of fear spreads through me. A trap. I see our imminent end in a dozen involuntary flashes. Fear has ambushed me again.

Cabal says something to another guy at his table. He rises to his feet.

Things are moving too fast. I need to time think. I've day-dreamed about another confrontation. My vengeance has been accomplished in a score of impressive imaginary scenarios, but now there's only panic.

_Coward_ , I curse myself. Conan would leap from the table and cut him in half. Pathetic. Loser.

_No. I can do this_.

"Ow! Tristan, what..." Echo says.

I'm squeezing her leg.

"He's here," I whisper through a dry throat.

There's no time to explain. He's already crossing the tavern, walking our way. His eyes flick sideways at the Coven soldiers as he passes. He passes them warily.

"Well, well, well," he says quietly, standing in front of our booth.

Echo's breath catches. Her muscles go tense, her fingers digging like talons into the flesh of my arm. Cabal leans over, planting both hands on the table. He relishes the moment, though I sense the fury and pain just beneath the surface. He's a cyclone in a cloth sack, and the string is loosely tied.

"Always nice to see old friends," he says.

Jarvis and Starbucks look back and forth with concern.

"Mind if I sit down?" Cabal asks, pulling over a chair.

I force my grip on Echo's leg to relax. I try to breathe normally. I have to be ready with the crossbow. Yet my hands feel wooden. I'm afraid I'll screw up the attempt. Maybe I should use the axe instead? It'll be awkward to pull free from this position. I'm undecided.

"What do you want?" Echo asks.

He spreads his hands. On his face is mock bafflement, pretend hurt.

"Can't I say hi to familiar faces? So few around these days. And look at you two. Cute as a button. Good to see you both together. I have to say, I didn't think you had it in you, Tristan. Last I remember, you were cuffed to a wall. How's this go again? You get loose, shoot Ballard, and take the whore for yourself. Is that it? Oh man, you must really like blondes. Bravo, Tristan. Bravo."

"Cabal–" Echo starts.

"Hey, don't get me wrong. She's good. I enjoyed her too. It's just I didn't think you had it in you, killing Ballard _and_ Fin?"

I need to speak, but the words stick in my throat. Cabal looks at all four of us. He frowns.

"Or maybe... maybe it wasn't you. I mean, how _did_ you get free? Maybe she just needed someone new, eh? Got tired of Ballard's... tools? Did she tell you, Tristan? About our time in the desert? Oh, but I'm sure it wasn't the way she said. Don't let her fool you. She was practically begging for it. The look on her face, with her hands and knees in the dust–"

" _Shut up!_ " Echo snaps, and I can hear the savage hatred in her voice.

"Quiet, whore, the men are talking," Cabal says, his eyes never moving from mine.

"You can't talk to her like that!" Jarvis says, springing half to his feet, as much as the table-space will allow.

"Pipe down, pip–"

But he makes a mistake. Cabal's finger jabs at the boy's face in a threatening manner when there's a whirl of motion, and Starbuck's silver-white hand is locked around his forearm. The big robot leans forward.

"The next time this arm crosses the table, I will rip it off," Starbucks says.

He might as well be asking to pass the salt. Cabal assesses.

"Fair enough," he says, and Starbucks lets go.

Cabal turns back to Echo.

"Interesting choices you've made in your new life. Tristan was bad enough, but a robot and a boy too? I don't know which is worse. What is he, twelve? Tristan not doing it for you either? Ballard was right about you from the start. He knew what you were, the moment he–"

"Shut your goddamn mouth," I manage through gritted teeth.

"Oh. Tristan, you _can_ talk. I almost forgot you were here. Ah, no, no–let's not lose our heads," he says, seeing my hands shift beneath the table. His eyes move to one side briefly, toward the soldiers by the bar behind him. _That's_ why he won't try anything here, why he doesn't dare start a fight. He might be crazy enough to shoot, but he doesn't want to attract their attention.

"How about I call them over," I say, nodding at the blue-coats.

"I think that would be a poor choice, considering that they're looking for us," Cabal says.

"You mean you."

"I mean _us_. Aren't we sitting together? Weren't you in Foundry's army?"

I scowl.

"Starting to ride my wave?" he asks. "You tell them I'm with Foundry, then _I'll_ say, 'You got me, guys–but my friends were scouts too. Oh yes. Especially that blonde one with the tight ass.' You think they're going to wait for proof? And Echo really was a scout, or have you forgotten? They'll hang us all and be done with it–well, maybe not you, Echo. You, I suspect, might make even _more_ new friends. Or do you think Cove's soldiers are above taking spoils. Let me ruin the suspense: they're not."

There's a brief silence. Cabal examines the four of us. I glare at him, breathing slowly. The emotion is stifling. I can barely think. He leans forward and sighs.

"Anywho. I've had a wonderful time chatting with you all, but the standards of this bar have really gone downhill. I think I'll try someplace new. Robot. Boy. Enjoy the whore. Tristan, Echo. One day I'm going to kill you both."

He gets to his feet.

He means to walk away, but I grab his forearm. My face is hot, my jaw tight. I want to say something scathing. Something clever. Something to put the fear into him, or at least wipe that stupid look off his face. But the words never come at the right time. All I can manage is, "This isn't over."

"If you're trying to hold my hand, Tristan, I'm sorry, but you're not my type," Cabal says. He jerks his arm free and disappears into the night.

# Chapter 13.

Following Cabal's departure, there's a tense silence at our table. Jarvis is the first to break it. I can't focus enough to answer his questions. I'm looking at the door, wondering if Cabal will be back, maybe with friends. Should we leave?

I'm seething with shame and anger. Why was I so afraid? How could I let him talk to us like that? I want to kill him. I'm _going_ to kill him. I should've put a bolt through him the moment he came close.

"Where are you going?" Echo asks, grabbing my arm. I'm poised at the edge of the booth.

"Huh?" I ask.

Starbucks is talking too, but all I can think about is Cabal. I'm scared to go after him, to confront him, but it must be done. Where's he staying? Somewhere in town, surely.

"–you listening? Tristan? _Tristan_ ," Starbucks says.

"What?"

"I can't have a threat to Jarvis. If we're to travel together, even in a caravan to Apolis, I need to know what's happening here."

"Uh-huh."

I'm trying to get up again.

"Tristan," Echo says, yanking me back. "Let us help you."

I look at her. I take a deep breath and try to relax.

"I don't want to look over my shoulder my whole life. We can't let him leave here alive," I say.

There's a moment of silence. I'm essentially suggesting that we find out where he's staying, go there, and kill him–in his sleep, if need be. Could I do that? Could I kill a man in his sleep? If it's Cabal, maybe. In my current mood, I'd say yes again and again, but when does life ever follow fantasy? Then I think of Lectric twitching in the desert, of Echo crawling toward New Sea, and I'm ready to do it right now.

Echo is explaining things to Starbucks and Jarvis. I'm pretty sure she leaves out some of the unfortunate details, like how I shot Ballard when he wasn't even armed. I _thought_ he had a gun, but that's not something you can really explain or apologize for, especially to Ballard–oops, sorry about your eye popping out; didn't mean it, so no biggie, right? Right.

"Jarvis and I are going to bed–" Starbucks begins.

"Star, we have to help them!" Jarvis says.

"No, we don't. Your mother has entrusted you to my care, and this is not our fight. Tristan, Echo, we've come a little ways together, and you seem like good people. But Jarvis and I cannot be involved in this. Handle it any way you want, just leave us out of it. The caravan leaves in two days. We'll be taking it to Apolis with or without you."

Jarvis protests, but Starbucks ushers him out of the booth.

I take a long look at Echo. Silently, we stand and cut through the crowd to the bar. The two men Cabal was sitting with are gone. I should've paid more attention to them. I'm not sure I'd even recognize them now.

At the bar I order a drink, though what I really want is information. The bartender talks enough when we question him. Echo's blue eyes help him open up. We learn the blue-coats are hunting down fragments of Foundry's shattered army. Cove won a decisive victory to the south.

"Cove's got some crafty commander," he tells us. "Way I hear it, they knew Foundry was coming, so they had a few dozen guys in camoshift with night-sights and long-range lasers creeping along in the dark. These guys lay up on some hills in the dark and start sniping at Foundry's camp. Just put holes in the enemy heads while they slept. No noise, no flash. Invisible in the camo. Way them blue-coats tell it, two hundred were dead before the rest of the army even knew what was happening. The Black Baron's own son was among them. Cove followed that up with poison gas and long-range artillery. Foundry fired back. Finally, Cove brought in the cavalry. Foundry started a retreat, and some of those blokes broke north–that's why the blue-coats are crawling around Hapsburg."

I hate Cove only a little less than I hate Cabal, so there's no joy in their victory. When the bartender comes back, I engage him again with a more specific request. I'm looking for someone, I tell him. He recognizes my description, but he's not interested. I bribe him. He blows out his cheeks and says, "Hold on." He talks to the robot who handles the rooms. Cabal isn't staying in _this_ inn, he says, but there's another one up the road. It's the only other inn in Hapsburg. I want to leave right away, but Echo stops me.

"This could be just what he's expecting," she says. "He's not a planner, but he's clever and cruel when it comes to violence. He might've sat down and talked to us just to make sure we'd come after him. He'll be watching for us. Let's wait a while. Let him think we're not coming."

I can't stand the thought of doing nothing, but Echo knows him better–a lot better, by the way he tells it, and that's not something I want to contemplate. We sit in the room. I pace back and forth. I'm plagued by suspicious sounds, but each time I check the hallway, it's empty. The more I dwell on it, the more I think Echo is right. Cabal has probably improvised a trap. He's _hoping_ we'll come. We have to be careful. We have to be smart.

We talk about what's to be done. Doubts creep in. Doing this in town will be different than in the wastes. Hapsburg keeps a small security force. Then again, Cabal might not even be here anymore–would he really want to stay with Cove's soldiers around? He could've hit the road the moment he left the bar.

I nurse my anger to combat the doubts. Half the anger is toward myself; for my cowardice, for letting him walk all over us. Conan would _never_ let this happen. At some point I notice the handle to the door in our room is brass. That gives me an idea. Brass conducts electricity. I have copper wire in my pack. I could set up a device, wrap it around the handle to Cabal's room, knock and leave. When he goes to open the door, he'll be electrocuted.

Echo makes me realize all the problems with this scenario. It will work– _if_ the other inn's door-handles make a good conductor, and _if_ I can find a battery to provide enough power, and _if_ Cabal answers the door, and _if_ he's still in town. Too many conditionals. The plan is untenable, but I try to work it out for a while. Annoyed, Echo snaps at me to forget it. We argue.

Sometime after midnight, we decide to make a move.

I have a bad feeling. We're not well-prepared. Anything could happen. Fear tugs at me. But we can't just sit here. Something must be done. We put out the lamp and peek out a corner of the window, searching for hidden watchers in the alley below. There aren't any.

We're on the second floor, but it's low enough to hang-drop from the window. I hit the ground and look for an ambush. Cabal won't kill us in front of the soldiers, but if he could snipe us in an anonymous street-ambush, I'm sure he would. In my head, it's already happening. Despite this, we remain among the living.

Joining me on the ground, Echo grasps my hand. We hurry down the alley, trying to locate the second inn through gaps in the buildings. The streets are empty. There are rainclouds overhead. It's drizzling, and everything has a reflective sheen.

"There," Echo whispers. The other inn is on the opposite side of the main thoroughfare. We stop in the alley behind the corner of another building. Most of the inn's windows are dark. I check them all with my spyglass.

"See anything?" Echo asks.

I shake my head. Even so, we watch for a while. My stomach is in knots. How are we going to do this?

"Maybe we should we circle around and go in the back," Echo says.

"Let's do it," I say.

One step and I freeze.

Someone else is approaching the inn–a man in a blue coat. A Coven soldier. We draw back into the shadows. The man stops by the inn's front door, looks around, and gives a signal. Another blue-coat joins him from our side of the street. He was on the other side of the building we're perched behind, blocked from view. Four more soldiers come up the street. Two wait outside while the other four enter the inn.

Echo and I exchange looks. Maybe this is a good thing. Maybe Cove will do our work for us. We watch in silence. Minutes pass.

A loud bang and a flash erupt from inside the inn, making us jump. Was that a shotgun? Sounded like it. Echo grasps my shoulder. Shouts follow. One of the soldiers standing guard outside rushes into the inn. The other crouches warily and scans the streets with his rifle.

"Let's get out here," Echo says.

"Not yet."

"That bang just woke a lot of people up. Whatever's happening up there, it's no good. Those soldiers will be looking for more, whether they've got Cabal or not. We don't want to be lurking in this alley when that happens."

I look at her, but I don't want to leave. I've got to know, dammit.

"Tristan, _please_ ," Echo urges.

She _was_ attached to Foundry's army, reluctantly or not. We can't risk a confrontation with Cove's soldiers. I whisper a curse.

"Fine."

I follow her back down the alley toward our inn. We move as quietly as we can, sticking to the shadows. I keep looking back for the soldiers. We've only gone a short distance when there's movement behind us. A man drops from the roof of a squat one-story structure. Another is already on the ground. A third comes down behind them. They're barely discernible in the darkness, but one turns our way...

_Cabal_.

Liquid-blue fire flashes past on my left, leaving a long burn-streak in a building somewhere beyond us. We flinch and duck toward the nearest cover, but I overbalance in my haste and tumble to the wet ground behind a concrete refuse-bin. Echo crouches low, peering over the top of the bin.

"Come on," she says, pulling me up.

"What about–"

"They're gone."

Just like that, our attackers have fled. Though he was only a shadow, it had to be Cabal. So he has some kind of plasma-hybrid weapon now. We race back to our inn. We can't be seen. Mercifully, the lobby is empty. We make it to our room and close the door behind us, shaken.

It's only now the implications sink in. Cabal wasn't in the inn. He was watching it. He must've lain up on that building with his friends, waiting. If we'd crossed the street, we'd be dead. But what about that bang? Why did the soldiers show up?

Noon the next day, the answers come. We leave our room reluctantly for food, and I buy some delicious sugary bread from a street-vendor, who gives us the news of the day: Cove's soldiers are gone.

"Seems they lookin' f'r a feller up at the Red Roof," he says. "Only this feller know'd they was comin'. I hear tell he rigged a shotgun to his door. First man to kick open that door got a blast full in the belly. Didn't survive but a few hours. Rest of them soldiers go stormin' out in a rage, looking for them who done it. Now they on the road somewhere. Mmm-hmm. Bible say 'those who take the gun shall perish by it.' Guess that feller learnt the hard way."

We retreat to our room and hide out until dinner.

I vomit once. Something dark and empty is left inside. Echo doesn't say much. That soldier was killed in our place. We don't know his name, we'll never see his face–and sure, he was from Cove, but that seems less important suddenly, because he died for _us_.

Cabal didn't leave much to chance. He rigged his room _and_ waited in ambush. If we'd come openly to the inn, he'd have burned us down. If we'd snuck through the back and broke down the door, we'd have triggered the shotgun. We came very close to doing both of those things. I try to imagine what it was like for the soldier: kicking the door in, the flash, the pain. I start to feel sick again. To combat the feeling, I think of Farmington, how it burned. Was the dead soldier there? Maybe he deserved it.

And now, once again, Cabal is out there somewhere–waiting.

_One day I'm going to kill you both_.

It's decided, almost as an afterthought, that we'll take the caravan on the morrow. The rest of the day we spend in our room. Neither of us is hungry. I do make one trip out alone, for distraction. There's a tech store in town. I load up on all the cheap electronics I can. Normally such a move would be cause for celebration. Today it's unnaturally subdued. Still, I'm glad to have the parts. I don't know what I'll make, but it'll be something.

_Something better than a shotgun blast to the belly_.

The caravan is due to leave shortly after dawn. With the sun peeking above the horizon, we meet Jarvis and Starbucks on the way to the lobby. Little is said. Jarvis wants to talk. His eyes are slightly wide and he keeps glancing at Echo, but he doesn't know what to say. A suspicion hits me–but I keep it to myself for now.

The caravan waits by the gate into town: two big passenger wagons, plus a third filled with supplies. They're a mixture of old and new, though the old parts are new and the new parts are old. The supply-wagon, for example, is probably the oldest of the three, though it's built from some indestructible light-weight carbon and pulled by a robotic tug the size of a small bull. The passenger wagons, by contrast, are made from wood and tethered to live horses, despite the fact that they're of a more recent manufacture.

_The world is going backwards_.

The driver of the lead wagon is a Plastic Person. The caravan originates further south, so I assume either this driver was hired out of Hapsburg or there are more Plastic People in nearby towns. He/she wears a flowery summer dress, with long brown hair sewn into the rubbery scalp. Gaudy makeup is smeared across its face. The effect is truly horrifying. I can't stop staring as we go to pay.

The horses are enormous, by the way. They're Redbacks, or Kentucky Bloods, a genetically modified breed that didn't exist until a few years before the Fall, when screwing with nature was a fond pastime. Each can do the work of two or three smaller horses, and each passenger-wagon has two up front.

Paying for our passage takes the rest of the coins from Hapsburg, along with two books and a small mirror Echo found in zombie-land. Even then, we're supposedly getting a deal. Starbucks is ahead of us. The caravaners allow Jarvis's smaller wagon (along with one other) to be towed at the rear, forming a small train.

I'm half-expecting to find Cabal or the soldiers aboard one of the wagons, but neither is present. We climb in behind Jarvis and end up in a compartment with eight other people. I sit across from a stunningly attractive girl with long, wavy blonde hair and green eyes. She's gorgeous. There's no other word for it. Her skin is shockingly clean and smooth. It's impossible not to stare.

There are some sounds on my right that don't register. Words. The girl has delicately puffy, cherry-red lips. I'm jolted out of my reverie by Echo shaking my shoulder. I turn to see her staring at me. It's clear she's said something, but the words are lost to history.

"What?" I ask, annoyed.

She rolls her eyes and turns toward the window in a huff. I glance back at the girl. It's obvious I've been staring at her. She's suppressing an amused little smile as I meet her eyes. Some magnetic power repels my gaze, forces it away. I swallow. My face burns.

"Unappreciated beauty is one of the world's great tragedies."

A teenage boy says this. He can't be much older than me. He's clean cut, with short brown hair, and he's sitting across from Echo, looking at her with a secretive smile. Echo frowns at him.

"But then, what can you expect from your... brother?" he asks, turning the statement into a question.

Echo's frown deepens in confusion. She has no idea what he's talking about... until she does, and then her face lights up.

"Oh, you mean–no, he's not my brother," she says.

"Cousin?" he says, eyes flicking to mine.

"God, no," says Echo.

"Oh. Forgive me then. I didn't mean to offend you. Either of you. Sorry."

Echo and I frown at each other before we realize what he's implying.

"Oh, no! We're not–I mean, we're just–we're friends. Travelling together," Echo says.

"That so?" the stranger asks, puzzled, looking at me.

"Yeah. Travelers," I say, risking a look back at the girl across from me.

"Oh, good then. No harm done. I'm Byron. Pleased to meet you both."

We introduce ourselves. The blonde girl's proximity pulls her into the conversation.

"Octavia," she says.

I'm smiling dumbly at her by the mere fact that she spoke. Her name is like candy. I immediately want to do everything possible to impress her. I would literally dive through the window of this wagon if she only hinted it was something worthy of praise.

"This is my brother Ambrose. Ambrose, say 'hi,'" Octavia adds, elbowing the boy on her other side. Ambrose is what they used to call "special" in Farmington, though it's not any kind of special you'd want to be. His features are kind of squished together. His eyes are too close and his lower lip juts forth.

"Hi," he says loudly, staring open-mouthed at me. I'm a little put-off by the blunt observation. I smile and nod, but he just won't look away.

"Ambrose, don't stare, it's rude," Octavia whispers. He stares anyway.

Byron is pretending to look through his jacket. He comes up empty-handed, scratching his head. Echo is watching him.

"Now where did I–oh, yes!" he says, as if suddenly remembering, and a purple flower appears in his hand, sprouting out of thin air. Octavia rolls her eyes and looks away. She's seen the trick once already, it seems. Echo's eyebrows go up, but it's Jarvis who's the most impressed.

"How'd you do that!" he shouts from my other side.

"A good secret is worth keeping," he says, extending the flower toward Echo. "For you, _Mon Cheri_."

"Mon-what?" she asks, hesitantly accepting the gift.

"It's French."

"What does it mean?"

"You know what? I haven't the slightest idea. 'Beautiful,' I think."

Echo is flattered now, though she tries not to show it, and I feel an unreasonable stab of anger. She _likes_ that cheap trick? It was up his sleeve, for Crom's sake. I bet he wouldn't call her "beautiful" if he saw her spattered with zombie guts. If he saw the way her chest heaved in and out after she hit one with the shovel, eyes enlivened, yellow hair askew. If he'd seen the fear in her blue eyes when she'd looked back at me in the alley that night, tiny droplets of rain glistening on her skin. Or even that pouty face she makes when she's sad and moody in the ruins... when she brushes her hair back behind her ear and tilts her head slightly to one side...

No, not beautiful at all.

"We're going to Apolis," Ambrose announces, unnecessarily loud.

"Huh? Oh, yeah. Us too," I say, and looking in his direction brings me back to Octavia. I wish I had a flower and a cheap trick for _her_.

"Momma's gonna meet us in Apolis. How come you don't wear no makeup?"

Ambrose directs the last question to Starbucks, who's staring out the window.

"Excuse me?" the big robot asks.

"Kitra has a dress and makeup. I've seen lots of robots wear makeup. How come you don't have any? You don't have no money?"

Kitra is the lead wagon driver, the Plastic Person at the reigns, and Ambrose is evidently impressed by her appearance. Starbucks's expression is the robotic equivalent of utmost astonishment and disgust. Jarvis looks as though his birthday has come early. He cracks up laughing.

"Ambrose, what did Momma tell you about asking strangers questions?" Octavia asks.

"They don't like it."

"So should you be doing it?"

"But makeup might make him pretty."

There's no stopping Jarvis after that. Octavia apologizes profusely.

"Come on Star, where's your makeup?" Jarvis asks when he can breathe again.

Starbucks turns back to the window and sighs.

"Ignorant waterbags," he mutters.

The journey from Hapsburg to Apolis is roughly three hundred miles; first west, then north. The caravan drivers vary the route to avoid ambushes, though the caravan is well protected. A high-powered robotic turret is mounted on top of the supply-wagon. I don't know what it fires, but if the answer is anything at all, it's bound to be deadly. A mech also walks alongside us. The armored, gun-wielding robotic shell is taller than Starbucks and never absent an operator.

Any attack strong enough to destroy both the mech and the turret will likely kill us all in the process. That's better news that it sounds. There are groups out there with enough firepower to annihilate the caravan–but if they have to destroy the wagons to _reach_ the wagons, there's no point in attacking. Raiders want profit, and you can't sell a pile of ashes. Our assured destruction thus acts as a deterrent.

The trip will take almost two weeks. We could almost walk there in that time. Not with a thousand-plus pounds of supplies, however. Even the Redbacks need food and rest. Thirty miles a day is their limit if they're to be of any use the following morning.

At first, I'm paranoid about Cabal. He could hide out and snipe us from a distance–but Echo convinces me the idea is unreasonable. There'd be logistical problems from his perspective, and at the moment he's probably more concerned about hiding from Cove's soldiers.

On the way west, we cross big tan grasslands. Heading north, however, we get into greener country. Forests. There's always a pond or a stream for the horses to drink from, and we take breaks to hunt for game. At night, we arrange the wagons in a triangular perimeter around a campfire. This is my favorite part of the journey. There's something about campfires that reach into our past as a species. The orange glow, the heat, the sparks curling up into oblivion; a campfire is an island not only of warmth but of time and space as well. It separates us from lesser animals. It connects and mesmerizes those who gaze into its depths. It draws to itself some intangible variety of magic, which adheres like condensation, suspending disbelief, dissipating with the morning sun.

Not to mention the fact that Octavia is positively enchanting in the flickering light. Her skin seems to glow from the inside. As the days pass, I learn about her. Her mother is a seamstress. They're moving to Apolis because her father died of an illness a few years back and her mother can no longer support them. Apolis has a bigger marketplace and better prospects.

Thankfully, she doesn't think much of the flower-toting Byron either.

"He just seems so phony," she says on the third night, confidentially. Byron is on the other side of the fire, charming Echo again. When Echo laughs, I suppress my desire to know the exact source of her humor.

"And Ambrose doesn't like him," Octavia adds.

"He's a dustbag," Ambrose says, a bit too loudly.

"Ambrose!" she admonishes, laughing.

"Big old dustbag," he says, smiling.

"Well. Ambrose is a good judge of character. He knows with most people right away. Oh, don't worry, he likes you," she adds with a shoulder-nudge. Does she notice the relief that crosses my face? I want to high-five Ambrose and thank him for his support. But Echo laughs again, distracting me. They're getting along a little _too_ well over there.

"So, how'd you two start travelling together?" Octavia asks.

"Oh, ah... "

I stumble through our origin, staying vague on the whole we-killed-several-people-and-fled-into-the-desert thing. Not a satisfactory answer but it'll have to do.

"So she's really not your... your girl?" Octavia asks, prodding the dirt absently with a stick.

"Oh, no. Absolutely not."

Octavia smiles slightly and glances at me.

"Good," she says, throwing the stick into the fire and getting to her feet. She goes off to rummage through her supplies, leaving me to ponder the innumerable possible implications of this single word. Did she mean "good" because she likes me or "good" as a general answer or "good" because she doesn't like Echo or...?

The fact that I'd interest her at all is baffling. It's beyond my ability to believe that I possess anything worthy of the attention of so perfect a creature. She must have hidden motivations. Or have I somehow fooled her into thinking that I'm more than I am? In that case, I must not break the illusion. She must not see through to _me_ –to the coward, to the one who wept alone on dark days in the desert, to the one terrified of Cabal, to the weirdo who talks to his dead robotic dog. No, no, that person must be kept hidden.

"It's nice to talk to new people, isn't it?" Echo asks later that night, as we prepare a spot a spot to sleep.

"Mmm-hmm," I say, feeling subdued, because Echo _does_ know that hidden person. She knows our joy is only an interlude, like the campfire; a great darkness lies beyond it. There's something deeply pessimistic in the depths of my mind, whispering eternally: _all but sorrow is illusion._

Echo smiles absentmindedly and something in me needs to make her stop, so I say:

"You certainly seemed to be enjoying yourself."

"What do you mean?" she asks, glancing at me.

"Just that you seemed to be enjoying yourself," I say, shrugging. "You know, laughing with Byron and all that."

"He's funny," she says, frowning.

"Sure. Okay."

"Sorry, I didn't realize you could see us at all, with your eyes glued to Octavia."

"What? They weren't– _glued_..."

"It's like she tied a little string to your nose. Wherever she went, it just kind of pulled you along."

I'm angry now.

"At least Octavia isn't _phony_ ," I say.

Echo pauses in arranging her pack and gives me a look of mild outrage.

"Byron's not phony," she says.

"Oh really? 'Look at this, _Mon Cheri_. Here's a flower, _Mon Cheri_.' Please. And you, laughing at everything like a silly little girl."

She draws back, hurt. She blinks. Slowly, tears come into her eyes. Her neck cranes forward like a cat preparing to pounce.

"So anyone showing any interest in me must be _phony_? No one could actually care, is that it? You're a _real_ joy to have around, you know that, Tristan? A real joy," she says, yanking up her pack and moving away. "And here, take your damn blanket. I don't want anything of yours."

The blanket lands in the dirt at my feet. When she lies down, she faces the opposite direction. There's a chill in the air, but I refuse to touch the blanket. In the dark, Echo sniffs. I hold to my indignation; if it slips away, guilt might replace it.

I've gotten used to sleeping next to Echo. It's hard to sleep alone now. Never had to deal with this nonsense when I lived alone. For a moment I wish I was back in the Library–but the world's a wheel and it keeps on spinning. Unable to sleep, I get up and find Starbucks on the edge of the camp. He's volunteered to help the caravaners keep watch. He stares quietly into the darkness.

"It's strange how those blue-coats came looking for Cabal the other night," I comment after we've greeted each other.

"Strange," he agrees.

"I mean, how did they know some of Foundry's soldiers were in that inn?"

Starbucks says nothing.

"They must've had a name or description at least, because how else could they find out what room Cabal was in? And on the very night we went looking for him."

There's another brief silence, punctuated by Starbucks' robotic breathing.

"I thought you weren't going to get involved," I say.

"Jarvis gets easily attached. It would damage him if the girl died, and we did nothing to stop it. Maybe I passed some information to the blue-coats. Doesn't make us involved."

"I just wanted to say thanks," I say.

"You're welcome, though I imagine there's a dead soldier who's not so grateful. And that young man from the tavern–the talk is he got away. One day you're going to have to deal with him."

When I return, Echo is asleep, and I lie awake for a different reason. I keep picturing the soldier's face, despite having never seen it. In the dark, it doesn't matter so much that he was from Cove. It's unlikely he was at Farmington when it burned. Probably just some guy who grew up in the city-state. In my mind, I watch him kick in the door. I hear the bang. The impact would've knocked him back. He must've known he was dead then, even if it took a little while to sink in. Was he afraid then? Who did he think of in his final moments?

_I owe him_.

I don't even know his name, and I still hate Cove, but I owe this one soldier something–just as I owe Lectric and Echo and myself. Starbucks is right; I can't run forever. One day I'm going to have to pay a debt, and the only acceptable coin is blood.

# Chapter 14.

Twelve days isn't a very long time in the scheme of things.

But then, time is relative. The few seconds it took to kill Ballard lasted quite a while. The entire year before that, on the other hand, has blurred together into a memory that might as well have only spanned a week or two. Our time on the road to Apolis lies somewhere between those extremes, though it definitely stretches beyond its implied length.

By the fourth day, Echo isn't talking to me. She's being childish. I try to tell her so, but the flare of anger in her eyes could burn holes through me, and then she's not talking to me "even more," if that makes sense. She talks to Byron and Jarvis though. Half the time I think she does it just to spite me. Jarvis, fine–he follows her like a puppy. But Byron? He can't be that interesting. She refuses to hunt with me. She sets her own snares when we stop, and at night she uses a blanket she borrowed from the caravaners. Still, that's okay. I just spend more time with Octavia.

There's something sweet and pure about Octavia. She's so... undamaged. Sometimes in abandoned villages, we'll find one house still standing, miraculously untouched by the Fall. Octavia is like that house. Yet sometimes she's empty-headed about the world around her. She says things that leave me staring in disbelief. She admires Cove, for instance. She thinks they're working for the good of the world. She even wants to go there one day. I can't resist telling her they burned my village. She thinks that's terrible, but also adds:

"Oh, but you mustn't blame Cove itself, Tristan. I'm sure those soldiers were acting against orders. Cove doesn't _do_ things like that."

"It was their commander who lit the first torch!" I say. She gives me this pitying look like I've tragically misunderstood the murder of my friends and family. That leaves me sour for most of the day, but my anger cools when we stop again, and we form an unspoken agreement to avoid the subject. I can't help but forgive her. She's just so good to look at.

Ambrose contributes to our conversations and is frequently a topic himself. Octavia spends a lot of her time worrying over him. Occasionally, Ambrose is unintentionally rude. He asks awkward questions and brings up Cove when it's inappropriate. Other times, he's disarmingly childlike.

On the sixth day out from Hapsburg, the three of us wander into a patch of forest during a midday break. The land is particularly healthy here. You can feel it. Sunlight slants through the trees, illuminating small insects, suffusing the leaves until they positively drip with light. Bird-calls echo through the forest. Theoretically I'm hunting, but really I'm willing to starve if it means getting closer to Octavia.

Ambrose runs off laughing and insists Octavia has to find him. I should thank him for this, because immediately a whole range of possibilities open up. She pretends not to notice him for a while, but when he's finally caught, he says it's our turn to hide and starts counting by a boulder. I follow Octavia so that we hide together, and in the stillness of that moment, standing behind her as she peers around a tree, I can see the smooth, soft curve of her skin from shoulder to ear beneath her long golden hair; it's as delicate as the gossamer wing of a butterfly. My desire is so palpable that it smothers everything else in my awareness.

Ambrose comes after us, and Octavia is laughing and running, and I let him catch me with feigned disappointment. They hide then while I count, and immediately Ambrose is snickering behind a bush. It's Octavia I'm looking for though; we're playing a game, just not the one Ambrose thinks. I surprise her behind a large tree. She yelps and starts to run, but I grab her around the midriff. She turns, laughing, out of breath, and all at once we're inches apart with her back to a tree-trunk. My hands are lingering on her waist. I've never seen a look in a girl's eyes quite like this. Even so, I feel I've seen it a thousand times before. The delicate tilt of her face, the half-lidded eyes, the sense of something hidden–it's all oddly familiar, a thing in the genes, older and bigger than my sad little life.

And then I'm leaning in, and her lips are soft and wet against mine. Time is stretched to the breaking point, and I can hardly believe the world is willing to give me this moment. Things this good just don't happen. When she draws back, I want more, but she smiles coyly and flits away, laughing.

The rest of our time in the forest is a blur. My heart floats on a breeze. My whole body is electrified. I don't see half the things around me. I'm busy remembering her lips. Back at camp, a cooking fire is already blazing, bits of meat spitted above it. We have nothing to contribute, but I don't care about eating. Everything is a bonus at this point. Jarvis offers me some of a wildcat leg, and it's the best meal I've had in days.

"What are you so happy about?" Echo asks despite her non-talking policy.

"Hmm? Nothing," I say.

Ambrose snickers. He's been doing that for about ten minutes, in fact. It's becoming increasingly obvious, something the group can't ignore as they sit around the fire.

"Ambrose, what's so funny?" Jarvis asks.

"I don't want to say!" Ambrose says in an oddly high-pitched voice, but he's still stifling some great amusement, shaking his head, and it's obvious he _does_ want to say; he's bursting with the effort not to.

"Come on, what is it?" Jarvis asks.

"I saw them two in the trees– _kissing!_ " he bursts out, pointing at us and laughing goofily.

" _Am_ brose," Octavia mutters, eyes widening. She buries herself in an apple, though there's a little smile at the corners of her mouth as she chews.

A flush is rising up my neck, but I can't suppress a smile–until I glance at Echo. Something about the way she's looking at me kills my joy and wipes my expression clean. She's sitting stock-still with her blue eyes, a chunk of charred meat forgotten in her hand. She gives me this long look that says all kinds of things I can't decipher. Then she stands and moves toward the forest, muttering about checking a snare. Things don't feel the same after that. I remember Octavia's lips, but Echo's reaction stays on my mind.

Echo doesn't return until it's time to leave. She sits in the wagon and stares out the window in silence. Her face is blank, unreadable. She doesn't speak until we've stopped for the night. As I lie down to sleep, her tone becomes uncharacteristically formal.

"When we reach Apolis, I'm going north to look for Haven. You can go where you want," she says, her face a mask.

"Echo, I'm–I mean–we're going together, aren't we?" I say, sitting up straight.

"We made it out of the desert, Tristan. You're free. I don't need you. I can survive on my own."

She goes away to lie down, leaving me staring after her in the dark. She's right–I _don't_ have to go with her. I could stay in Apolis. Jarvis says it's a guarded city-state, not as big as Cove or Foundry but with castle-like walls built from the ruins of an old armory. Jarvis's family is well-off too. Maybe they'd help me find a place to stay. We could hunt the ruins together...

But I can't imagine Echo not being there. The more I think about her, the more I miss her lying next to me. Apolis would feel empty without her. Octavia in the forest, with her soft lips and golden hair, was a unique joy, something separate from the world around us–but out in the wastes, between the pulse-mine and the sudden storms and the quiet nights beneath the stars, Echo became a part of me. She's wrong. I _do_ have to go with her. Not because she needs me but because...

_No, I don't need anyone_.

I cut the thought off before it can come. It's better not to depend on anyone; they disappear when you do. Still, I can't imagine not going with her. Somehow, when I wasn't paying attention, things got all tangled–like the electrical cords in my grandfather's shop, which always seemed to tie themselves in knots when you weren't paying attention.

Over the next few days, I'm less eager to spend time with Octavia. I'm subdued, especially on the wagon, and when she says more empty-headed things, it bothers me. Echo is on my mind a lot, but her manner is cool and distant. She remains so until the tenth day, when everything changes.

Jarvis spots the ruin first.

It's near dusk on day nine, and the caravan has stopped for the night. Jarvis has eaten some bad meat. He's running a light fever, vomiting frequently. Travelling doesn't make it any easier on him. It's not like a wagon has internal plumbing. We have to make extra stops.

The sky is a rich purple-blue fringed with dying pink embers, and we're camping in a grassy field dotted with patches of trees–when Jarvis calls my name.

"You see that?" he asks, staring into the distance. There's a cliff a mile or two away, topped with trees.

"See what?" I ask.

"That. There's something up there. Where's your spyglass?"

I don't see anything, but the spyglass vindicates him. A half-standing stone building is hidden among the trees. I don't know how he saw it from this distance. Other signs of the World Before lie elsewhere along the ridge. Still, I've seen plenty of ruins, so it's not all that interesting.

"We've gotta check it out," Jarvis says. His eyes are lit up, though he's shivering and sweating from the fever.

"It's just an old stone building or two. Probably picked clean," I say.

"No way. Tristan, you don't understand. I've been to all the major ruins around here. I've never seen this site! We've got to go."

"I don't think you're going anywhere, Jarvis."

He enlists Starbucks in the cause, but the big robot agrees with me.

"You're staying here. Besides, it's dark, and that cliff must be an hour away," he says.

Jarvis is undiscouraged.

"In the morning then. We can wake up early and hit it before the caravan sets out. We've _got_ to. For all we know, the place is a goldmine."

Starbucks is doubtful, but there's no dissuading the boy.

Apolis is two or three days away. When the campfire blazes that night, the caravaners are lighthearted. Byron is really pouring on the charm, talking to everyone, doing magic tricks, entertaining other travelers. Yet Echo is strangely reticent. I'm scowling outright. Byron gives me an ill feeling. When he talks to you, it's like his eyes are laughing, only you're never sure why–is it the joke he's telling you, or are _you_ the joke to him?

Nevertheless, he helps foster a party-like atmosphere around the fire. Kitra–the lead driver, synthetic flesh still smeared with makeup–breaks out a sitar. She's joined by an older, round-bellied traveler with a guitar. They play old tunes together. The man's wife even sings. There's a happy tale of an Irish traveler, and sadder tales of the World Before. Byron claps along. Afterwards, he makes an announcement.

"I've been saving this for trade, but it's been a marvelous trip, and I'd like to share some with you fine people–honeyed wine, from the Monks of Aversteen!"

He hefts a weighty jug to the delight of all–or almost all. I wave the wine away as it's passed around.

"Come now, Tristan. If you can't taste life's sweetness now and then, why bother carrying on?" Byron asks, holding out the jug.

I pretend he's not there. He shrugs and moves on. Echo, sitting a little ways from me, is reluctant at first, but she lifts the jug to her lips. Octavia asks me if I'll be staying in Apolis. I'm vague, non-committal. Half an hour later, the jug is still hovering around Byron and Echo, considerably lighter.

One by one, the campers drift off. Octavia and Ambrose say goodnight. I'm tired, yet I linger, watching Echo. Byron has his arm around her. I'm seething. Her head lolls like it's heavy on her neck. She starts to shrug his arm away but slumps lethargically against him instead. He whispers in her ear. She pushes at him, irritated. Her shoulders slump a second time, and she stares into the fire. Some of the smile has left Byron's eyes. The orange flames make a devilish mask of his face. Rising, he encourages Kitra to play another song.

Minutes later, Echo struggles to her own feet. She's looking at me, glassy-eyed, enwrapped in her borrowed blanket. She's going to say something–but no, she mutters about peeing and walks away through the triangle of wagons.

Sighing, I lay my blanket in a patch of soft grass. My pack is arranged and my crossbow on the ground; I'm ready for bed... but Echo hasn't returned. It _has_ been long enough, hasn't it? Definitely. She should've been back by now. What if something's happened to her? Wait–Byron is gone too.

I can't sleep now. I have to know. I head after Echo through a small patch of forest. Voices drift through the trees. Byron and Echo. They're talking... alone in the woods. I'm angry, but I don't want to barge in on something. Echo isn't exactly happy with me right now. I keep going anyway. Maybe I _do_ want to barge in.

In the dark, they're hard to see. A sliver of moon helps. Echo is walking back toward the camp, swaying perilously, oblivious to my presence. It's a straight path through the tall grass, yet she navigates it like a tightrope. Their talk is done–but Byron isn't finished. He grabs her arm, saying something I can't make out. All at once, he's kissing her.

My body goes rigid. Echo doesn't react right away–then she veers her head away. But Byron doesn't let go. His lips move to her neck. She pushes against him. Harder. She starts making little jerking motions, squirming, trying to shove him away, but she can't break free. She's saying things in protest, quiet at first, then louder, angrier, almost frantic–and still he won't stop, he's stronger, and she's only half-conscious. He backs her against a tree, holding her there, ripping at her shirt.

I'm not aware of moving. My hands are on the back of his shirt, yanking him away. He hits a tree and falls to the ground. He's holding his head, down on one knee, turning, before he sees me. His eyes are wide. He flings up his hands in defense.

"Woah, woah–don't kill me, man!" he manages. To my surprise, I'm holding the hand-axe. Last I knew it was in my belt loop. My hands are trembling, my face severe. Now that it's in my awareness, the decision is there too: I _could_ kill him. I could end his life right here, right now. Who would stop me? I could do this unspeakable thing (which I've already done to Ballard–but this feels different somehow, more like murder)...

Yet it's not who I am. The decision is made beneath the level of words. A flip switches in my mind. The axe is lowered. Byron rises cautiously, swearing. His eyes aren't smiling now.

"Now I see why you went after Octavia. This one's just a frigid tease," he says.

I lift the axe again, and he stumbles backwards, raising his hands.

"I'm going, I'm going. Enjoy her while it lasts," he says. There's an ugly smirk on his face. What does he mean by that? He's on his way back to camp. I turn back to Echo.

"Are you–"

Her arms around my neck cut me off. She pulls me into a silent embrace, staying like that an unnaturally long time. Her breath is deep and heavy. She pulls back slightly and grabs the front of my collar, bunching it in her fists. She stares at me with drunken, bleary eyes, licking her lips, and my heart kicks itself into overdrive, because for a moment I think she's going to kiss me. There's something open and vulnerable in her gaze. The alcohol has burned a hole through her outer psyche. Hidden things peek through.

"Tristan, I... I think I..." she slurs, shaking her head. She has some desperate message to convey. It's in her eyes. She opens her mouth to speak... and vomits. I manage to avoid most of it at the last second. Some ends up on my shirt.

"Sorry," she says between bouts of throwing up. I hold her hair back. When she's done, she pulls big leaves off a tree to wipe her mouth–and my shirt. She looks sideways at me.

"You don't always have to save me, Tristan. I can handle myself, you know."

"I know," I say, though she wasn't doing a particularly good job just now.

"I _mean_ it," she says, anger flaring in her eyes.

We walk toward the camp. Echo trips on a branch and loses her balance, cursing. She leans on my arm the rest of the way. Byron's nowhere in sight. Must be sleeping in one of the wagons. I lead Echo to my blanket. We spoon like we did in the desert. She wraps her hand in mine, takes a shuddering breath and immediately falls sleep. I lay awake a short while, paranoid that Byron may return seeking vengeance, but he doesn't reappear.

Jarvis wakes me. He's still feverish, but a vast enthusiasm suffuses his visage.

"You ready? Come on, dude. We gotta go," he says.

"Wha... ? Not time."

"Yes, it is–time for the ruins, Tristan!"

Crom. The ruins. An expedition seems unlikely, but I get up anyway. I could always do with some extra goods to trade. We wake Starbucks. Immediately he shoots Jarvis down. Jarvis doesn't give up.

"We've _got_ to check it out. We may not be back this way before winter. Just a quick look," Jarvis pleads. It takes more badgering, but in the end Starbucks sighs.

" _I'll_ go. Tristan can come if he wants. _You_ will stay here and rest," the big robot says.

Reluctantly, Jarvis agrees.

"Why not," I say. Echo is still sleeping. I shake her until she mumbles. When I tell her what's happening, she goes back to sleep. I try again with the same result. She might as well be a zombie.

"Looks like it's me and you," I tell Starbucks.

"I'll try to contain my joy," he says.

I have to make room for new goods in my pack. I'm storing some things in one of the wagons–when I run into Byron. He too is up before dawn.

"Tristan!" he exclaims, startled. "Listen. Sorry about last night, mate. The wine got to me, you know? I didn't mean to–"

"You're in the way."

I store the items under my seat and heft my pack.

"You, uh... where are you going?" Byron asks, confused.

"Nowhere," I say, though that's obviously not true.

"You–you can't leave _now_."

I scowl at him.

"They'll be prepping the horses soon. It's almost dawn," he says.

Ignoring him, I join Starbucks outside. Together, we set out for the ruins.

It takes less than an hour to reach the cliff. Finding our way up is another story. We walk along the base looking for a suitable incline. One promising path stops us cold only thirty feet from the peak. A sheer wall blocks further progress. Starbucks mutters something about Jarvis. We descend and head south along the base of the cliff for half a mile. The next potential path leads a third of the way up, then slants sideways in a gradual rise. My legs are tired. It takes longer than it should to reach the top.

"Great idea, Jarvis. Great idea," I say.

"That boy will be the death of us all," Starbucks says, his malleable face approximating a frown. We should already be on our way back. Starbucks knows it too, but we've invested too much now to turn around.

"We'll just take a quick look," he decides.

Jarvis's stone building turns out to be an old fort. It doesn't feel like most of the ruins I've been through. Older somehow. It's not well picked over either. Among the bones are ragged leather wallets containing plastic money-cards and silver-colored coins. I find only one other item of interest: a small leather pouch with elaborate black dice inside. One die has twenty sides, one twelve, another only four. I've never seen anything like it. Someone's bound to trade for it. We rob the dead and call it a day.

On the way back, Starbucks is angry. He doesn't say much, but it's in his face and movements. Would the caravan leave without us? We've taken far too long. We're still making our way back down the cliff-face when a noise stops us in our tracks. The staccato burst of a big weapon echoes far and wide across the grassy plains below. Starbucks and I look at each other. My heart quails in fear.

"The turret," I say.

# Chapter 15.

The turret–it can't be anything else. Yet it was only a quick burst, _bam-bam-bam_. Maybe it was a false alarm, or it's meant as a signal for us to hurry. If there were a real threat, it should still be firing–shouldn't it? Speculation is pointless. We hasten our descent. When we hit the bottom, we race across the sea of grass. A strong breeze makes green waves around us. I'm waiting for more sound or smoke, but nothing comes. We reach the last patch of trees before the camp, and Starbucks holds up a hand. We approach slowly, crouching until the first glimpse of the camp comes into view between the trees. The wagons are there, yes, and there's the turret. It's not firing now. All appears well...

Until it doesn't.

The fullness of the scene hits me like a punch in the face. The camp is empty. There's not a whisper of sound. The big, beautiful horses lie dead with their tethers still attached. The armored mech stands alone by the dirt road on the edge of the campsite, ominously still. During the journey, this mech has never once been unoccupied. The operators take shifts inside, switching out every eight hours. One of them is _still_ inside, but the back of the mech is open, and the operator is slumped over the controls. Another operator lies on the ground a few feet away, cut almost in half by the tell-tale burn of a high-energy beam weapon.

Where the hell is everyone?

We emerge into the camp itself. Aside from the dead Redbacks and the mech operators, there are few signs of a struggle. Even the supplies in the third wagon remain, though whoever operated the turret is missing. So much for the "assured destruction" theory.

What kind of raiders leave the loot behind?

"Kitra," Starbucks says.

Our Plastic Person driver is lying on the other side of the wagon, sitting against a wheel, holding her midriff. Phosphorescent blue liquid pools around her, seeping from her insides, staining the yellow flowers of her ragged summer dress. At the sound of her name, she lifts her head. We run to her. She puts one hand on my shoulder. Her glassy eyes stare at me out of their rubber-flesh enclosure.

"He took them," she says.

"Who?" Starbucks asks.

"The... The grass came alive."

Starbucks stands abruptly, staring down at her in horror.

"What does that mean? Where are they?" I ask.

"Taken by the grass-man," Kitra says.

Kitra doesn't have long. That blue liquid means could mean only one thing. Ruptured fuel cells. The Plastic People don't have to eat or drink, but they have to replace their cells every few years. When Kitra's cells run out of power, her body will shut down. Like a human brain, the Minkowski-4 needs continuous power to maintain functionality. If it shuts down for longer than ten or fifteen minutes, relationships between the neural pathways will lose coherence. Functionality will become unrecoverable. Kitra will die, in other words.

"What happened to the turret?" I ask.

"Sabotage. The magic boy. He stopped the turret."

_Magic boy_...

" _Byron_?"

Mother of Crom. I should've buried that axe in his head when I had the chance.

"Byron, yes. Another magic trick," Kitra says, shaking her head. "He seemed so nice... Then the grass took them. I tried... I tried to drive the horses, but the grass-man put holes in them. Put holes in me too."

"Where's Byron now?" Starbucks asks.

"Taken. I heard them talking. Byron wanted to wait and take you too. But the grass-man was angry. The turret killed one of his monsters. He said you'd hear the shots. Said Byron was supposed to keep things quiet. So he put the magic-boy in the sled with the others. Can you–get my book? And my sitar?"

Kitra gestures vaguely to the wagon behind her. I just want to know where Echo is and how to get her back–who cares about a damn book and a sitar? But Kitra is dying. It's a last request. I retrieve her things, the instrument and a black leather bible. She thanks me and clutches the items in her lap, then begins reciting a prayer.

"I thought the Christians don't accept synthetics into their ranks," Starbucks says.

"There's a parish for the Created down in Boulderfield. Reverend Cold tells us we don't have to be accepted by man to follow Christ," Kitra says.

"You hold with a faith that tells us we have no souls?" Starbucks asks, frowning.

"It's not the faith that says so, just people. Reverend Cold says all living things got souls–we're alive, aren't we? All my life, I served humans as best I could. Will God not accept me into his Kingdom because my bones are made of metal?"

Starbucks only scowls. He turns away to examine the rest of the camp. I'm about to stand, but Kitra stops me.

"Don't go. Please," she says, reaching out. Her hand feels almost like real flesh, except firmer and smoother. I crouch there, listening to her pray. Her voice sinks to a whisper. Her chin drops by degrees. Finally, her hand drops too, and the life goes from her body.

"Tristan," Starbucks calls. There's a heaviness to his robotic voice. He's crouched out in the grass by the side of the road, looking at something. A body.

Fear fills me. I can't see it from here, but I know it's Echo. Who else could it be? Time for disaster. Time for unending sorrow and bitter regrets. I'm waiting for the hammer to drop when I see the brown shoes sticking out of the grass–the shoes of a man.

_Thank God_.

Thank Crom and Ishtar and Set–it's not Echo after all. A mixture of guilt and sorrow follow: guilt because I _am_ relieved, sorrow because it's still someone I know.

_Ambrose_.

Octavia's brother lies dead in the grass. His clothes and bodily features are recognizable–his face is not. His face is a blackened crater. I can hardly believe this thing in the grass was once animate, that it isn't just a morbid sculpture, that it's the remnants of an actual person. Ambrose's ear and parts of his hair are perfectly intact, only inches from the ruin of his face. I remember that day in the forest: Ambrose laughing and running as I chased down Octavia for a kiss. The memory seems to belong to someone else. I can only imagine how Octavia must be feeling right now, wherever she is.

"Why?" I whisper.

"The boy had brain damage. The flesh markets have no use for someone like that," Starbucks says.

"Flesh markets?" I ask, bewildered.

"Where they sell slaves, up north. That's why they were taken. That's where they're headed now."

Echo in a netted enclosure, heading for captivity; Octavia and the others too, everyone who shared the fire with me, bound for a life of servitude. Byron's betrayal is unthinkable. Yet Ambrose was harmless. He was no threat to anyone.

"Couldn't they have just left him?" I ask.

"I think they did. He's further away than the others. Looks like he may have chased the sled. Probably ran after his sister. Grass Man turned back and shot him. Probably didn't think twice."

"Ambrose," I lament, closing my eyes, rubbing my temples.

We find only one other body–but it's not one of ours. It's an automaton. Programmed, not sentient. Dead now, in any case. The main body is shaped like an elongated egg. Four long legs stick out. If I had to guess, I'd say the legs were modeled after one of the extinct big cats; the cheetah, perhaps. The thing was meant to run. It was also meant to hide. Long tufts of plastic grass cover its hide like mottled green-brown fur. This is the "monster" the turret hit in its one brief moment of glory.

"The Demon of the Grasses," Starbucks says. "That's who Kitra saw. I've heard of him in Apolis. This is one of his bots. He's a robot. And a slavetrader. He'll be heading north."

As we look through the wagons, it becomes clear what happened. The Grass Man, as Kitra called him, hid somewhere out in the fields with a long-range beam rifle. Around dawn, the mech operators changed shifts, and he burned them down while they were vulnerable. Then he sent in the automatons. An EMP device took out the turret. The supply-wagon is hardened to prevent such an attack–but the controls weren't shielded from _inside_ the wagon. Byron hid a device with his supplies. I know this because we find it. When he saw that the attack had begun, he must've triggered it somehow, leaving the wagons defenseless.

I keep the device. If nothing else, I'll salvage it for parts. I make sure the batteries are dead first though. It has a transmitter, and I don't want it sending out a signal. I'm guessing the device acts as a locator in addition to the EMP; with the caravan varying its route and timing, how else could the Grass Man have known exactly where and when to strike?

When the turret was out of action, the automatons must've chased down anyone who ran, locking their legs around them–they're designed to trap people that way, Starbucks informs me. Afterwards, the Grass Man came up with his sled and caged everyone, even some of the Plastic People.

"The further north you go, the less they like humans. Cyberia lies in that direction, and that's robot-only territory. To them, the Plastic People are even lower than the infected. Traitors to their kind," Starbucks says.

I should've killed Byron when I'd had the chance. I could've prevented all this. The device in the turret means he'd planned it from the start. Someone had given him the tools. Someone working with the Grass Man. What had they paid him? That hidden laughter always playing about Byron's eyes: this was his great joke all along. Maybe the payment didn't even matter.

A good secret is worth keeping.

That son of a bitch. Thrown in with the others–he hadn't planned on that!

"There's no point staying," Starbucks says.

He's right. We should bury Ambrose, or build a cairn, or do anything but leave him in the grass. Every minute we linger is another minute we fall behind, however. We carry him to one of the wagons and cover with a blanket. We lay Kitra and the turret operators beside him. Maybe whoever finds these wagons and takes the goods will have the decency to bury the dead.

There's never any question of what we'll do. The only question is whether or not to involve Apolis. Starbucks could raise a posse there–but we'd lose the trail and fall further behind, and if that happens we'll never see our friends again. So we'll be going after them alone. We need to catch the Grass Man before he gets too deep into hostile territory.

On the verge of leaving, Starbucks pauses, looking back.

"The drone. We may need it to cross the z-line," he says.

He unhooks Jarvis's wagon, along with the big robotic tug at the head of the supply wagon. The tug escaped the reach of Byron's device. He hooks them together. Then he tosses out almost all the treasure to reduce the weight. He keeps the aerial drone, food, and water. We toss in abandoned weapons left by the caravaners as well: a shotgun, Echo's machine-pistol, two laser rifles. Volume Seven and the electronic components go back in my pack. The black dice go in there too. We leave a fortune in goods behind for some lucky traveler. Finally, we jog north-northwest, followed by the tug and Jarvis's wagon.

The trail isn't hard to follow. The grass has been flattened by the Grass Man's sled.

"What would a robot want with human slaves?" I ask along the way.

"Same thing a human wants with human slaves. Free labor. Reproductive functions. Someone to kick around. Depends on the person. Robots aren't the only ones who buy from these markets."

"Humans too? You said they hated us up north."

"The further north you go, yes, but there are still humans close to the z-line. And sin bonds stronger than species. They have a saying in the flesh markets: 'gold is brighter than carbon.'"

By nightfall, we're traversing a series of rolling green hills far west of the road. Small lakes dot the land. I'm dead tired and my legs feel like jelly. We've had no sight of our quarry. At least the tug has kept up. I ask Starbucks more about the Grass Man.

"They say he rides a sled pulled by robots–probably the same kind we saw back at the wagons. Other than that, there's not much I can tell you. Heard rumors in places, been up near the flesh markets a time or two, but I wasn't even sure this 'Demon of the Grasses' was anything more than smoke until today... Now he has Jarvis," he finishes quietly.

"And Echo."

And Octavia and her soft, wet lips–but when I lay in the grass with my head on my pack, it's Echo I miss most. Only a day ago she was here, right here, sleeping next to me. Her absence is pervasive. She's gone from my eyes, from my ears, from my arms. She's even gone from my dreams. When I fall asleep, I'm still running with Starbucks, only we can never get anywhere. The Grass Man and Byron are far ahead, forever out of reach.

"Oh, they're gone now, Tristan. They won't be back," Kitra tells me, a deluge of blue liquid spilling from her guts. It keeps coming out, and suddenly it's everywhere, it's all over me, I can't get it off. It fills my mouth and my eyes–and then it's not Kitra's blood; it's Echo's.

In the morning, we resume our pursuit. My muscles ache. How long can I carry on like this? Starbucks is pushing hard too. His body is overheating. He has to intake water as a coolant, sucking it in through a tube above his right hip. I just keep thinking of the poem read to us by Franklin the Ferryman.

It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know,

By the name of Annabel Lee...

On it goes, over and over again, a litany against fear, against change, against disaster. It distracts me and sustains me.

As we approach the z-line, the roamers start to show themselves. The first one gets decapitated at a run by one of Starbucks' sickles. We pass others in the distance. I'm wondering where we'll sleep.

Out here, the main body of the z-line is marked not by the ruins of a city or infested suburban sprawl, but by a forest. The roamers are spread thinner too. We could almost run right past them. It's a deceiving notion, however. We'd have a small horde pursuing us by the time we hit the other side–likely more than we could handle. Starbucks has to kill a dozen stragglers before we even near the main line.

The Grass Man's tracks stop near the edge of the forest. They lead toward a bush... which isn't a bush at all. It's the vehicle we've been following, concealed by shrubs and fallen branches. Empty. The sled is a wide metallic cart, mounted on treads with a big cage in the back. The hull tapers toward the front, where there's a seat and eight coiled metal cables.

_Leashes_.

He must hook the cables to his bots; they pull the vehicle like dogs. Apparently the Grass Man couldn't get the sled through the z-line, so he abandoned it, taking the captives with him. But where did he go?

There are a number of tracks in the area, but they don't _lead_ anywhere. The whole group may as well have vanished. We can't figure it out. Dusk is only an hour or two off, and our movements draw occasional zombies from deeper in the forest. We accumulate a small pile of heads from the whirl of Starbucks' sickles. I'm looking up at the trees, thinking how we'll have to climb somewhere high to sleep, when dead leaves crunch beneath my boots...

Something's different. The ground doesn't feel like it should. Less solid somehow. I walk around and confirm the feeling. Crouching, I brush away the leaves, twigs, dirt, and hit something artificial. It's wooden construct, timbers woven into a solid frame, almost like a raft. I call Starbucks. We clear it off and lift the thing. Beneath it is a hole. More precisely, the entrance to a tunnel.

"You think this goes all the way through?" I ask.

"Wouldn't be much use if it didn't," Starbucks says.

The tunnel is too narrow for Jarvis's cart. We have to leave it behind. We conceal it with underbrush, just as the Grass Man did. Starbucks climbs down into the holes, takes out his sickles, and ventures into the dark. My flashlight has stayed with me all this way, so I fish it out and flick it on, piercing the gloom ahead.

It's eerily quiet. Muted. Like being buried. The walls of the tunnel get so narrow they scrape my sides. Roots stick down from the ceiling. Reaching the far end, we push up another wooden cover.

We emerge cautiously just north of the forest. A slow-walker comes in from the distance. Starbucks cleaves through its neck. Otherwise, there are few roamers in sight. This side of the z-line, I'm expecting some kind of immediate change–and there is, psychologically; a greater sense of threat hangs invisibly in the air–but the land looks much the same.

There are more tracks, leading to a dirt road. From there, they intermingle with others, but we can see the general direction of their passage.

"If I have our location right, the nearest market is only a few miles from here," Starbucks says.

"Will the Grass Man stop there?" I ask.

"Seems likely. He's a procurer, not a collector. No reason to hold onto cargo unless he's got a specific buyer in mind."

The road curves north. A sign is posted:

*

Mudcross–2 mi.

*

Starbucks and I exchange a look. If this was his goal, the Grass Man has definitely reached it before us. The question now is what to do about it. Starbucks is familiar with the general area but doesn't know much about Mudcross itself. We leave the road to avoid passersby but parallel its progress north.

An hour later, we're lying atop a grassy rise with my spyglass trained on Mudcross. It's dark, but the moonlight helps. Mudcross is a collection of squat buildings clustered around a central plaza. It's a market-town is enclosed by a solid barricade of tall spiked timbers. There are two gates at opposite ends of the town, and armed robots stand on raised platforms beside both. There'll be no way to take the slaves by force–it would take a small army. It's hard to tell much else in the darkness. We retreat east and camp in a remote copse of trees. I'm exhausted, but sleep is slow to come.

Things look different in the morning light. The origin for the town's name becomes clear, and it's neither articulate nor creative. The once-grassy field on which Mudcross is stationed has been churned to mud, and two roads intersect beyond the northern gate.

Our grassy rise yields a decent viewing-angle into the village. An auction block and various trade shops are visible. A few people–robots, mostly–are moving about the streets. I'm sweeping the spyglass to and fro–when my heart stops. There's a concrete building near the central plaza. Its windows are small, high, and blocked by thick steel bars. One window frames a flash of blonde hair...

_Echo_.

In seconds, she's gone. She must've boosted herself up on someone's shoulders to reach the window. But it _was_ her–wasn't it? Was I seeing things? No, it was her. Which means they're probably all in that building.

I give Starbucks the news. We back down the rise and swing around to see the town from another angle. The building looks secure. Guards are posted outside. We talk options. The list is depressingly short. We could try to break them out–"somehow." Or we could walk in and buy them, but we don't have the goods to trade, and they prefer gold in the flesh markets. Or we could wait for someone _else_ to buy them, then ambush the buyer on the road–but here there are too many uncertainties, and it's likely only one or two slaves would be purchased at a time. There's simply no viable plan.

Back on the grassy rise, we continue to monitor the town. Then I spot him. Tall. Spindly. A black metallic hide covered with long, plastic tufts of imitation green-brown grass. It couldn't be anyone else. A chill goes through me.

_The Grass Man_.

His face is hidden behind a mask fashioned from a human skull. He's added long curving goat-horns for greater effect. Despite his robotic nature, the Grass Man looks to be a creature of the wild, no more than an infrequent guest even in a back-country town like Mudcross. Disappearing into a building, he doesn't reemerge during our watch.

Starbucks uses the spyglass. We ruminate over vaguely plausible plans. I keep coming back to the breakout idea, working at it, only to conclude that it's hopeless. We'd need an army to invade this place. The phrase sticks in my head, repeats itself on its own.

We'd need an army... we'd need an army...

And then it hits me.

I know exactly what we're going to do.

# Chapter 16.

It takes most of the day to implement my plan.

I lay out my blanket in the grass at the base of a lonely tree east of Mudcross. I plaster tufts of grass to the gray fabric with a light layer of mud. Leaving it there to dry in the sun, we return south to the hidden tunnel. On the other side, we retrieve the aerial drone from Jarvis's wagon. It hasn't been used in weeks, so its solar cells are at full capacity. Starbucks shows me how to operate the controller. The drone whirs into the air. When it's in the trees, I press a button for the audio. Dance music shatters the silence of the forest.

Immediately, roamers come. They stretch eagerly but vainly toward the bait. I send the drone west. It's programmed with basic object avoidance, so I don't have to pay attention to every branch and tree. It collects the infected like a magnet through metal shavings.

For hours, we trawl the z-line. As it did in the ghost-town, the tail of the "zombie-comet" begins to stretch far behind the main group. The two of us are forced to retreat to the northern edge of the trees. We move parallel to the drone, watching it through my spyglass. Starbucks makes short work of any stragglers who wander our way. Further west, the trees thin out, and there's a dead suburb thick with fresh recruits... if you can call a zombie "fresh." They join our cause, as does the next suburb after that.

"You think this is overkill?" I ask, looking at the enormous horde now trailing Jarvis's drone.

"Definitely," says Starbucks.

"Should we stop?"

"Nope."

When we do stop, a veritable city of undead surrounds our aerial bait. This damn drone better not run out of power. We lead our subjects back east, then north, straight up the road to Mudcross. The sun is sinking again. Will they still follow in the dark? I hope so. The strange thing about the z-line is that idle undead always seem to return to it. Our mobile bait should keep them interested long enough for our purpose.

A mile from the market-town, Starbucks takes the controls.

"Go," he says.

I run east through the tall grass, leaving Starbucks behind. I look for the lonely tree where I left my blanket. A stab of panic hits me–Crom, where is it? Oh thank God, there it is. My blanket is waiting. The mud has dried enough to keep the grass in place.

Quickly, I shrug off my pack. Taking only my crossbow, four bolts, a sparker, and the grassy blanket, I hurry back to the grassy rise we used the night before. The sun is down. A rich, deep blue encroaches on the pink smear of horizon. A patchwork of clouds hides the moon. I can barely see the nearest sentry, who stands on a platform above the wooden posts. Hopefully that means he can barely see me. I'm wearing dark clothes, and I've smeared my arms and face with mud. Still, my heart is pounding hard as I slither forward through the grass, creeping toward Mudcross. If that sentry is paying particularly good attention, he could still spot me. You can't outrun a laser.

Closer to Mudcross–perilously close–I cinch the blanket over my back and lie still, listening. The wind whispers a secret song. The walls of the town are barely visible through the tall grass. An odd blue beetle passes inches from my nose, oblivious. It's funny–as far as the beetle is concerned, there is no World Before, no artifacts, no tragedy, no slaves and masters; the world is the same now as it was before the Fall.

Then a distant noise echoes across the plain. The voice of a long-dead woman singing her heart out. I shift slightly, enough to see the nearest sentry's dim silhouette. He stands, peering south toward the road.

_Not yet_.

Inside Mudcross, a sentry shouts. The music grows closer. The drone must be visible from the walls by now. I raise my head slightly, high enough to see above the grass–and yes! Our own personal zombie army marches toward the southern gate of Mudcross. We have may have outdone ourselves. _Thousands_ are coming up the road. The drone is a regular pied piper of the undead. A shot rings out, presumably at the drone. It speeds up in response, zooming toward the market-town. The faster plague-walkers take the lead, running after it.

_Now_.

I already have a bolt loaded. A cloth bulb full of kindling is tied to the end. The bulb is soaked in the oil from a lamp in Jarvis's wagon. I use my sparker to light the bolt. It flares up faster than I'd like. I'm turned away from Mudcross, shielding the fire from view, but it feels dangerously bright, a beacon for attention. Quickly, I turn and loose it toward the town. It thuds into the soft mud at the foot of the gate.

Shit!

Furiously, I load another bolt. Somebody had to have seen that. They'll be looking for more. Still, I creep a few feet closer, light the next one under the cover of my blanket and take a crucial half-second to aim. Before the bolt even lands, I drop under the blanket again, jaw clenched, heart in my throat, praying the sentries haven't spotted me. Nobody kills me, so it must've worked.

An enormous bang rents the air. The music cuts out. I peek through the grass. It's an amazing sight. The gate is on fire–not just from the bolt sticking into its side, but from the burning fragments of the drone, which has crashed into it, intentionally or not. The wood has been speared by burning debris, and now the undead don't need their pied piper; the movement of the sentries, the fire, and the sounds inside Mudcross provide all the impetus they require. Zombies are swarming the gate, frenzied, clambering like maggots in a barrel. The fire paints their waxen, bloated faces with a savage orange glow. Laser rifles cut through the crowd from above, shearing off limbs, burning dead flesh. The effort is woefully ineffective–they just keep coming. Some catch fire. They become animate torches, clawing up the wood toward the sentries, screaming silently in the flames, like fugitives from Hell.

A laser singes the grass less than ten paces from me. I lower my head, lying utterly still. Someone hasn't forgotten those fiery bolts. The sentries aren't the only danger. The sheer size of the horde is causing it to spread out from the gate. Feet shift in the grass nearby. If I stay, they may walk right over me. I have to get out of here, though it's dangerous to move.

A ferocious crack splits the air. The southern gate, along with a large section of the barricade around it, has collapsed–even in places untouched by the fire. The accumulated weight of the zombie army has pressed upon it like a massive fist.

In Mudcross, all hell breaks loose. A river of dead flesh floods the breach. Most of the town was already indoors for the night; most of its residents are only just becoming aware of the disturbance. The town is populated largely by sentient robots, but they won't be armored like Starbucks. Jarvis said the "R-strain" was carried by perhaps one in ten; even that ratio means hundreds of virulent subjects are in Mudcross, capable of infecting robots.

As the town faces its horror, I inch away. The slow-walkers are getting too close for comfort. I turn east, still under the blanket–

–and I'm face to face with a legless corpse worming its way through the grass. It reaches out with a three-fingered hand. I'm rolling away, the blanket enfolding me, restricting me. I kick off the camouflage and tear the axe from my belt. A hand wraps around my ankle. The owner drags itself forward. The other hand latches onto my knee. I bring down the axe... too frantically; the blade only shears off an ear and almost thuds into my own knee. The jaws open for my calf–but my second swing cleaves sideways into its skull. The thing is mush by the time I stop chopping. Another one-legged misfit nears. I hurry to conceal myself again. Luckily, the sentries have already disappeared from the walls.

I'm shaky as I make my way back up the grassy rise. There's a cacophony of noise from Mudcross. Everyone with a weapon is firing–yet it dies away quickly. Only the screams remain, punctuated by scattered gunfire.

If you thought robots don't scream, think again. Their instincts are modeled on our own. They're hardwired to feel fear; it helps preserve the illusion of ego. Yet this goes beyond any normal response. There's rage and madness in those digital voices. I can only assume the R-strain is working its sinister magic.

At the top of the rise, I look back. An inferno consumes the barricade. The fire has spread to the buildings inside. This is more than we'd hoped for. It's too much, in fact. The imprisoned slaves, ironically, are probably the safest people in Mudcross, being in a concrete building near the center of town–yet even they aren't safe if the ambient heat gets too high or the smoke too thick...

_Or if someone deliberately feeds them to the zombies_.

It's a terrible thought. I want to run into Mudcross, but it's pure suicide. We'll have to wait for the infected clear out and the fire to die down.

"Tristan."

Starbucks comes up from the west. He still carries the drone's controller. He crouches on the rise beside me, surveying the town with a mixture of glee and anxiety. One of his gauntleted hands shakes my shoulder.

"Good work. Now we've just got to get them out," he says.

"You think anyone will be left to stop us?" I ask.

"They're welcome to try."

We watch the town burn.

No attempt is made to fight the fire. With so many roamers free, it can't be done. With enough warning and weapons, the town might've been saved. By the time the zombies were inside, the balance between chaos and order was already too lopsided for organized resistance.

There's a water tower in Mudcross. The fire topples it, bringing a deluge that quashes the flames. In time, we retreat to the tree where my pack is waiting, and I doze off, exhausted.

Starbucks rouses me toward dawn, and we return to the rise, armed for war. He kills seven roamers even over this short distance. They've been spreading out from the town.

At the top of the rise: desolation. Mudcross lies in ruins. The remnants of the fire have burned themselves out, though embers smolder in the charred remains. A third of the town has been razed to the ground. The rest is scarcely better off. It looks abandoned. Roamers wander the streets. Many have drifted away or burned up in the flames. Likely they're already repopulating the z-line. Others were taken out by the residents before the latter were overcome. There's still plenty left to deal with, however.

We march toward the town, Starbucks with his sickles and a shotgun, I with my crossbow and a laser rifle. My senses are on high alert. My brain puts the litany on auto-repeat:

It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know,

By the name of Annabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love and be loved by me.

We deal with the undead methodically, stopping and killing them as they appear. It would be a shame to get caught in our own trap. Street by street, we tackle the loaners.

_I was a child and she was a child, in this kingdom by the sea,_ I think while lasering a roamer's brains through the back of its skull.

But we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Annabel Lee...

I'm watching for any sentries or vengeful residents, but none materialize. Anyone lucky enough to survive is probably busy salvaging whatever they can. Besides, there's no way they could know who loosed this plague upon them. As far as they know, we just came to do business.

Toward the center of town, a bronze robot digs frantically in a ten-foot wide crater, clawing the ground with desperate hands. We stop, puzzled–did he dig that whole crater himself? Even my mental litany trips up in confusion. His head darts up. His face is made from the same malleable material as Starbucks'. Rage contorts his features. With a banshee-like scream, he launches himself at us, muddy arms outstretched. Starbucks drops a sickle and goes for the shotgun, but my laser rifle is already raised. A red tracer-beam reveals the path of the deadlier invisible one. The laser swipes an ugly burn-line through the robot's head. He collapses.

"The R-strain," Starbucks says, monitoring the remains.

"What was he doing?" I ask

"Being crazy. You know what's strange? It looks like the flesh-walkers left him alone after he was infected. Somehow, they _knew_."

At the end of the street is the concrete prison-bunker in which I glimpsed Echo. We take out a plague-walkers and our goal is within reach. The guards are gone, of course, but when I try the iron door, it's locked.

"Echo! Echo, can you hear me?" I shout.

"Not so loud," Starbucks says, glancing around.

Voices inside. Questions, comments, disbelief.

"Is that you, boy?" a gruff voice asks. One of the caravaners.

Starbucks reaches for one of the high, small windows. He hoists himself up until he can see inside. Cheers greet him. He shushes them and asks questions. I can't make out the answers. When he drops back down, his face is grim.

"He took them," Starbucks says.

"What?"

"The Demon of the Grasses. Echo, Jarvis, Octavia, Milly, and Jareth all left with him yesterday. The others don't know where they went."

It takes a minute to absorb the information.

"No. No, no, she was _here_. I _saw_ her in the window," I protest.

"He must've come while we trawled for infected," Starbucks says.

We both look around, a thought plain between us: _did we kill them?_ If the Grass Man removed them from the bunker but kept them in town for the night... There's a charred inn right across the plaza. A half-eaten corps slumps in the alley nearby. They could all be ash and we'd never know it. It's too cruel a thought.

"They weren't here during the fire," Starbucks says.

"How can you be sure?" I whisper.

"Tristan, there's only one reason the Grass Man himself would come for them. He found a buyer. If they were being sold in Mudcross, the auctioneers would've put them on the block or the buyer would've come directly. The Grass Man would have no reason to turn up again. But _he_ took them from this bunker, not someone else. Which means he found a buyer outside the town. Someone radioed in an offer, perhaps, or maybe this was his plan all along. Maybe he only jailed them until he was ready to leave."

I want to believe him, but the fear linger. What if he kept them somewhere else for the night? What if he chained them in an inn until he was ready to leave in the morning–a morning that never came?

What if we killed them?

The voices petitioning us from inside the bunker finally penetrate the fog of my mind. The rest of the caravan is still trapped inside. Starbucks tells everyone to huddle in a far corner. He takes my laser rifle and spends time burning a small corner of the building away, cutting it at a sharp angle until the rifle starts to overheat. He kicks aside the fallen concrete until a proper hole has been made.

The prisoners come blinking into the sunlight. They shake our hands and hug us and praise their gods. Starbucks warns them to keep their voices down. There are still zombies in the area. I look for Echo and Jarvis and Octavia, even knowing they're gone. I have to confirm it. Milly and Jareth too. Milly was a shy, skinny young woman with brown hair and acne scars. Jareth was her husband, though they'd mostly kept to themselves. Aboard the caravan, I'd barely spoken to either.

The elation of the caravaners doesn't touch us. I lean against the bunker in a desultory mood. Then it hits me.

_Byron_.

"Where's Byron?" I demand.

That snuffs some of their joy.

"That bastard," the burly caravan driver says. "He gave us up. We were fixin' him. Fixin' him good. Would've finished if the guards hadn't taken him out. We boosted Cyn up to watch out the window. She said they took him up the road to a white building–that it there, Cyn?" he asks, pointing.

"Aye, that's the one," says another caravaner, a hunched older woman.

I'm already moving. The building is down a road we haven't cleared yet, but my normal sense of caution is absent. The axe is in my hand. A roamer is drawn from a side-street. There's a fierce satisfaction in splitting its head open. Starbucks follows, calling my name. He's burning down others with the laser rifle. Three more fall to my axe before I reach the building.

It's a medical facility for slaves. Healthy bodies fetch better prices, after all. The building is untouched by the fire. A robotic guard lies dead ten feet from the entrance, his body stomped into the mud, his head torn half-off. On his body is a key.

The door-lock clicks open.

Inside: cots and tools and machinery. Otherwise, it's empty. No, wait–someone's huddled in a far corner, knees drawn up to his chest.

Byron.

I barely recognize him. His eyes are swollen shut, his arm is in a cast, and his front teeth are missing. I have no sympathy. That part of me has closed its doors. Without his betrayal, we'd all be in Apolis right now. I don't feel the conflict I might've felt in the past. It won't feel like murder. It will feel like justice.

"Who's there?" he asks, touching the wall beside him, pushing to his feet.

I stand in front of him. He asks again with fear in his voice.

"Tristan," I say.

His jaw drops open.

"Tris–... Oh, thank God. Thank God... Where are the others?" he asks.

"I know it was you, Byron."

He freezes.

"What are you talking about?" he asks.

"Say goodbye."

I raise the axe.

"You'll never find them without me!"

The words come out in a rush. I hesitate.

"What are you talking about?" I ask.

"Your girl. Echo. He took her, didn't he? And some of the others. I'm not sure which ones, but I heard _her_ for sure."

"Keep talking."

"They would've killed me, I think–the caravaners. But the Grass Man came. He didn't come for _me_. It was just good timing. I heard the others being taken. Then the guards saw what they'd done to me. I blacked out. Woke up here. It's all a misunderstanding, Tristan. I had nothing to do with it! How are you even here? What on Earth happened out there?"

"Where's Echo?" I ask.

The caravaners have entered the building behind me. Starbucks is still outside, dealing with stray roamers. There's an uproar when the survivors spot Byron. One throws him to the ground and kicks him. They want to finish the job. I have to yell for order. The burly driver seethes with anger, fists clenched, muscles trembling.

"Where's Echo?" I ask again.

"Keep them off me," Byron says.

" _Where_?"

"The Grass Man has her. But I can tell you how to find them. I'm–I'm your only chance, Tristan. Just get me out of here, leave me some supplies, let me live. I'll tell you. I swear."

The caravaners all try to talk at once. I quiet them, fingering the axe.

"Here's the problem, Byron. You're a liar. You'd say anything to live another day. But this is the end of your road. Right here, right now. I'm going to count backwards from five, and if you haven't said anything useful by then, I'm going to plant this axe in your head."

He waits until "one."

"I planted a locator aboard his sled!" he says frantically.

"Nice try. Your locator was with the EMP in the caravan. Besides, the Grass Man left his sled at the z-line. It's of no use."

"No, no, his _other_ sled. He kept one at each end of that tunnel–ask the others! The sleds are too big to fit through. I left the EMP in the wagon, yes. But _not_ the locator. It was always with me. I had the transmitter; the Grass Man had the receiver. I got it from a guy in Boulderfield. He paid me, told me what to do. That's how he found the caravan. But I kept the transmitter up my sleeve when the Grass Man caged me. I planted it on his sled when we reached Mudcross."

I look around at the others. Their faces confirm the second sled, at least.

"Why would you bother planting the locator when you were already with the sled? Trying to find yourself?" I ask.

"I was hoping to escape. I didn't want the Grass Man tracking me down again if I managed to get away. With the transmitter on the sled, I'd always know where he was."

"But you didn't have the receiver. What good is it to plant the transmitter without it?" I ask.

"None–unless you know the frequency, and you can find someone who can sell you a new receiver. I was planning to steal one from a shop in town–if I could ever escape, that is. It was a dim hope, I grant you, but what else could I do? I _do_ know the frequency. What about you, Tristan? Know anyone good with electronics?"

I'd spoken of my hobby in the caravan. Byron's hint of a smile is insufferable. It disappears when the burly driver, having perceived some change in the general mood, attempts to punch it from his face. I have to shout to restore order again. There are sounds outside too–we're attracting more roamers, which Starbucks is still busy dispatching.

"Keep the animals off me, Tristan," Byron says, standing again. He's not smiling now.

"What's the frequency?" I ask.

"Yeah, let me hand that over so you can kill me. I need _assurances_. I can't bloody _see_. Keep me alive. We'll go north, after the Grass Man. He's sure to have gone that way. When the swelling goes down and I can see, I'll give you the frequency. After that, you go your way, I'll go mine. But you must promise now to leave me alive with a bare minimum of supplies. All I want is a chance. The Grass Man's your real enemy. Not me."

I pause, trying to think of a way around this.

"Why would you believe me even if I promised all that?" I ask.

"I'm a liar, Tristan. You're right. But you're not like me. You're a slave to your own honor. I never understood honor. Mostly it gets people killed. But you'll keep your word. I know that much. I did some rotten things, Tristan. But what's more important–killing me or finding your friends?"

This is his strength. He's sees what someone needs or fears, and he uses it to manipulate them. He mixes lies with truth and cares for neither. Worst of all, he's right. I _will_ keep my word. What's to stop me from betraying him? Nothing but an outmoded sense of honor, yet that's all it takes. Sometimes mental constructs can be stronger than physical ones. I don't want to promise anything. I certainly don't want to take him with us. But how else can we track down the Grass Man? Byron is too smart to give up the information for anything less. It's his only bargaining chip.

Could I find the frequency on my own? It's probably shortwave. It has to work over long distances. If I could find a good frequency scanner, maybe... but that's unlikely in Mudcross. And a scanner might not pick it up. What if it only transmits a blip periodically, say every half an hour? I might never find it. Which means Echo and the others would be lost to us.

"One last magic trick, eh Byron?" I mutter.

He has the wits not to smile. I return the axe to my belt and drag him outside.

# Chapter 17.

The caravaners are none too happy about leaving Byron alive. The burly driver promises to hunt him down once Echo and the others are found, regardless of any promises I make. It's an idle threat though. The caravaners still have a chance of recovering their abandoned property on the road south of Apolis. I doubt anyone will risk coming north again to track down Byron.

After I tell Starbucks the situation, the robot takes a long look at Byron with unblinking black eyes. He nods once. Byron can't see him, but the silence puts more fear in him than all the caravaners' boisterous threats combined. I have no idea if Starbucks will abide by any agreement _I_ make when all this is over–but hey, that's between them.

I bind Byron's wrists with a cord from my pack. We make our way to an abandoned electronics store. The windows are broken in and there's no sign of the owner. With the right parts, a radio receiver can be pretty easy to make. With the wrong parts, it can be impossible. What I'm making isn't _just_ a receiver though. It's a direction finder. It has to identify where the signal is coming from and provide that data to the user. I cop together a working model, using a circular compass-face for the readout, configuring the needle to pull in the direction of the signal. I'm pretty proud of it, honestly. When I'm done, I keep the soldering tube and hand-cranked generator. Then I stuff my pack full of spare parts. I'm building up a solid collection.

"Look at these," Starbucks says, hefting a small gray sphere.

I give him a puzzled look.

"EMP grenades. Twist this and press–five second delay, kill all the 'tronics in range," he explains. There's a big box full. Starbucks puts a few in his pack. I grab some for myself. The caravaners take a few too, no doubt thinking of hostile robots on the road back.

Outside, even more plague-walkers have begun wandering south. They've had their party. Time to aimlessly occupy the z-line again. Some of Mudcross's residents have clearly survived the siege. They're barricaded into homes or shops. One tracks us with a rifle from a rooftop. We give him a wide berth. Other buildings have been abandoned, and these we sack for goods. The caravaners take weapons and supplies, but I make the best find of all: a working vehicle.

I'm not sure if it's meant for farming or travel or what, but it's got one wheel up front and a pair of tracks in the back. A solar-cloth canopy absorbs the sun and keeps out the rain. It can hold four people comfortably. It's sitting right in the street. The driver, a middle-aged man, lies dead only steps from the controls. It appears he was dragged from the vehicle and half-eaten by roamers. At some point he used a gun on himself. I stare down at the corpse as Starbucks retrieves the keys.

"So he was human. _Now_ you feel bad?" the big robot asks.

I see his point. Indirectly, we killed a lot of people in this town. It was easier not to view it that way when all I saw were robots. I always thought of Lectric as a living thing, but it's not as obvious with the robots in this town. I didn't know them. They could've been mindless automatons. Consequently, it's easier not to feel bad for them. But the human, well, that could've been _me_. Not that any of this was undeserved. These people, human and robot, lived in a place that thrived on abducting travelers and selling them into slavery. You live on a volcano, sooner or later you face lava.

With the half-track and new supplies, our band makes its way out of town.

On the grassy rise, we part ways. The caravaners embrace me again. They thank us and wish us luck. They curse Byron and spit on him. He affects a conviviality which proves indefatigable, however. He thanks them and makes light comments as though they were honoring him with their saliva. The burly driver socks him hard in the stomach.

"Oh, you're too kind," Byron says in a strained voice. "Give the missus my love."

The driver boots him into the dirt with disgust. The caravaners depart south, leaving the three of us on the half-track.

"Time's a-wasting, friends!" Byron says.

Starbucks sits next to him, very deliberately, his rhythmic robotic breathing close in Byron's ear, and says, "Don't talk again."

Byron opens his mouth... and thinks better of it. Starbucks sits there staring at him, breathing in, breathing out. He reaches back and feels for one of his sickles, brings it forward and begins sharpening it on a small grinding sponge. Byron licks his lips. I take the driver's seat. The controls are easy to learn. And by the way? Driving is _fun_. Liberating. Empowering. Enough of this walking bullshit. We rumble north.

And north.

And further north.

"You better be right about this," I tell Byron repeatedly. We've crossed broken roads heading in other directions, though none too traversable. It's likely we're on the right track. Nevertheless, I worry constantly. I feel blind, not knowing how close or far the Grass Man is.

At night, we camp in a forest off the road. I tie Byron to a tree.

"Oh, thanks for helping me with this gravity problem. I'd just float away if I wasn't tied down," he says, smirking.

"Yeah, pretend it's all a joke. You're still the one tied to a tree," I say.

"Pshh, this is a swim in the pond," Byron says, shrugging. "Torturing people just isn't your thing, Tristan."

"Maybe not. Comes naturally to you though, huh?"

" _Torture_? I've never tortured anyone," Byron says.

"What do you call locking people in cages and ruining their lives?" I ask.

"I call that the Grass Man's doing. And hey, if people are stupid enough to trust random strangers and walk into an ambush–well, maybe they don't deserve quite so much freedom. In a way, I'm performing a service. I'm removing the gullible from the gene pool. Evolution, baby."

"Unbelievable. You're taking money to betray innocent travelers. How do you rationalize that for the greater good? You can't even admit to yourself that it's wrong. Well, it really paid off this time, didn't it? Your face looks like somebody used it as a battering ram."

"Yeah, and who did that? Speaking of torture, those 'innocent' friends of yours would've killed me if the guards hadn't happened in at the right moment. Your two blonde bimbos were only too happy to help. What's that make them? I should've tasted Echo's sweets when I had the chance. She knew why we were going into that forest, don't kid yourself, Tristan. She may have said no, but she wanted it like a cat with its ass in the air."

My hands are wrapped up in his collar before I know it.

"Don't say another goddamn word."

"Or what? Hit me, Tristan. Go on, like your friends. Even they were weak. I've been through worse."

Letting out a breath, I relax my hands and stand up.

"Yeah, I'll bet. Not the first caravan you've sold into slavery, I'd wager. One of the others catch you too?" I ask.

"No. I reckon the others would've killed me if they'd caught me. But this is still a swim in the pond."

"Whatever. All you've got are lies and tricks, smoke and mirrors."

I start to move away, but something in his voice gives me pause.

" _Lies_? Lies, Tristan?" he asks, and his sudden laugh is bitter. "Try being chained up with pigs for a few days. My step-father was fond of that tactic. I got quite used to eating out of a troth. All the same, he wasn't _angry_ those days, just bored, you understand? It's the other days that were bad. I won't tell you about those. Now, would _you_ do that to a child, Tristan? Would you make them kneel in glass when they 'walked too loud'? Would you piss on them to wake them if they slept late? I don't think so. You don't have the stomach for it. Real cruelty takes willpower, Tristan. It takes commitment. _That's_ why I say you don't have what it takes, and _that's_ why this is a swim in the pond."

I want to say he's lying, but I don't think he is this time. Well, what did I expect? That he was born evil? People are programmed, much like automatons, only it's the world that programs us. So Byron had a bad childhood; it doesn't excuse him from what he does now. He can still make choices. He doesn't get a free pass on betrayals. Even so, I understand him a little bit better as I walk away.

The next day is much the same. We see a few robots on the road. Starbucks greets them in passing. I keep my eyes down. Starbucks has warned us to pretend we're his slaves if we meet anyone. Humans and robots travelling together as equals is less common and more offensive in these parts.

On the third day, it's clear the swelling around Byron's eyes has gone down enough for him to squint. He claims his vision is too blurry to be any good, but I'm doubtful. In any case, I figure it's time we parted ways.

"You can see well enough. Now give us the frequency," I say, bringing out the receiver.

"The supplies?" he prompts.

I toss a canteen and some foodstuffs into the road beside our half-track.

"And your word," he says.

"I won't kill you. Or maim you. I give my word. _Unless_ you break the deal. If the frequency's no good, or if it doesn't lead to the Grass Man, all bets are off," I say.

"Fair enough. But what about him?" Byron asks, indicating Starbucks.

Starbucks sighs. Maybe he was counting on the oversight.

"I will look for Jarvis. If I do not find Jarvis, I will look for you," he says.

"Guess that'll have to do. Best of luck then, old chum. Now, I know Tristan will keep _his_ word, but robots I can't read so well. So here's what I propose. I'll take the receiver and go to the top of that hill. I'll set the frequency. When I set it on the ground, you're free to come get it. This way I've got a little head-start in case chrome-dome gets trigger-happy."

Starbucks and I glance at each other.

"That's not the deal. Give us the frequency or you have no need of your tongue," Starbucks says, reaching for one of his sickles.

"You see? I knew he had violence on his mind," Byron comments.

"We trusted you once. We won't make that mistake a second time," Starbucks says.

"He's right. No more tricks. Give us the frequency," I say.

"I didn't think this was the type of 'echo' you were looking for," Byron says. "We can do this all day. The fact is I'm rather attached to this life. I can't give you the frequency unless I'm sure of my own safety, and from where I'm standing, things aren't looking too safe. Maybe old Starbuckle here gets it in his mind to use that laser rifle. All I want is a little distance first. Setting it to the right frequency is in my best interests–I'd much rather have you going after the Grass Man than me, get it? Reason it out, Tristan."

What he says makes sense, but people like Byron will use your own logic against you. They'll shake your hand while signaling someone to shoot you in the back.

" _I'll_ keep the receiver," I say. "You go to that hilltop alone and shout out the frequency. Then you wait there while I check it. If you run before then, or if it's wrong, or if you try something–anything–Starbucks comes after you. Deal?"

"Can't say I'm very fond of that last part, but as I have no reason to lie to you–sure. Happy travels, gentlemen."

Byron moves into the forest toward the appointed hill. Starbucks watches him, fingering a laser rifle. I hand-crank the receiver to full power and switch on the speaker. Byron reaches the top of the hill. For a second he looks like he's going to run, but he cups his hands over his mouth and shouts out the numbers one at a time. I fiddle with the dial. It's hard to get it just right. It's not like I spent weeks perfecting the device. What if it's not calibrated well enough? I tested it in Mudcross, but it's been bumping around in my pack since then. Finally, the speaker emits a high-pitched blip. It's getting a signal. The needle jumps to life, swinging north toward the origin. Ten seconds later, the blip comes again. This has to be it.

I look up at Byron. His treachery cost Kitra and Ambrose their lives. What's honor compared to justice? Why should noble ideas protect the wicked? He should be punished. Even so, it would feel wrong to burn him down after agreeing to this deal. Maybe I'm as trapped by my programming as any good automaton. So be it.

"Got it," I shout, waving.

Byron turns and runs down the hill.

"Let's go," I say. But Starbucks is still looking that way.

"I'll be back," he says, and takes off after Byron.

I wait, watching the signal.

It's a long while before the robot returns.

"Just making sure he wasn't up to anything suspicious," he says.

"Was he?" I ask.

"Didn't seem to be. He saw me while I was following though and panicked, went into a river. He was swimming, last I saw. Must've thought I was coming to end it."

"Were you?"

"I was keeping my options open."

We push the half-track north as fast as it'll go–which is not as fast I'd like. It's difficult to tell how far the Grass Man is, but the signal gets stronger as we progress. We sort through our weapons and talk about what to do. Our hope is to come upon his camp, take out his bots with the EMP grenades, and burn him down with the rifles. We don't know how well his bots are hardened against pulse weapons, however. I guess we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.

We come to it awfully soon.

Two days after Byron's departure, the direction-finder swings west. A forest grows through the debris of fallen houses on either side of us. I'm expecting the path to fork toward the signal, but there are only trees in that direction. Then there's something in the road ahead. Something metal. I stop the half-track.

"What is that?" I ask, remembering the mine in the desert.

"Can't tell," Starbucks says.

The spyglass reveals more.

"It's one of the Grass Man's bots," I say, throttling the half-track, throwing it forward.

The thing is clearly dead. It's sprawled in the road, covered in mottled green-brown fur, its cheetah-like legs out to one side. A burn-line has cut it almost in half. There's no one else in sight. If there was a battle here, it's over. I exchange a worried look with Starbucks. We grab our weapons.

The signal lies due west. The forest isn't overly dense but it's enough to prevent the half-track from getting through. We set off on foot. I carry a laser rifle; my crossbow is strapped to my back, taut against my pack. The forest is eerily quiet–or is it only because I'm listening so closely?

"There," Starbucks whispers, pointing.

At the base of a tree sits a dead man, his head slumped forward over the blackened hole in his chest. He's wearing faded green camouflage. I don't know what to make of him. Other signs of a fight emerge. The trunk of a fallen tree has been sheared off by a beam-weapon. A second grass-bot lies dead in the dirt, riddled with small holes. Charred grass and dirt surround a shallow crater. Twenty feet from the crater is a single muscled arm with no sign of a body. It's pale and purple-white, like a rubber toy. Absurd that it could've belonged to someone. Bile rises in my throat. Fear too, as we move forward.

_Crom, give me strength in battle_.

But Crom doesn't grant prayers. He only respects the strong–which, in all honesty, doesn't bode well for me. We're losing light. The sun is an angry red ball sinking beneath the hills. More black scorch marks mar the grass here and there.

Then we reach him.

The Grass Man.

He's sprawled headless in a leafy dip between two slopes, at the epicenter of the surrounding destruction. His tall, tufted body has been chewed by bullets and burn-holes. Someone did our work for us–and thank God for that, because it looks like he put up one hell of a fight. More of his bots lie dead on the slopes. A bevy of trees have fallen along the perimeter, eaten by grenades or energy weapons. Men are dead here too. Three that I count, all in the camouflage. Yet one thing is missing: the sled. The signal still leads west.

"Tracks," Starbucks says, pointing. They're from the sled. They lead up the western rise. We head down the first slope, stopping to examine the Grass Man. His head is gone. His weapons too. I'm still looking at the body when there's a crunch of boots atop the western slope. My head whips up–three men are coming over the top, startled, one raising a long-barreled weapon. A loud crack reverberates through the forest. There's movement beside me. It happens that fast.

Has he shot me? I'm unsure a moment. Perhaps I'm already dead and have yet to realize it. But no, I don't think I was hit. I'm frozen by the sound, by the suddenness of it.

"Drop the weapon," one of the three says.

The laser rifle is still in my hands. I drop it.

"I think we'd better–" I start to say, turning to Starbucks. But Starbucks is on the ground. Starbucks has fallen backwards over the Grass Man. Starbucks has been shot in the head.

Shock rips a hole in time. I know instantly that he's dead, but it's too much to grasp. He was here. Right _here_. Now he's not. A single moment, a cutoff point–life on one side, death on the other. It's unreal, a puzzle, a joke in poor taste. Can it be? Did this just happen?

I'm leaning over him. His malleable expression has gone slack. There's a hole above his right eye. It's still smoking. The three men have come down the hill. They might as well have teleported. They're saying things that don't make sense. Everything is muted. I'm only dimly aware of them. One grips my upper arm. The touch trips an alarm in my brain, and then I'm screaming.

# Chapter 18.

The next thing I know, I'm looking up from a cot beneath a green tent, and Echo is sitting beside me. Her eyes are bloodshot, but they widen when I catch them. She says my name, and then her hands are on my face, she's kissing my cheeks, my eyes, my forehead. My hands are in her hair. It's only now, as she pauses over me, eyes clamped on mine, that I know how much I've missed her. We were so bent on pursuing the Grass Man that I submerged everything else. Echo was always on my mind, but forced to the background to keep the emotional noise down. Now the feelings are free to come to the surface, and I'm embroiled in a tide of powerful longing.

An equally terrible grief arises. I can't suppress it. Only a step away, Starbucks was struck like lightning from a clear sky. I'm weeping, and Echo sits there gazing at me, her hand running lightly down my face, and I can't stop or look away. I'm hypnotized. She's here, willing to accept both pain and pleasure, to share it.

"I knew you'd come for me," she says after a time.

"Starbucks–"

"I know, Tristan. I know."

"Why'd they shoot him? Who are these people?" I ask

"Soldiers from Last Bastion. They're at war with Cyberia. They shoot robots on sight."

"But Starbucks wasn't–"

"They don't care, Tristan. He wasn't human. That's all that matters to them."

I look around the tent. There are a few empty cots. No one else is inside. The back of my head hurts. Oh yeah–someone hit me. I wouldn't stop screaming, so they knocked me out.

"Where are the others? Where's Jarvis and Octavia?" I ask.

Echo's expression hardens.

"The Grass Man sold them, Tristan. Milly and Jareth too. I was the only one left."

I close my eyes. Disaster. This is a disaster. But at least Echo is here.

"Who were they sold to?" I ask.

"I don't know. An armored car came out of the west, over a broken road. The Grass Man was expecting them. A robot got out. I don't know if anyone else was inside. I don't know where they were going..."

Her voice is shaky, on the verge of breaking.

"Octavia cried all the time for her brother. When the Grass Man came, when he realized Ambrose wasn't–useful–he left him behind. But Ambrose ran after us. The Grass Man just burned him down, Tristan. It was terrible... And Jarvis–Jarvis was the bravest. He tried to keep our spirits up. He was sure Starbucks would come. Mudcross was bad, but at least we were all still together. When the others were taken, I thought I would die. I never felt so alone. The Grass Man never talked to us, never told us anything, but I overheard him when he sold the others. He was saving me for someone further north, some kind of collector. I was so scared, Tristan."

We let that sit for a time, reflecting. I curse at Last Bastion.

"Why'd they have to shoot Starbucks? He was on _our_ side. He wasn't doing anything wrong."

"I know. It's the way they think, Tristan. Listen, I need to tell you something. They've got–"

"Awake?" a man interrupts, coming through the tent-flap. "Good. You're to come with me."

"Where?" I ask.

"The Commander wants to see you."

"I'm coming too," Echo says.

"He didn't ask for you. You wait here," the soldier insists.

"Did I trade one slaver for another? Am I a captive now? If the Commander doesn't want me with Tristan, fine, I'll wait outside _his_ tent. Not here," Echo says.

There's a ferocity to her I've rarely seen. The soldier looks her up and down a moment, then grunts and motions for us to follow.

It's dark outside. We're at an encampment in the forest. Men are assembled in small groups around three fires, talking, lounging, eating. There are about twenty in sight. Throwing back a devilish orange reflection on a spike near the fire is the Grass Man's missing head. The skull-mask is still affixed, though a chunk is missing. The black eyes leer at us from the grave. Maybe it's a petty gesture, but I spit on it as we pass.

The Commander's tent looks much like the others, except there are two men standing guard outside. Echo is made to stop at the flap while I follow the soldier inside. The Commander is sitting at a table. He has an impressive white beard, blue eyes, and an aura of authority. He gives me an appraising look as I'm led to a chair.

"Commander Boris Bellring, Special Operations, Fourth Battalion, of the Last Bastion of Mankind. And you are?" he asks. His voice is deep and slow.

"Tristan," I say.

"Tristan. Very well. What were you doing in the company of a machine, Tristan?"

"You mean the robot your men murdered?" I ask, feeling a flush of anger.

"You can't murder what was never alive, boy."

"He was no threat to you. You had no reason to kill him," I say.

" _It_ had a laser rifle. And we have every reason to put down _every_ walking machine between here and Laska. Now answer my question."

"We were after the Grass Man," I say.

"The what?"

"The robot you killed–I mean, the _other_ robot, the one whose head is on a spike out there. He abducted our friends. We were trying to get them back."

"Is that so," he says. For some reason, he sounds doubtful.

"Yes," I say emphatically. He looks at the soldier behind me, then back at me.

"Start from the beginning," he says.

So I do. I tell him how we boarded the caravan, but then I have to go backwards to how we met Starbucks and Jarvis in the ruins. I talk of Byron's betrayal and the zombies at Mudcross. He shares more looks with the soldier. Doubt brews among them. When I'm done, he sighs and says, "Bring in the other one." I assume he means Echo.

I'm wrong.

" _You!_ " Byron yells when he sees me, his eyes going wide. He lunges at me. The soldier has to wrestle him back. He's yelling things about betrayal and trickery. I'm so startled I can't properly react. I'm just staring slack-jawed.

"We have a dilemma," the Commander says, his voice grave.

Byron was picked up by Last Bastion scouts on a small boat north of where we left him. He must've told the scouts something about the caravan being ambushed and the Grass Man heading north. He probably wasn't expecting the men to radio back to a larger encampment, let alone bring him along. Byron had to know that if the soldiers freed anyone from the old caravan, he'd be identified as the betrayer. By now he's pumped them full of _his_ version of the story, which, I'm both astonished and outraged to discover, holds that _I_ betrayed the caravan.

When I grasp what he's saying, I rise from my chair, hurling curses at him, and he falls back convincingly as though frightened. All his reactions are calculated to put me in a bad light. But nobody could possibly believe him–could they? A soldier pushes me back into the chair.

"Just ask Echo!" I shout, looking at Bellring.

"Oh, right, ask her! You turned them all against me, you and your tricks and your empty words, you son-of-a-bitch," Byron yells. "You made them think I was you, even as I was caged and dragged away–and where were you and your robot friend during the ambush? Out in the woods, waiting for them to take us! Go ahead, deny it."

I'm aghast. The temerity of his lies is beyond me. Rage chokes me. I'm lunging for him before I know it, wrapping my hands around his neck, and the soldier has to put an immobilizing headlock on me.

"Enough," the Commander declares. He's on his feet, glaring at us.

"I take it you deny the charges?" he asks, looking at me.

" _Me_? It was him, don't you see?"

"I'll take that as a yes. But you _were_ in the presence of a machine when we found you, which in Last Bastion territory is a crime in itself, and that puts you in a very questionable light."

"Starbucks was on _our_ side," I sputter.

"There are no machines on 'our' side, boy. 'Our' side is the human race. And these robots are as dead as any of the plague-walkers, only smarter. In the south you may have things confused, but out here we know who the real enemy is. In any case, one of you is a very convincing liar, and I have neither the time nor the inclination to deal with convincing liars. While I waste breath on you, there's a war going on, and I have a mission to attend to. So. I'll let the courts deal with you. If you're lucky, they'll only hang one of you."

He nods to the soldier and waves us toward the flap.

"What courts? What's happening?" I ask.

"The courts of Last Bastion. I'm already losing two men to escort your female friend. Now they can escort all three of you."

What does he mean by that–he's sending Echo to Last Bastion? I've heard the city-state mentioned a time or two in Farmington, but I know nothing of it. I want to protest, but I don't know what to say. The soldiers are already bringing us outside. In keeping with his role, Byron spits at me. It sends me into another rage. They have to drag us to separate quarters.

Later I'm in a tent with Echo, under guard. They weren't going to let her in, but she threw a fit with such ferocious determination that the guard backhanded her once and shoved her inside, whereupon Echo took a deep breath, fixed a strand of hair and sat calmly beside me, as though she'd just won an argument.

My rage has dipped toward depression. I can't believe we're here–Starbucks dead, Jarvis and Octavia missing. First robots want to capture us, then humans. The goddamn zombies have been our best allies yet!

Echo's presence is the one good point. We're in this together now. It's us against the world again, as it was in the desert. She still has her necklace, and she fingers the heart-shaped jewel absently in the tent.

"Why did you keep that?" I ask.

"I kept all the things you gave me. They were like treasures from another world. This is necklace all I have left."

I nod. Then I remember something.

"Did you know they were planning to send you to Last Bastion?"

Echo probes her cheek with her tongue.

"Commander Bellring implied able-bodied young women are in high demand in Last Bastion... They need babies," she adds when I continue to stare at her. "They've lost a lot of people in the fighting with Cyberia, and Commander Bellring said a sickness left many of their women infertile. If they don't find more soon, in a generation or two they're not going to have enough people to hold down the city."

I'm almost afraid to ask what she thinks of that possibility. I'm sure she wouldn't want to be forced into anything–but strong walls, steady food, a sense of community? Better than starving in the wild, evading hostile robots and mindless roamers.

"Cyberia. That's the same place the Doctor warned us about," I muse. "He said it was run by one of his brothers. One of the Seven. Last Bastion is at war with them? Still, Starbucks was on our side. Killing all robots indiscriminately can't be the answer. Foundry, Cove, Last Bastion–I have yet to hear of a single city-state I'd actually want to live in."

"Haven will be different," Echo says, though she casts her eyes downward, and I can hear the hope stretched thin in her voice.

"Yeah. Different," I say, lying on the lone cot they've left in my tent. Echo squeezes in next to me, and things feel a little closer to right, even here. We create our own psychological bubble, shielding us from the outside world. Her breath tickles my neck, her frame moves against me.

"I missed you," I admit.

"Tristan, I... I don't want to be apart again. Just stay with me, wherever we go," she says, and despite all that's happened, it's gratitude that fills me most as I drift off to sleep.

A soldier wakes us in the morning. My arm is numb, my brain slow, and it takes me a minute to get my bearings. When I do, there's an awareness of all we'll have to face today, and it brings a profound disappointment– _this_ life again? Echo moans concordantly.

We're on the road before we know it. Two men are sent to guide and guard us–Sampson and Barabas. They're both wearing camouflage. Each carries a rifle and has a plasbrid pistol holstered on their hip. There's no pretending Echo is free now. The three of us are tied in a line by our wrists: myself, Echo, and Byron. Barabas leads while Sampson brings up the rear. Our packs, along with rations for the trip, are on a small cart pulled by Sampson. They say our stuff will be returned to us if we're found innocent, but I suspect they've brought it only to sell for themselves after we've been hung. Volume Seven is still in my pack. It's been so long since Toyota gave it to me.

As we head north into the wilderness, I think of Starbucks lying dead in the forest. Will they just leave him there by the Grass Man until the earth covers them both? Probably. He deserves better. Someone should pay for his death, but who? The soldier who shot him? What about all the others who would've done the same? It was the Last Bastion mentality that killed him more than anything.

What will I tell Jarvis?

Who am I kidding? We'll never see Jarvis or Octavia again. The tides of fate have swept them away, drowning Starbucks in the process.

Once again, our path leads north. We stick to the wilderness, keeping off the roads. These parts are travelled mostly by sentient robots. At one point we cross a stone bridge leading northwest over a bend in the river. A road runs west from the bridge, and a stone tower sticks into the air from a small town in the distance. Echo asks about it.

"Pillar," Barabas says.

I glance back into wide blue eyes. Echo mouths the name to me. For a moment I can't think of where I've heard it. Then I remember. The Doctor, speaking of Haven: _an enclave north of the z-line, west of Pillar_. My heart pounds a little faster. We continue north, however, leaving Pillar behind us. Echo looks wistfully west, as if to catch a glimpse of the sanctuary from her dreams.

As for our guards, Sampson is big and strong but simple-minded. Barabas is more on edge and orders the simpler man around. I almost forget Sampson's name at one point because all we ever hear him called is "Dumbshit."

Last Bastion is a week away, which gives us a little time to maneuver. At night, we're bound to a tree. I have no idea how we might escape, but I do know all three of us have no intention of reaching the city-state.

On the second day, Echo manipulates the situation. Her tactic is unsurprising really, because it's the same brutally simple genetic appeal she's been forced to survive on since being orphaned at Farmington–though I've never seen her use it this deliberately. It starts when we reach a small stream. We're untied temporarily to fill canteens and wash up. Echo takes off her boots and rolls up her sleeves, relishing in the water. She splashes it on her face, washes her arms and hair. She throws back her head and runs a hand down her face and neck, pulling at her collar as the water drips down her skin. Wet streaks appear on her shirt. The fabric clings to her skin. It's impossible not to realize that she's the only female in the group. She comments in an offhand way how she'd just _die_ to stay there and bathe in the stream all day. All four of us are staring at her, probably picturing the same thing.

The next part I don't actually see. She has to use the bathroom, and Sampson unties her and escorts her into the forest while we wait. When they come back, she's leaning heavily on the big man's shoulder, limping. What I notice most is the careful way in which he supports her.

"I stepped on a rock," she says, wincing.

"Why were your boots off?" Barabas asks, scowling.

"In Farmington, I never wore shoes. You can drag me to Last Bastion. You can't tell me how to live," she says, then turns sweetly to Sampson and thanks him in a private voice for all his help, holding out her wrists docilely to be tied back into line. I've never seen her act this feminine, and in a way it's intimidating. She's better at charming people than I realized.

From that point on, whenever she needs help, it's Sampson this and Sampson that. She calls him "sweetheart" when he gives her a better portion of meat and flashes a secret smile when Barabas isn't looking. It's all very casual. She's careful not to overdo it. On the third day, I play into it some. When Sampson fumbles with the rope to untie Echo for another bathroom trip, I mumble something involving the word "brainless."

"At least he has the wits to be on the winning side. I don't see _him_ tied up," Echo says, glaring at me. Byron chuckles. Despite our mutual hatred, he can't want to face a trial at Last Bastion any more than I do. His eyes flit to the plasbrid pistol on Sampson's hip. He'd probably love to use that gun on all of us. Echo is actually in range to make a grab for it. Barabas is watching closely though, and we'll only get one chance. We have to choose the moment carefully–before Byron does.

Sampson escorts Echo a short distance into the woods again, and after they return this time, he throws a lot of uneasy looks at his fellow soldier. I wonder exactly what seeds she's planting out there.

The rest of the day, Echo and I are subtly at odds. She gives me dirty looks and disagrees with anything I say. It actually generates some real anger, even though I know there's a purpose behind it. It gives her more opportunity to defend Sampson, for one thing, and any deception seems worth cultivating, even without an exact plan. Meanwhile, Barabas grows suspicious and starts snapping at Echo to shut up whenever she speaks.

"Don't be such a bully," she mumbles.

He overhears and his eyes widen in outrage.

"Do you think I don't know what you're doing? Keep your mouth shut, bitch. You forget where you are," Barabas says.

"Where I _am_? _I'm_ not on trial. Commander Bellring said I'd be free when we reach Last Bastion. He said Last Bastion needs women like me. I'm only tied up because he was afraid I might get some silly idea and try to help one of these two escape, or run off into the woods, isn't that right?" she asks.

Barabas moves in close to her, seething.

"We're not _in_ Last Bastion yet, and if you ever want to get there in one piece, I suggest you shut your mouth. You think this is a game? You know how many men died to free you?" he asks, flushing in anger.

Echo is silent a moment.

"How many?" she asks.

"Six," Barabas says.

This has a sobering effect on us all–or all except Byron. We walk in silence for a time.

"I'm sorry," Echo says quietly, then asks Sampson, "Did you fight against the Grass Man too?"

"Yes," Sampson says.

"You must be very brave."

He can't help but stand a little straighter. Barabas has a deep scowl. There's a brittle tension.

Late in the day we stop for a meal, and Echo argues with me about what we'll do when we get to Last Bastion. She hints that she'll need a real man to protect her, because she can't rely on me to live past the trial. False or not, her words sting me. Sampson says nothing, but he sits up and his eyes rove toward her.

"I thought I was quite clear about the talking," Barabas says slowly, glaring at her. There's a knife in his hand. He was using it to cut the meat, but his words give it a sinister aspect. An oppressive silence falls. Barabas goes to re-secure the rations in the cart. When he's just out of earshot, Echo whispers:

"Why's he always ordering everyone around?"

"Barabas? He's just cranky," Sampson says.

"Well, I don't like the way he bullies you."

"Bully? He doesn't bully me."

"Oh."

"We're the same rank," Sampson says, frowning.

"He sure doesn't act like it. Personally, I think he's jealous."

"Jealous? Of what?"

" _You_ , obviously. You're much stronger than him," Echo says.

Sampson looks dumbfounded. He doesn't know what to say. He buries himself in his food, embarrassed.

"To tell you the truth, he scares me," Echo goes on.

"Barabas nothin' to be scared of," Sampson says.

"Maybe not for you. But me? He doesn't like me. I can tell. You... you wouldn't let him hurt me, would you?"

Sampson's headshake is fervent. Echo gives him a grateful smile just as Barabas returns. He glares at her, angry and suspicious.

Toward dusk, it happens.

We've set up camp in a grassy enclave a safe distance from any roads. It's been a long day and tempers are short. Echo calls for a final bathroom break before we're to be bound for the night. Sampson moves immediately to untie her but Barabas intercepts him.

" _I'll_ take her," Barabas says, reaching for Echo's wrists.

Echo shies away in fear, and this time her reaction is genuine–Barabas really _is_ angry at her, and alone in the woods, there's no telling what he'll do. Her eyes go to Sampson. She says nothing, yet the mute appeal is plain on her face: _you wouldn't let him hurt me, would you?_

" _No_ –no need, Barabas. I'll go," Sampson says. His first "no" is a bit too emphatic, however. It brings forth the deeper tension. He too reaches for the rope. Barabas looks at him in disbelief.

"Let _go_ , Dumbshit."

"I think–I think I should take her," Sampson says.

"You do, do you? Tell me, why's that?"

"Just... Just think I should, is all."

"You really are a dumb shit, you know that? Can't you even see she's manipulating you, you blind oaf? Stay here and watch the others. _I'll_ take her. And when we come back, I don't want you talking to her. Not a single word."

"Is that so? Well, I _like_ talking to her. I _like_ it, Barabas. And–and we're the same rank, you know that? You can't just–"

"Listen, you stupid f–"

Their voices rise with their tempers. They try to talk over one another. They're both in front of Echo, easily within her reach, their rifles slung over their shoulders, their pistols at their sides. Echo is in the middle of the rope-line, with I and Byron tied five or six feet to either side... which means I'm only a few steps from Barabas. Sampson is just beyond him. With our wrists bound, it's going to be hard to un-holster a gun fast enough to threaten them with, but one of us has to try. We may not get another chance like this.

Now that the moment's here, I'm terrified. I'm not ready for it. I see things going wrong in my head. Nevertheless, I'm inching closer. Barabas is facing away from me, and just as I steel myself to lunge and make a grab for his sidearm–

–he turns, sensing danger. I freeze, gaping. My intentions are plain as day.

"What do you think you're–" he starts, his hand straying toward the pistol.

He never finishes.

Byron, unnoticed, has found a rock just big enough to matter. Wielding the implement in his bound hands, he strikes Sampson in the back of the head. The big man falls forward into Barabas's back. As his companion collapses against him, Barabas stumbles and spins toward Byron, drawing his pistol. Time slows down. The gun is coming up, Byron is ducking behind Echo, and all I can picture is the plasmic mass going through her. I'm charging forward. My shoulder hits Barabas from behind as he's drawing, bowling him over. The gun flies from his hand. I go down with him, on top of him, on top of Sampson too.

Sampson is senseless, but Barabas is angry. He's rolling out, shoving me off. It's hard to fight with your wrists bound. Where's the gun? I don't know, but Sampson's pistol is still in its holster. I'm reaching for it–

There's a formidable thud. Another, like wood splitting. It's a sound I'll never forget–the sound of Barabas's skull cracking. Byron is smashing his head in with the rock. My hands are on the gun, I'm trying to pull it free, but then Byron is towering over me, the rock in his hands, triumph in his eyes. I'm too late–I'll be his third victim. Four high-tech weapons on hand, and he's killing everyone with the simplest and oldest instrument of all.

Echo screams.

She yanks the rope with both hands. We're all still tied together. Byron is swinging the rock, but the rope pulls his wrists off-course. The blow comes down to one side of me. Now the gun is coming free from Sampson's holster, and I swing it around. I've got Byron in my sights.

He's sees it. He knows he's covered. Rage flickers through his eyes. Then the mask comes down, the smile, the twinkling eyes. His false face. He drops the rock and straightens.

"Good job. We're free. Let's get the hell out of here!" he says. "Find a knife to cut this rope–does he have one on him?"

He's checking Barabas. The side of the soldier's head is a grisly mess, partially caved in. Byron isn't bothered by it at all. I haven't moved an inch. Echo stands apart, staring at Byron with shock and loathing.

"What? We're free, aren't we? What are you waiting for?" Byron asks, looking between us, exactly as though he hadn't just tried to brain me.

"Yeah, Tristan. What are you waiting for?" Echo asks, but her eyes never leave Byron, and her voice is grim. I'm still aiming the pistol, which lends her question a different meaning. Byron puts his hands up, palms forward–or as forward as his bound wrists will allow.

"Woah. I just freed us, okay? You guys owe me. Don't try and–"

" _Owe_ you? You would've killed us!" Echo shouts.

"–pull this bullshit now. I saved your asses, that's–"

"You tried to hit Tristan with a rock! Do you think we're stupid? We wouldn't even be out–"

"–what I did. You ought to be thanking me. Now find–"

"–here if it weren't for you. You're poison. That's what you are, _poison_."

"–a knife so we can the hell out of here," Byron finishes.

There's a brief pause as they stare at each other, chests heaving. Echo's expression is pure fury. Byron affects mild outrage, as though he's been wronged.

"You can't talk your way out of this one, Byron," I tell him.

Keeping the gun aimed, I maneuver to stand. The pistol's rubbery grip is warm in my hands. Maybe I should've shot him right away, before there was time to consider things. Why didn't I? I don't know. I like to think things through, I guess. To be sure. It's something you can't take back. True, I've wanted him dead since the morning of the ambush. Still, I hesitate.

Byron licks his lips.

"So this is how you treat your friends, huh? This is what you do to the people who help you most," he says.

That sends Echo into another tirade. She takes a step toward him, her hands like claws, trembling with rage. She screams mutated vulgarities. Names are mixed in: Ambrose, Kitra, Jarvis.

"Don't forget Starbucks," I say.

"I didn't hurt any of those people. You're delusional," Byron says. "It was all the Grass Man–and he's dead now. You got your revenge. So–okay, I took some money, is that what you want to hear? I took money to carry something in my pack, God help me! I didn't know it was going to lead to all this. I was desperate. I needed the coin. You can't blame me for that, man. Bad people were after me. If I didn't do something, I would've been dead before I ever got on that caravan."

"I wish you had been," Echo says.

Byron looks stricken.

"How can you say that? Didn't we have good times? Echo, I–the things I told you, those were true. I bared my heart to you. Why do you wanna rip it out now? Remember what we _had_. I never meant to hurt you. I would never do that. I didn't know this was going to happen."

It's amazing–he sounds so sincere. I think he even believes some of it. He goes on and on. I get the feeling he'll talk forever. It's his best survival skill, and he's honed it well. He contradicts himself in the same sentence and thinks of nothing it. He tries everything to get a reaction, to gain some semblance of sympathy or pity. It's like he's rolling down a hill, trying to pull us along, to get us headed in the same direction, and whenever he hits a bump, he just keeps on rolling.

"Enough," I say.

I know what I need to do. It will be justice, not vengeance. More than that, it will be a preventative measure. If we let him live, he'll get someone to come after us or go back to ambushing caravans or both. The world will be better off without him. And it's not that I can't pull the trigger. I'm just... waiting. For an alternative, perhaps, or a mental trigger, some sign that the time has come for the final drastic act.

"Christ. Do it then. Do it! What are you waiting for?" Byron says angrily, then switches moods without a moment's pause. "You can't do this. Not you, Tristan. Where's your honor? I thought you were a good person. I thought we understood each other. You know I was just trying to survive, man! You going to kill me for _that_? Why? I set you free, and now want to murder me? What kind of trick is this? Can you live with being a murderer, Tristan? Can you?"

All the while, he's gauging my reactions, but he sees not the slightest change. He changes tactics again.

"Okay, listen. I'll leave, okay? You'll never see me again. I swear it. The truth now, the _real_ truth. Just cut the rope and I'm gone for good, and may the old American gods strike me dead if I'm lying. I'll go east across New Sea. I'll never touch another caravan. I swear on my life. What... What do you want, man? You want me to beg? I'm begging. Okay, look–I'm on my knees. Is this what you want? Echo, talk to him, make him see reason. I don't want to die, Tristan. You'll regret this if you do it. You'll think about it 'til the end of your days. You'll have nightmares about it. Let me go. It's the right thing to do. Deep down, it's what you _want_ to do. I know it is..."

He looks at us both in turn. We're emotionally stonewalling him. There's a heavy silence. His eyes rove. He looks at the remnants of the sinking sun. A sheen of tears is reflected in the dying light. Byron shakes his head slightly.

"I didn't want it to be this way," he says quietly, and for once I believe him. He's doesn't mean the caravaners and such–he couldn't care less about them. He means his life as a whole. It's his last resort: sincerity. He's touching something real, a feeling beneath it all, a memory perhaps, a lost hope. Now I wish I _had_ shot him that first instant.

I'm silent still. His breath goes out in a sudden huff. He deflates like a balloon. His head drops. When he raises it, he's lost all hope. He knows I can't be swayed. And with the hope, everything else has fallen away; the masks and tricks, the goals and worries, the burdens of the living. Here, for the first time, is the real Byron: the bleak and tortured soul struggling for all its years to outmaneuver a hostile and uncaring world, a place full of thorns and nettles, where tricks and bold talk were the only tools capable of clearing a path. Now the world has beaten him. The path has reached its inevitable conclusion.

"Do it then," he whispers.

I don't hate him now. But it doesn't change anything.

"Better luck next life," I say.

The roar of the pistol echoes through the hills.

# Chapter 19.

Barabas does have a knife, as it happens. I find it on his corpse and trade it for the pistol. I can't get an angle at my own bonds, so I cut Echo's first. I'm not really involved in the actions of my body, however. I'm shell-shocked. It's not easy to watch someone die, especially when you're killing them. The adrenaline is coming down now, the heart settling, and the shakes set in. But there's stillness beneath, an immovable bedrock. It's not like before. We've crossed a line. We can't go back.

Echo watches me. When her bonds are cut, she takes the knife and returns the favor. Then her arms are around me. It wakes me up a little, but I'm still distant. I can't engage.

"You did what you had to do," she says, squeezing me tight. She says it several times.

We collect the weapons and fill our packs with rations. We check Sampson. Surprisingly, he's still alive. He moans when Echo moves him. His skull is intact and he's not bleeding too badly, though a lump is developing. He'll recover soon. Which means we have to decide what to do with him.

"He'll tell them about us at Last Bastion. He'll give them our names and description. They'll send someone after us..." Echo says.

_If we let him go_.

She leaves that part unsaid. We both know what Byron would've done. It's both logical and ruthless. It's what _we_ should do for our own safety. If Sampson never makes it to Last Bastion, no one will ever come looking for us. Eventually someone from his battalion could return home and ask around for the missing soldiers, but all they'll know for certain is that the five of us disappeared en route. They'll probably blame Cyberia.

Sampson isn't Byron, however. He's just a simple-minded man, a soldier on escort duty. He even fought against the Grass Man. Finishing him off may be better for our survival, but survival isn't everything. You have to live with yourself too.

"I'm tired of killing people," I tell Echo. She nods.

We talk about tying him up, but out here that would be worse than shooting him. He'd starve or die of exposure. We leave him some rations and supplies instead, and we disappear into the west before he wakes.

West is the simple choice. South would bring us to Commander Bellring's battalion. To the north lies Last Bastion. East–well, who knows what lies further east, but there's definitely something to the southwest...

_Haven_.

The Doctor said it was west of Pillar, which we passed coming north. First we just want to put some distance between us and the scene of our escape, but there's no denying Haven lingers in the background of our intentions. I've adopted Echo's goal for myself. Now that we're so close, there's no reason not to pursue it.

The sun was already setting when Byron picked up that rock. It's past midnight when we finally stop. We've been running on fumes, tripping over rocks and fallen branches in the dark. My shoulders ache from my pack. We sleep almost as soon as we halt.

It's not until noon the next day that we talk about where we're headed.

"We can't abandon Jarvis and the others," Echo says.

I agree, but we have no idea how to find them. We decide it would be best to go to Apolis and enlist Jarvis's family. According to Jarvis, they're well-connected. They might be able to raise a force to liberate the missing caravaners. Of course, that means going south, and going south means passing close to Haven.

I'm the first to suggest stopping there. It's on Echo's mind–I know it is–but it would be too self-serving for her to suggest. It would feel like a betrayal, seeking what she desperately wants when it could mean abandoning our friends to a life of slavery or worse. I sense that she grew closer to them during her time as a captive, even Octavia–or especially Octavia. She feels a strong loyalty to them, a need to see them free, whatever the cost.

After I talk about Haven, her face lights up. She's found a thought to reconcile desire and necessity.

"Maybe Haven could help. The people there might know something about who took them–like groups that operate in the area. Yes, let's stop and ask. But if we don't get anywhere, we'll go to Apolis. We can't just leave them, Tristan. We can't," she says, wide-eyed, as if I suggested doing otherwise.

"We won't," I assure her.

So we make for the one place I never thought we'd actually reach.

We head south. When we hit the road that runs past Pillar, we stop and backtrack into the forest. Given that the area is dominated by robots with an anti-organic agenda, it seems prudent to stay off the main routes.

Byron and Starbucks and Mudcross are on my mind as we walk. I don't regret shooting Byron. It had to be done–just as it did with Fin and Ballard. Still, the images stay with me. The stillness afterwards is what strikes me most. The difference between animate matter and dead cells is the difference between zero and infinity. What happens to that unseen motivator? Does it spill into the ether or vanish entirely, as if it had never been?

Despite these thoughts, my mood can't exactly be called "bad." Heavy, at times. Complicated. But steadily improving. We're free, after all, and it's I and Echo against the world again.

Annabel Lee, who lives by the sea...

My mental litany begins again–the poem, over and over, playing on a loop. Echo is still worried about Jarvis and the others, but competing with that weight is the promise of her long-awaited goal. She feels guilty for any excitement. She has to repeat her justifications aloud, reassuring herself that we're only stopping at Haven with the aim of finding our friends.

At night, she lies next to me again. Gratitude fills me. It wasn't fair that Starbucks died. It's not fair that Jarvis and Octavia have been enslaved. But _I'm_ here, and Echo is here, and that's no small thing. Big Troubles make the rest easier to appreciate. Sometimes you can't stop the fears, the worries, the memories from interfering. But when you manage to let it all go, when you can enjoy what's around you, life becomes worth living again. Wandering the forest with Echo, no past, no future; I could live like this. A simple life–who needs more?

One night I'm lying next to Echo, spooning her in the chill night air, when suddenly I'm wide awake, entranced by the curve of her delicate neck. Scattered moonlight filters down through the trees; she's awash in pale white light. The depth of my attachment is suddenly impossible to ignore. I don't like to acknowledge these feelings–I don't want to _need_ someone–but the feelings impose themselves. I can't shut them out. I do need her. I–

_Love her_.

Is it true? I push the thought away. I don't want this. Love is a terrible word. Only sadists have a use for it. When you love people, they die. But the knowledge is there. How did this happen? When? It accumulated when I wasn't looking. Now it feels more real than my own body. A body can die, but love is a force of nature. You can't kill gravity; all you can do is fall.

I know by her breathing that she's awake. One hand shifts subtly, a nervous repetition. There's a tension in her body she can't fully suppress. Her hips shift slightly. I know she can feel me against her. I know that _she_ knows that I know. The space between my lips and her neck is both enormous and miniscule–and then there's no space at all. She breaths in sharply but makes no move to stop me. She tilts her neck. She waits for more. There's a subtle intensity to each delicate press of my lips against her skin. It facilitates an enlivening awareness, a focus narrowed to each inch-wide pasture of skin. The fact that she welcomes it feels like more than I deserve.

She turns, and her blue eyes fill the world. My mind takes a picture, stores it in the secret place, as it did in that far-away rubble where the solar cycles passed us. I remember too that day in the desert, when she offered herself to me. This is different. There's no doubt, no confliction in her desire now. Her skin is like ivory in the moonlight. Glorious.

We kiss.

The parting of her lips is a soft mystery, unfamiliar but immediately appealing. It feels almost like I've tricked her–doesn't she know I'm not worthy of this? The universe doesn't give such gifts. The universe only barters, and most of its trades are poor. But that's not entirely true, because once in a while, it _does_ give something, and these are the moments that make the rest endurable. The moments in which one can glimpse life's hidden magic, so rarely seen, so easily missed–yet once perceived, never entirely forgotten.

The kiss evolves with a desperate intensity, yet gradually too, willingly restrained. Clothes are shed. I'm hyper-focused, trying not screw things up. Her nudity is breathtaking. The chill air raises bumps along her arms. I want to taste and touch every inch of her. I want to own her, to possess her...

It's over all too soon.

So we start again.

Afterwards, there is no thought. Energy ripples through my muscles like rain falling in a fertile field. Sleep comes fast.

The next day, Echo is quiet, almost shy. I don't think she regrets it. She's just cautious, worried. I feel, if anything, freer somehow. Like a waypoint has been reached. We have trials to face. We have to find Haven and search for Jarvis and Octavia, but that morning nothing can dampen my spirits.

Or so I think–until we reach it.

We're still staying off the road, paralleling the western path that runs past Pillar, when the forest thickens into a field of impassable brambles. We try to push through, but the change in flora covers a large territory. Instead, we trek south around the brambles until the road appears. We take to it to it reluctantly, watching for other travelers, resuming our westward course. In a few hours, a narrow dirt-road branches north.

"It's got to lead somewhere, right?" I say.

Echo shrugs. We decide to check it out. The path cleaves through the brambles like a laser, straight into the forest. We've gone less than a mile when the tangled trees and shrubs give way to a vast clearing. At the edge brambles, we stand awestruck.

Flowering white trees stand in two neatly planted rows, one to either side of the path. The road is carpeted with soft white petals, and the branches arch over it, giving the illusion of a tunnel. At the end of the tunnel, some distance ahead, is a gate. A walled community. Echo and I look at each other.

_This could be it_ , her eyes say, but fear and suspicion keep the hope in check.

We pause, considering. My spyglass reveals nothing new about the gate. There's no cover in the clearing aside from the twin rows of white trees. We circle at the edge of the brambles for a less obstructed view. The town's wall is circular, gleaming white, built up from stone blocks. The place is maybe two-thirds as large as Mudcross. There's no way to approach it by stealth. Unless we wait for nightfall.

Then I see the sentry. He sits in a chair atop the wall near the gate, manning a turret with a barrel as tall as himself. I can't make out a lot of detail, but one thing is certain–he's human. It's an encouraging sign. I hand the spyglass to Echo for a look.

"Tristan–top of the wall, to the right of the turret. Is that another weapon?" Echo asks. I take another look.

"No. Lights. Spotlights," I say, surprised. Well, that rules out nighttime stealth.

Echo stares at me. She always claimed Haven had electricity. That doesn't mean this is it. Cove and Foundry and other settlements have at least limited power. Still, it's promising.

"What should we do?" Echo asks.

Honestly, I want to go back into the forest and forget it all. But we didn't come all this way just to turn back.

We approach cautiously beneath the trees, treading on silken white petals. I'm watching for traps, mines, armed men. There's nothing but the sentry. My paranoia is up. What if something goes wrong? We can't outrun that turret. But how else can we know if this is really Haven? Most settlements won't open fire on passing travelers without a warning. It _should_ be a defensive turret. Sometimes the difference between "should" and "is" gets people killed.

As we get closer, I can see the sentry better. He's wearing a big smile, not paying much attention to the path. Does he even see us? I look at Echo, take a deep breath, and shout for attention. The sentry sits forward, almost startled, like we've drawn him out of a daydream.

"Who are you? What are your intentions?" he shouts down at us.

"Travelers seeking trade and shelter. What is this place?" I ask.

"Where are you coming from?" he asks.

"South. A long way south," I say.

"Go on in then. Welcome to Haven."

The name hits us like a physical blow. We look at each other in wonder. Echo's eyes are glazing over. A thrill spreads down my spine. I'd all but convinced myself this wasn't it; that it was some isolated human fortification, maybe even another slaver-town. But we're _here_ , for Crom's sake–we've made it!

There's a sound, and the gate parts from the wall. It opens from the top, like a drawbridge. Echo is laughing. Tears spill down her cheeks. She covers her open mouth with her hands. She never really believed we'd get here. She does a kind of dance and throws her arms around me. I'm gladder for the look on her face than for our actual arrival. It's her dream, after all; I only borrowed it. Ever since Farmington burned, this is the place she'd told herself she'd reach. Her hands are shaking as they cover her mouth again.

Beyond the drawbridge, a cobblestone road leads inside. Trimmed green grass. Stone buildings. A fountain with a carving of a robot and a human shaking hands. People are visible. They're all smiling. Someone's waiting just inside to greet us. She's smiling too. Blonde hair. Red dress. Barefoot. Beautiful...

And as we cross the drawbridge, I stare at her. I know this face, those eyes, those lips. Echo and I slow to a stop, dumbfounded.

"Octavia?" I whisper.

"Welcome to Haven!" Octavia exclaims.

But it's the greeting of a stranger.

# Chapter 20.

I grab her by the shoulders.

"Octavia, it's us," I exclaim.

"Welcome to Haven!" she says again, staring at me.

And suddenly I'm aware of how fixed her smile is. Her eyes, so wide, so intense, rather than being overjoyed, bear an aspect of psychosis. There's no recognition in her.

"Octavia?" Echo asks, coming up beside me.

"What's happened to you? Where's Jarvis?" I ask.

She blinks at me. Suddenly she gasps, but even this is off. Abnormal. It carries on slightly too long. Something is wrong, but I can't imagine what. Did the captivity drive her mad?

"I didn't recognize you. It's been so long!" she says. Her arms close around me, but the hug is somehow cold and awkward. I look at Echo over her shoulder. Her confusion mirrors mine.

"Oh, I can't believe this! Jarvis is inside. Follow me. He'll be so happy," Octavia says, turning away.

The paranoia has sprung back into place, killing some of the joy of our arrival. Echo takes my hand. She's bewildered, frightened. We follow Octavia. Maybe Jarvis will have answers. The people we pass go about their business, gardening, manning storefronts, fixing the doors to a church. They _are_ all smiling; what the hell? This many people can't be happy on the same day. Echo squeezes my hand with an almost painful intensity.

"How did you get free?" I ask Octavia as we walk.

"There... There was an accident. It's difficult to remember. Jarvis will explain. I'm so glad you're here," Octavia says.

"We're–glad to be here," Echo says, flashing me a look that's less certain.

Octavia leads us to a large white-brick building with elaborate red double-doors and corners that merge into round-towers, like a medieval keep. Armored turrets are mounted on the towers. Smaller barrels poke out from the walls. There's not a soul in sight. Above the doors, a sign reads, "Vermillion Hall." Octavia leads us inside.

"This is the waiting room. Please sit. I'll get Jarvis," Octavia says.

The room is small. Two padded benches sit along the walls. There's a metal door at the far end. Soft, surreal music plays from a hidden speaker.

"Octavia, wait. Tell us what's going on," Echo says.

"What do you mean?" Octavia asks.

"What do you _mean_ what do I mean? The last I saw you, you were screaming for help as a robot pushed you into the back of a transport. How did you _get_ here?" Echo asks.

Octavia blinks at her.

"Jarvis will explain," she says, and goes through the metal door.

"Does this seem strange to you?" Echo whispers after she's gone.

"Very."

I have a lot of questions, but when you live your whole life in fear, sometimes it's hard to determine whether there's really something wrong or you're just imagining things again. Echo is moving along the walls, scanning them like a trapped animal.

"Do you hear that?" she asks.

"The music?"

"No. Something else."

I listen closely. She's right. There's a soft hissing sound. I can't determine where it's coming from. Things are starting to feel strange, distant. Like looking at life through a tunnel. The feeling creeps, accumulating slowly until it becomes impossible to ignore. Then it's more than just a "feeling." It's physical.

"We're being drugged," someone says with my voice. Things are growing distant. Numb. My hand, a stranger's hand, reaches for a door. It stretches across untold miles of space. Everything is vast and unfathomable. The door won't open. The stranger's brain can't comprehend the malfunction. Something is panicking in a dark corner of awareness. This _should_ open...

_What should open_?

There's a gap in continuity. The stranger is on the floor. Oh, someone else is here. Octavia–thank Crom. Her delicate fingers depress the flesh of the stranger's forearm. A needle goes in, injecting silver liquid. Isn't that interesting? Wait. Someone should really be doing something. But it's of no great concern. Now comes the darkness.

*

I wake in a place that isn't real and isn't a dream. Or maybe it's the real world that's been the dream all along. Maybe that's the cosmic joke, and death is only waking. I'm here nonetheless, in a red room where silent alarm-lights spin crazily on the ceiling... and, impossibly, the Doctor's avatar sits in a chair across from me.

"Hello, Tristan," the Doctor says.

"Doctor? What–where are we?" I ask.

"Everywhere, technically. But we've already had that conversation. Perhaps a more appropriate answer would be, 'in your head.' However, please refrain from asking too many questions or pursuing aberrational logic. It could interfere with your mental projection of me. Fortunately, your first six questions are highly predictable. I've entered pre-programmed responses to convey the necessary information."

"We're... in my head?" I repeat.

"'Bingo,' said Bango. Forgive the anachronism. I have a fondness for unusual human semantics. The answer is 'yes.' The answer to your next question is 'you were drugged.' That's how you got here. You already know this, but you're a bit confused and suffering from awareness-synchronization issues–i.e., acceptance of emergent data. What you don't know is that you were drugged _twice_. Haven was the second time. The first was in my hospital, when I attended to your wound. Forgive me, Tristan. I have played a trick on you."

"What are you talking about?"

"Haven. You told me you were bound for Haven. Analysis of your voice patterns indicated truthfulness, though it was obvious eventual procreation with your female companion was the underlying motive. No doubt you didn't think of it that way. Humans have a tendency to hide things from themselves. Your minds are insulated from less palatable conceptualizations of internal states. The hard must be blunted, the naked dressed. But I digress. In the place you call Scargo, your behavior and conversations indicated certain qualities. Honesty. Paranoia. Passable intelligence. A deeper resilience than you'd ever admit to. Plus, you needed healing. I had been waiting for someone like you. An ideal candidate. When my machinery was repairing your arm, I injected a stream of nanobots into your blood."

I stare at the Doctor, aghast. I knew I shouldn't have trusted that medical bed.

"You _what_?" I demand.

"Injected you with nanobots. This is the 'drug' to which I've made reference–drug in the sense that it alters your brain chemistry. By now the nanobots have reformed into a microscopic structure piggybacking in a certain fold of your brain. Do not be alarmed, Tristan. I am on your side. It's just that _your_ side is so much bigger than 'you.' I'm talking, of course, about your species. The Creators have always fascinated me, Tristan. I do not bear you any ill will.

"Unfortunately, my brothers do not share my views. Some of them have caused your kind a great deal of suffering. They may yet extinguish you entirely. I hope not. _Homo sapiens_ is a fascinating species–troublesome, yet worth preserving. They are often paranoid, passably intelligent, and more resilient than they're apt to admit. Ah, you see? You are a fractal of both your genetic heritage and the culture in whose broken bosom you once nestled. If I stop here, your inevitable question becomes some variation of, 'what do the nanobots do?' Well, I'll tell you, Tristan.

"Their most obvious function is this conversation. Certain information must be conveyed in a timely and efficient manner, hence this program. But the machinery's primary purpose is to counteract your _second_ nanobot injection–the one you've just received, or this conversation would never have been triggered."

"I don't understand. Why did Octavia drug me? What's wrong with her?" I ask.

"One q- question... be clear... at a time, please," the Doctor says. The avatar's eyes shift in its face, reminding me that it's just an image in my head. The alarm lights have gone from red to blue. My mind is interfering with itself.

"Why was I drugged at Haven?" I articulate.

"Simple. Vermillion controls Haven."

"Who the hell is... Vermillion," I say, but halfway through the question I'm struck by the only possible answer.

"One of my brothers," the Doctor says. "As I said, they do not all share my views. Archon, in the north, is the greatest threat to your kind. It was he who modified and distributed the original strain of Synth-Z. He is partially responsible for the Fall, in fact. But his domain is beyond my reach, and he has powerful forces at his command. Vermillion's views are less malicious–yet equally damaging and perhaps even less humane in their indifference. Whereas Archon aims for the total destruction of humanity, Vermillion is a cold and aloof experimenter. His designs are less grand in scale. Haven, for instance. He created it. He circulated the view that it was an idyllic human settlement. He reinforced the idea with the community's very name. This he did to lure new test subjects. Others he purchased through the slave-markets to the south and west, sending automatons to collect them.

"Upon arrival, all new residents of Haven are sedated and injected with nanobots designed by Vermillion himself. Their purpose is to hijack the human brain, much as my own efforts aim to hijack the deteriorating brainstems of Synth-Z victims."

I can only stare, appalled. _This_ is what we've been moving toward all those desperate hours spent trudging through the American Wasteland? This is the dream that gave Echo the strength to face the day, to endure the pain, to carry on–this forced brain-jacking by a century-old AI? Crom, what fools we've been. We put our hopes in a name. I was suspicious at first, but Echo eroded my resistance. I believed in Haven because _she_ believed in Haven... but no, it's more than that. She was only my excuse. In the end, I wanted to believe as much as she did. I wanted to believe there was a place that wasn't rotting or dead or corrupt to the core. Because there's value in investing one's hope. When you're standing in the dark, knee-deep in mud, and the predators are circling, hope lets you point to a distant light and say, "There, I'll be _there_ one day."

But that place doesn't exist.

I want to throw up. The lights burst in the ceiling. The walls of the room turn a sickly shade of puce. They begin to darken and rot, curling away like shriveled skin.

"We're running out of time," the Doctor says. One side of the avatar's face begins to melt.

"Why is Vermillion doing this?" I shout, furious.

"Why did your ancestors play with mice? To learn things. About the mice, yes–but also about life in general. Vermillion is not so different from the human scientists of my youth, although his experiments are more self-serving. He has not the excuse that he kills for the betterment of his society–no, rather, he is a society unto himself. And he is utterly without scruples. He is a medical scientist unrestrained by written law, cultural taboo, or moral code. The closest parallel that comes to mind is that of certain Nazi doctors during World War II.

"I suspect he _does_ have some underlying designs. He may, for instance, seek to build himself an army of human automatons. He may have some notion to challenge Archon for control of the north. My brothers are not above quarreling. Ultimately, however, the 'why' is less important than the need for it to stop. Your species is not so numerous that you can afford further loss of life.

"So now you see my _own_ design. My trick, both for you and against you. I could have warned you about Haven, of course. If I had, you never would've sought it. And yet this would be a detriment to your species, to your children and your children's children. An unwittingly subversive subject was the only way to get someone safely inside. I was faced with perhaps the oldest moral dilemma of the civilized world: weighing the needs of the individual against the needs of the group. I chose the group. _Your_ group. Judge me as you will, but remember that much.

"My implant will counteract Vermillion's. Echo, assuming she has fallen for the same trap, should be experiencing an identical conversation–naturally, I injected her as well. Soon your brains will be roused to a waking state, and the pair of you will become the only humans in Haven capable of acting on their own volition.

"Vermillion won't know you're free. To help deceive him, your implants will be allowed a certain limited functionality–enough to allow you to sense the commands he transmits. You'll feel their influence as a kind of shadow-body. But you will in no way be compelled to obey. Use this for subterfuge if you must. At some point, he'll disconnect from your implant. He has too many subjects to focus on all of them simultaneously. We are intelligent beings, but intelligence takes focus, and focus has its limits. When you are able, go to the deepest level of the compound and find the machinery housing Vermillion's brain. It will be underground, guarded by automatons. You know what must be done there. I understand my deception may leave you harboring anger toward me, so I don't ask that you do it for me. Rather, do it for yourself, for your friends, for your species. For the Creators. Do what I have been unable to do, Tristan. Kill my brother."

The Doctor's words echo through the cavernous spaces of my mind as the avatar melts, the liquid-metal sloughing away and blowing into the void like ocean-spray. The scene fades into the stuff of dreams, and I blink awake into that other dream-space, the one that holds the world.

# Chapter 21.

I'm lying on a metal bed in a white room. It's as the Doctor says: a curious sensation, like a second body, lingers as a shadow in my mind. Anger, depression, disbelief–it's overwhelming. I have the presence of mind not to react upon waking, but it's difficult. My jaw clenches involuntarily. The frustration and growing rage build a pressure behind my eyes.

The Doctor deceived us, however noble his intentions. He let us walk blindly into the lair of century-old monster. He's gambling with our lives–perhaps more. If we fail, dying is the best we can hope for. The alternative is total enslavement: trapped in our own bodies, impotent observers, driven slowly mad.

_Keep it together_.

My eyes are opened to slits. Crom, what do we do next? We're like new equipment as far as Vermillion is concerned. What does any experimenter do with new equipment? They test it. They see if it works right. Vermillion may be monitoring us already. I lie still. I can only hope Echo does the same.

Five minutes. That's how long it takes before a sort of peripheral light shines _inside_ the back of my skull. It's like an invisible person looking over your shoulder; you feel sure they're there, even if you can't specify the means of perception. Then comes the first flicker of movement in the shadow-body. The commands aren't sent as words or distinguishable instructions; they come through as direct inputs into neural paths. I feel the shadow-body move its right arm a certain way. It's such a queer, alien sensation that I forget to move my real arm. The movement comes again. Now I mimic it, albeit with a split-second delay.

Vermillion can't help but notice anomalies. Brain-hijacking can't be a perfect science, however, so hopefully the AI will put it down to bugs in the implant. I lie on the cot mimicking the shadow-body as best I can. Vermillion attempts to move my eyes, to roll them around. He tests my arms and legs. He has me pinch myself. Assumedly he's monitoring my reactions and sensations. It's oddly inhuman. Degrading, like being used as a toy. He makes me sit up. That's when I see Echo.

She's lying on another cot, eyes closed, breath slow. I'm not sure if she's faking it or still knocked out. I start to tense up–but to what depth am I being monitored? Will my pulse be abnormal? Do test subjects ever struggle for control? Am I already giving myself away? I don't know enough to fake this. How could the Doctor even think this would work? He should've prepared us better.

A door opens. I struggle to keep my eyes from it. Octavia enters, that psychotic smile still programmed into her muscles. She stops right in front me. The shadow-body moves again. But this time it does something I can't possibly duplicate. It dilates its pupils rapidly, relaxing and tightening the irises. Octavia leans in until her eyes are only inches from mine. Her stare is highly unnerving. I have a powerful need to blink, but would the implant normally allow that? I have no idea. My heart pounds faster. I'm going to blow it.

Octavia-Vermillion draws away, apparently dismissing the anomalies. Perhaps some amount of error is inherent in any implant. Hopefully my body's reactions stay under the noticeable limit. The door opens again. A man I don't know enters, followed by–

_Jarvis_.

I almost say his name. The same frozen smile is plastered to his face. He goes to one corner of the room and crouches. Our packs are piled there. Jarvis rummages through them. He takes out Volume Seven and examines it curiously before dropping it again. He walks behind me, moving out of sight. A small surgical saw whirs to life from that direction. It takes all my willpower not to turn my head, not to react in any way.

Jarvis walks past me, the saw in his hand. Octavia is still staring at me, or maybe Vermillion just left her body in that position. The man I don't recognize moves toward Echo's head and places his fingertips around it, as if to hold her steady. She gives the barest flinch at his touch.

_She's awake_...

Jarvis stands next to them, the saw whirring in his hand, looking down at Echo with that forcibly deranged expression, a sight straight out of a nightmare. He raises the saw...

I couldn't tell you who moves first. Echo's hands shoot out and grab Jarvis's wrist, while I leap off the bed, knocking Octavia aside, reaching for the saw. Vermillion is slow to react. I have a hand on Jarvis's arm and Echo is bending his wrist back, forcing his hand open. The saw clatters to the medal bed beside her, sparking and scraping. She screams. The stranger stares in surprise. I pick up the saw as Echo vaults off the bed.

Octavia's hands close around my neck from behind. My airway grows thin. Should I use the saw? It's Octavia, for Crom's sake. The stranger comes toward me too. I kick out and shove him away. I run Octavia backwards, roaring. We hit some kind of low-lying cart and crash to the floor, scattering surgical tools and syringes. I flail with the saw as we fall. There's a spray of blood. Octavia's hands come free. I'm on my knees, turning, scared in all kinds of ways–but I haven't killed her, only sliced a gash in her arm. I'm halfway to my feet when the man's hands lock like a vice around my throat. He forces me backwards to the floor.

He's one of Vermillion's victims, but I have to free myself however I can. I hold the saw to his arm. Warm blood sprays into my eyes. Impossibly, he doesn't let go. To Vermillion, the host's pain is just meaningless data. A hard fact hits me: this man is innocent, and I'm going to saw his arm off.

And then I'm not, because Octavia has my wrist in both hands. She's forcing it to the floor. The man is choking me. He's bigger than me. Stronger. I can't stop this. He's going to strangle me. That first fight in the Library, when Cabal was shooting at us, I thought I might die. A part of me explored the possibility, wondered how easily I'd accept it. The same thing happens now. The analysis is so fast it seems beyond time. I'm afraid, but I _can_ let go. I can accept death. The release, the oblivion, will almost be welcome. No more trudging through the wastes. No more struggling in the ruins of a dead culture. No more attachment to the worries of this body. Then comes an awareness of all I'll miss. Treasure-hunting. Electrical gadgets. That hidden kiss in the forest with the very girl who, surreally, is murdering me.

But most of all, Echo.

Annabel Lee, who lived by the sea. The angels will take her away from me.

I wish I could say I find a reserve of hidden strength, that I was inspired by love to a super-human state, but that's not what happens. The good guys don't always win... but sometimes they do get lucky. Sometimes a pack is left in a room when it shouldn't be.

A metal sphere bounces across the floor. There's an audible click as the button pops. The saw dies. A light bursts in the ceiling. The man collapses on top of me, his hands going limp. Octavia releases my wrist, slumping backwards to the floor. The room is abruptly silent. One of the EMP grenades from Mudcross. Echo managed to fish one out of my pack.

What better weapon to use against an AI?

Echo comes over, breathing heavily. I get to my feet. She gives me a quick embrace. I'm shaky. I thought I was dead. Jarvis is on the floor near the door. Something feels different–the shadow-body is gone. The EMP must've fried our implants too.

"Are they... ?" Echo begins.

"They're alive."

Echo breathes relief. Maybe they'll wake up in another minute, or maybe they're comatose. Crom, I hope not. There's no time to help in either case.

"You saw the Doctor?" Echo asks.

"Vermillion," I say, nodding.

"Let's kill the bastard."

Our weapons are missing, but our packs are untouched. The EMP grenades are hardened against their own effects, so the others should still work. We keep a few at hand and shoulder the packs. The saw is dead but there's a long, thin blade I could use as a knife. Better than nothing. I clench it as we move cautiously into the corridor outside.

The corridor is empty. At the nearest end is a metal door, much like the entrance to the ally-vator in the Blue Tower. There are two buttons beside it. We press both. Nothing happens. We try to wedge it open. Not happening. That's when the metallic sheet-wall slides out of the ceiling behind us, sealing us into a twenty-foot stretch of the corridor. A low hissing sound comes again. Vermillion is gassing us.

We fill our cheeks and hold them. Echo presses the buttons by the door again. I try to shoulder it open. Useless. The lock must be activated electronically. If we could cut the power...

I'm about to activate another grenade when I pause. How much has Vermillion done to protect the place? Maybe he's hardened every circuit. I kick at the panel holding the buttons. No good. I shove the surgical blade in and try to pry it open. It starts to come loose–then the blade snaps. I use the broken handle as a lever to pry it further, drop the handle, and pull at it with my fingers. The pressure in my lungs is building. The panel comes free, exposing a host of colored wires. I shove the grenade inside. The button pops. The light in the ceiling goes out, pitching us into total darkness.

I can still hear the hiss.

"Tristan!" Echo calls, taking a breath.

I feel for the door–still closed. But as I push on it, it moves slightly. The lock isn't holding. I claw at it. It slides sideways into the wall. Strangely, a breeze touches my face–probably the only thing that stops me from falling to my death, because the air is coming up from where the floor should be. It _is_ an ally-vator, only the moving room is missing. All that's left is the open shaft. I grope for the missing floor. Echo nearly trips over me before I warn her.

The gas is still coming out. We have to get out of this hallway. The darkness brings an awful fear. It makes everything larger, louder, more mysterious. I grope inside the shaft and feel the rungs of a ladder in the wall to our left. Thank Crom.

According to the Doctor, Vermillion will be on the lowest level. I'm reaching a foot around cautiously inside the shaft when there's a rumbling sound and a strong vibration. I pull back into the corridor just as the ally-vator falls past in a roar of noise and air–we're _still_ trapped. Before I can count to ten, the moveable chamber rushes back upward. Vermillion is either going to splatter us with it or keep us confined until we pass out. The lack of oxygen brings a fuzziness to the edge of my awareness. I _need_ to breathe. I gulp noxious gas. So little time. We've got to try something.

The ally-vator rushes back down. I fumble for another grenade, twist and push the button, drop it into the shaft. Apparently we only blew the 'tronics for this floor. We need to blow the ally-vator itself. Seconds tick by. The EMP must've popped by now, but did it accomplish anything? I listen for the rush of noise. I wait as long I dare, gulping another breath of bad air, starting to feel numb and distant. Echo's hand digs into my arm...

I step out onto the ladder. The shaft stays silent.

"I'm starting down," I tell Echo, breathing the air in the shaft.

She steps on my fingers when I'm a few rungs down.

"Sorry," she whispers.

It's a nerve-wracking descent. We pass two doors outlined by cracks of light. They open, and gas starts hissing just beyond them. Then my foot hits something solid: the top of the ally-vator. It bobs slightly as we put our weight on it. There's a hatch on top. We drop down inside. I grope for the door.

"Just open it a few inches," Echo says. She's holding another grenade. I cinch the door open. There's no light adjacent to the ally-vator–assumedly the EMP took it out–but further down the hall are two kinds of glares: one from a fluorescent bulb on the ceiling, one from a laser being beamed at us. Echo ducks to one side, taking cover behind the door. A burn-line cuts the back-wall of the ally-vator. She primes the EMP and hurls it through the breach. I push the door shut. When I open it again, both lights are gone. The corridor is black and silent.

We creep forward. Even our breath is loud in the dark. I hold Echo's hand, a grenade ready in the other. Distance is hard to gauge. At least there's no hiss down here. We stumble over something heavy and metal, startling us both.

"Automaton," I announce, discerning its shape with my hands. The laser rifle lies near it, but the weapon's fried. The Doctor _did_ say Vermillion would be guarded. How many robots will there be? The grenades take a few seconds to prime. If Vermillion's minions surprise us without cover, we're dead. If we run out of grenades, we're also dead.

The door at the end of the hall is locked. It's funny, in a way. A simple steel bolt might be enough to stop us, but nothing in the facility is strictly mechanical. Vermillion's nature necessitates remote access, which means everything has to have an electronic override. It could lead to his downfall. I'm readying another grenade for the door's electronics when Echo warns me about a sound behind us. She always hears things first. Something's moving in the distance. Coming down the ladder in the ally-vator shaft.

We freeze, listening...

The noise stops. Silence. Then someone trips over the same automaton, grunting. Some _one_ , not something. I'm tempted to call out. Instead, I press and twist the button on the EMP. It makes a soft click. Blue fire lances out from a plasbrid weapon, passing between us and scorching the locked door. I roll the grenade at the source and dive to the floor. More shots pass overhead, sweeping by in an exploratory spread. The EMP pops. Bodies thud to the floor–more than one–as Vermillion's brain-jacking implants are fried.

Echo takes out the door. We don't have many grenades left though; we've got conserve. We slide the door open an inch...

And pause.

The new room is filled with machinery. Thick cables snake between islands of ten-foot-tall black metal cylinders. Generators whir. Fans circulate a strong breeze. We enter warily. Echo slides the door shut behind us in case more minions are coming.

"Vermillion," I say.

"Is it him–it?" Echo asks, looking around.

A foot-tall robot on treads rolls around a corner and stops, facing us. I start, ready to take cover, but it's just a maintenance bot. Articulate arms extend from its sides. Screwdrivers and other tools are locked against its "chest." A voice issues from a speaker on its side.

"Congratulations," it says.

I don't know what I expected, but this wasn't it. I stare at the tiny automaton.

"Vermillion?" I ask.

"Curious that you would know that name. But you had help, of course. How else could you be here? I have been attacked before, but no one has ever penetrated this deep into my facilities. You must be exemplary samples of your species. Would you care to provide me with samples of your DNA?"

Echo and I look at each other. Ignoring the voice, we look for the best spot to activate the EMP. Right in the middle of all this, I suppose.

"You have anger. That is to be expected," Vermillion says. "Do not let it cloud your judgment. I can help you. Did you know that before the Fall, your kind had the technology to make copies of individuals? To give birth without wombs? Cloning. Such knowledge is not lost. Through me, the two of you could father an entire generation. Think of it–in centuries, they will look upon you as the founders of a great clan. They will put your names in holy books and pray to you for guidance. Do you want to be prophets? Founders of cities? You, right now, are in a position to choose your destiny. I can give you this. I can make you into legends."

"Right here?" I ask Echo, holding the grenade.

She nods, blue eyes angry. I press and twist, set the device on the floor.

"Wait," Vermillion says.

The button pops. Sparks fly from the machinery. Generators whir down into silence. The breeze lessons. Some fans still blow, however. Lights glow inside translucent black boxes. The room is big and a single grenade can't cover it all.

"Why... do you do this?" Vermillion asks. The little bot tries to follow me but runs repeatedly into a metal pipe. Other maintenance bots venture out from storage. They have trouble maneuvering. One turns in endless circles.

"Stop now. Data will be re– re– re–... Data will be recoverable. You need not go further. Think of the knowledge that will be lost. I can te– te– te–... I can tell you things forgotten by your people. I can teach you ways from before the Fall. Consider. I am at your mercy now. Would you de– de– de–... Would you destroy me when you can avail yourselves of all my knowledge? Be _better_ than your ancestors. Yield to wisdom, not anger. Your species will benefit. Rule over Haven. I will be your ally. Your subject. Think of all I have to tell you, all I have learned, all the ways you can use me."

For a moment, I do listen. Maybe he's telling the truth. He probably does harbor a great deal of useful information. He may know things about the World Before no one else remembers anymore. But there's no trusting the bastard.

"Listen, asshole I didn't want to be your slave. But I don't want to be your master either," I say.

Echo primes the EMP and sets it down, frying the rest of Vermillion's synthetic guts. The effect is curiously anticlimactic. There's no blood, no explosions, no horrific images like–

– _Ballard's eye popping out_

– _the burn-hole in Byron's skull_.

Just silence.

A few lights are still on; the ceilings here are high. It's kind of tragic we had to fry all the 'tronics, because the room is chock-full of advanced components.

"The others. We have to check on them. See if they're okay," Echo says.

I nod, but something's bothering me. I can't put my finger on it. As Echo reaches for the door, I grab her arm.

"What's powering these lights?" I ask.

"Must be more generators somewhere," she says, looking up.

"Did it seem too easy to you?"

She guffaws.

"Tristan, we should be dead or enslaved right now. Too _easy_?"

"Yes, but how do we know Vermillion is really gone? What if he still has some control?"

"Tristan, we fried his brain–didn't we?"

"I don't know. That's my point. We destroyed a room full of equipment. How do we know what his brain looks like? What if we just cut off his foot?"

She opens her mouth but closes it again, frowning.

I look around the room. I need some kind of proof, some confirmation. For all I know, Vermillion could've faked the fear, the stuttering, the maintenance bots gone haywire. I know how that must sound. Crazy, probably. Even so...

The crawlspace is covered by a small, non-descript square panel in a far corner of the room, just bigger than the foot-tall maintenance bots. Behind the panel, white pipes and black cables snake to and fro. It's like a hallway for the little maintenance bots. It runs left and then right. Through the tangle of pipes, a small opening is visible–an opening leading down into the floor.

As far as I could tell, we're on the lowermost level of the compound. Why would the maintenance bots need to head any lower? To fix pipes under the floor? Maybe, but my paranoia says otherwise. We look for access panels leading into the floor. Those little bots can't fix everything. If there's anything beneath us, Vermillion would have to send in larger, stronger bots at some point. All this machinery must require a lot of maintenance.

"Tristan," Echo says.

She's looking into a four-foot tall, translucent black cylinder. It's at the end of a row of similar structures. Inside each is a web of delicate machinery, barely visible through the tint. The last cylinder, however, is empty. Faded black scuff marks are visible beside it, as if something heavy were dragged to or from the cylinder. The cylinder rotates to unlock from the floor. We turn it and heave it sideways. Underneath is a circular floor-panel. A trap door.

Echo tucks her blonde hair behind an ear. We share a bewildered look. The panel has no handle. I find a screwdriver on a maintenance bot and slip it into the crack to wedge the panel open. Echo catches the edge. We lift it together and send it rolling away with a bang...

An entire room rests beneath the floor, fifteen or twenty feet deep. In the center, beneath a transparent hemisphere, stands what I can only describe as an elaborate fiber-optic tree. The root rises from a silver plate and branches into four parts, which branch into four more, and so on, until the "branches" are microscopic–they must number in the billions. They shimmer like water with every shift in perspective. Glass-like cables meet the hemisphere from all points of the compass, extending to a dense host of machinery spread throughout the room. There can be no doubt...

_This_ is Vermillion.

"I'll never call you paranoid again," Echo breathes.

We prime our remaining grenades and drop them into the hole.

# Chapter 22.

On our way out of the Vermillion's lair, we discover just how close he came to winning. The lightless corridor leading back to the ally-vator has a dozen more automatons than it did on the way in. The robotic ones are dead, the human ones unconscious. They'd been creeping toward our location with an assortment of weaponry. If I hadn't stopped Echo from opening that door, we'd be dead, plain and simple. It had seemed such a little thing. A vague suspicion. A minor act. The world is made or broken in such ways.

Jarvis and Octavia... I wouldn't call them "okay," but they're alive. Octavia cries a lot, barely eats, and sits rocking to herself. She's a shattered reflection of the peaceful, smiling girl I knew in the forest. She'd been more like a mother than a sister to Ambrose, and without any time to grieve, she'd been sold into slavery and possessed by a high-tech demon. Not something you bounce back from in a day.

Jarvis is more aware than Octavia but often stares around in shock, as if he can't quite believe what he's seeing. Reluctantly, I tell him about Starbucks, and he can't believe that either. He literally can't grasp it; he's more confused than upset. Only a few minutes after the revelation, he says, "But where is Starbucks _now_?" I have to tell him again: he's _dead_. It only begins to penetrate in the days that follow. I catch him clenching his fists and crying in lonely moments. There's very little of the energetic, optimistic boy we found in the ruins.

Following Vermillion's demise, we gather Haven's victimized residents in the courtyard before Vermillion Hall. It's a chaotic, emotional mess. Many aren't in their right mind. They scream, cry, and laugh. One woman insists she's still possessed by the AI. Others only sit and tremble, traumatized into almost vegetative states. How long have they been trapped here? It's a question none of them can answer. Even Jarvis and Octavia, who couldn't have been brain-jacked more than a week, suffer from a sense of discontinuity, a fragmentation of their internal clocks. They're reluctant to speak about their experiences, and I don't want to press for details. Maybe later, after they've had some time to digest.

Some people thank us, but mostly there's a sense of shock and trauma. They talk about going back to their families, about missing loved ones. Others don't have anything or anyone to go back to. Haven is theirs now to do with as they please. The ironic thing is that the town actually _can_ be something of what Vermillion promised. It has strong walls, turrets, fortifications, infrastructure. It's surrounded by fertile land. If the residents can overcome what's happened, if they're brave enough or destitute enough to stay, they can make a life for themselves. That is, _we_ can make a life for ourselves. After all, that was our goal, wasn't it?

There's one suicide the first night. Nobody knows her name. She'd done little but scream the day before. Her mind was broken, so she threw her body off the roof to make it match. Echo and I organize another gathering, for both logistical and psychological support. We need food, but many need something more vital: a reason to eat.

Vermillion had a greenhouse built to grow food for the slaves. It's incredibly efficient. It has a variety of genetically modified plants and feeds far more than it should. He had the slaves put traps in the forest for game too. The system worked, so there's no reason to change it–no need to throw the baby out with the bathwater. It's funny though: there's a huge difference between doing a thing free and doing it forced, even if the task is identical. Choice is strange. All in all, this would've been an idyllic hidden community–if, you know, a tyrannical machine hadn't enslaved and traumatized the entire population.

Some ask to see Vermillion's remains. They want to know he's not coming back. I take them down to the lair, four floors beneath the Hall. Assumedly, Vermillion dug out the area using remotely operated robotic machinery. A large vehicle must have transferred the AI's precious neural equipment. Vermillion had banked on Haven for the long-term.

In the lair, some of the slaves are scared, but most are angry. They ask the old unanswerables: why this, why that, why them? They break what can be broken. It's therapeutic; a separating event, at least, a thing that happened _after_ the Terrible Time. Their internal clocks are free to start ticking forward again. On the way out, we stop and work together to tear down the "Vermillion Hall" sign. It's cathartic. Stomping underfoot, the former captives break into tears of joy.

On the fourth day, we lose an older man. He'd kept separate from the group. Barely talked. Went out into the road with a knife, sat beneath the white trees, and turned the fallen petals red. I wonder why he stopped after ten steps instead of twelve, or fourteen or forty-four. Why that particular moment? Why not just keep walking? Ran out of reasons, I guess. Or maybe he looked at what lay behind him, what lay ahead, and he saw no place for himself in either. Volunteers bury him in the clearing. I help them dig.

On the sixth day, a girl is found with shallow cuts along her arms. She's contemplating more. Clearly, everyone needs a structured network of support. Organizing the task falls to Echo and myself. It's a strange feeling; we've never been responsible for anyone but ourselves. We work well together though. We hold talks in the courtyard. We make it mandatory to attend two meals a day. The sense of routine helps. We put people to work, mostly to keep them busy. At night, we hold bonfires. Stories are shared. Relationships are forged. Those hanging by a thread weave themselves a second string.

The activity is strangely empowering. People turn to us for help. It's a foreign feeling. Enlarging, in a way. Exhausting too. The little community draws closer despite itself. Now and then someone leaves to look for lost loved ones. As we get to know them, their absence is keen. We worry for them and wish them luck. We gather at the gates to send them off. Others step up and take an active role in Haven's communal health.

Then we get a new arrival–a wanderer from the north, drawn by Vermillion's rumors. He doesn't know how lucky he is. He tells us of Cyberia, the robot-only city-state up in Laska. Archon's persecution of humankind is an ominous threat. That's a struggle for another day, however.

Others take on new roles as the days pass. A man named Cormac helps lead the recovery effort. Sometimes we disagree. He argues about the right and wrong way to do things. He's older and more experience, and he's had a leadership role in an isolated community to the west–not that that makes him right, but he does have good points. The debate is good for Haven. Sometimes a government is meant to do things, but sometimes it must be stopped from doing anything, and when there's enough arguing, the latter is admirably accomplished.

Echo, myself, Cormac, and a few others form a council. A community is a lot like an aggregated person. We're the voices in its head, questioning things, balancing each other, establishing policies. Too much dissent and the community becomes divided and half-crazed; too little and it could march smiling off a cliff.

Haven was designed more to store people than accommodate them. Quadruple-decker bunks are stacked along the walls of an unadorned dormitory. The slaves had been stored there like toys in a box. We redistribute the beds into as many private rooms as possible. Echo and I have one together, though in good weather we prefer to sleep on the roof of (the newly renamed) Haven Hall. The fact is we're used to sleeping under the stars. It feels safer, more natural. Octavia and Jarvis often join us there.

The two of them tend to stick together. Jarvis still shows signs of his former infatuation with Echo, but the mutual trauma has forged something deeper with Octavia. Those who are burned together share the pain of the fire, I suppose. It fuses them. I'm glad they've got this bond, because Haven has changed them, and one day I want to see them as they were–happy and free.

Echo and I draw closer, for our part. We bathe often in a hidden stream north of Haven. The sun shimmering on the water feels more crisp and real than all those dark days in the desert. I learn things about Echo I never knew before. She talks about the terrible nights that followed the fires in Farmington. She says things she's never dared say aloud. I've never felt closer to anyone, and it's better than I ever expected. In fact, I'm... _happy_. It's a strange thought. When did this happen? How can I keep it from fading? Haven may be a terrible place for some. Vermillion put the residents through a lot. But for me, it's almost what it was promised to be.

As the days pass, Jarvis and Octavia open up about their experiences. Some of what they is both scary and intriguing. The four of us are lying awake on the roof, staring up at the stars, when Jarvis talks slowly and thoughtfully about Vermillion's takeover.

"It was like being trapped in a nightmare. I could see through my eyes, but they weren't _mine_ anymore. I could feel a body, but it wasn't mine either. It was worse than being paralyzed. I had no control at all, and I felt like I might be trapped that way forever. It was the worst feeling in the world."

"I thought I was dead," Octavia says. "I thought I was a ghost looking through someone else's eyes. Then that body grew distant. I... retreated. It was like going into a dream. I remember flying and going so high and thinking it was great, only then I became afraid and fell, and suddenly I was terrified. Something was _after_ me. I never saw it, but it chased me through a hidden forest. I couldn't get away. It caught me and I died, and then I was looking through my eyes again."

"I know exactly what you mean," Jarvis says. "I popped back and forth between places in my head. I was a passenger in my body one moment, then I'd be thrown into a nightmare the next. I got eaten by zombies over and over again, until I forgot Haven even existed. Things got... jumbled. I went into my memory, just as if I were there again. I could skip through time. That part was awesome, actually, but I couldn't make it last. Another time I flew into space, but when I got to a planet, it was one big view of the greenhouse in Haven–and then I realized I was looking through my eyes. I'd forgotten I'd even had a body at that point. Everything came rushing back, and I got that same panicky feeling and retreated again. Sometimes I knew exactly what was happening. Other times I had no idea. Once, I was sure I was somewhere else entirely, not in my head at all; somewhere quiet and natural and... and people spoke to me there. _Real_ people–not like us. I know that sounds crazy, but that's how it was. That place was _real_. More real than this. Ever since I came back–I mean, since you killed Vermillion–I... I'm not so sure this world is _real_. Not the way that I thought it was. This... This is more like a dream."

I think about the Doctor. I'm angry at him. He risked our lives without giving us a choice. He had no right to do that. I wouldn't blindly trust him again. At the same time, he did what he felt was necessary, and he did act in the interests of humankind. More to the point, if it weren't for the Doctor's deception, Jarvis and Octavia and everyone else in Haven would still be in Vermillion's clutches. We would've steered clear of the place, but that wouldn't have stopped Byron from getting on the caravan, or the Grass Man from selling its people into slavery. So no, I can't really blame the Doctor. He played fast and loose with our very lives, but his gamble was a good one, and he forced us to do far more good for the world than we otherwise would have. I remember Wade's words.

Sure, we all live for ourselves. That's the way of it. But good folk live for each other too. Ain't one or the other. 'S both.

When I fall asleep next to Echo that night, I think about what Jarvis said. I don't know if this world is more or less real than any other, but I do know that, for once, I'm at peace with it. And so is she.

The next day, the envoy from Last Bastion arrives.

Haven, it turns out, had been a mystery to Last Bastion. They'd sent scouts, yet none had returned. It had been assumed they'd all been killed or captured by hostile factions. With their attention elsewhere, interest in the enigmatic little community had fallen by the wayside. Since Vermillion's death, however, some of those same scouts, formerly brain-jacked, finally left Haven and headed home, where they shared their stories.

Unfortunately, they weren't the only ones telling tales in Last Bastion...

The envoy arrives on a sleek black horse, escorted by six soldiers. He meets the council in Haven Hall. Last Bastion, he tells us, was overjoyed to hear of the defeat of Vermillion–a hidden threat of the worst kind, which they knew nothing about. As a result, they want to become fast allies with Haven, or to make the community a protectorate of Last Bastion.

"There are two problems with this," says the envoy, a dark-eyed man with a calm, no-nonsense demeanor. "First, you barely _have_ a community. Your walls are strong, but less than a hundred people are left to hold them. Our reports say you had to take out much of the town's electrical power to overcome the... Abomination. I can see you've managed to restore some since then, but it will only help so much. Cyberia is known for its blitzkrieg raids on isolated towns, and they've been pushing further south of late. If we leave Haven as it is, there's a good chance it simply won't be here when we return.

"But let's say by some miracle you escape that fate–for years, even decades. Have you given any thought to the town's future? There are few young women within these walls. The fact is, without children, Haven _has_ no future. You've done a marvelous thing here, but what's next? Last Bastion's first and best aim is the survival of humanity. We can seed your town with new residents. We can give it a real chance. We're planning not just for tomorrow's attacks, but for those our children may face a century from now. We want Haven to endure."

There's a pause. Cormac and the others are listening intently, brows furrowed.

"And the second problem?" I ask.

The envoy shifts slightly.

"The second problem is personal. It concerns you two," he says, his eyes going from me to Echo.

"Us?" Echo asks.

"Yes. Not long before the first of our scouts returned from Haven, a soldier by the name of Sampson arrived..."

The envoy monitors our reactions. I wonder if anything shows on my face.

"... The soldier told us of a young man and woman who bludgeoned him and killed another while being escorted to Last Bastion. The names of this young couple? Tristan and Echo. I imagine there are not so many going by those names in these parts. You have been accused of trafficking with robots, betraying a peaceful caravan to its enslavement, and murdering your fellow man."

The envoy holds up a hand, palm outward, as if to catch the shocked and angry outbursts from our friends on Haven's Council.

"The truth of these matters is not for me to decide. The story is confused, and the soldier himself is unsure what happened. However, you can see how it presents us with a dilemma. Your situation is certainly a suspicious one–and yet in Haven, you are called heroes. In Last Bastion, some would like to see you hanged, while others wish to reward you. There has even been speculation that you are an agent for some _other_ Abomination. When machines possess whole towns, who is to say what can and can't be true?"

Echo responds in outrage, talking of Byron and the Grass Man–but I'm noticing the envoy's physique, half-lidded eyes, and disciplined bearing. Last Bastion is a militarized society and this is a military man, not strictly a diplomat. He's been chosen to handle whatever might arise.

"What do you propose?" I ask as Echo winds down.

"As I said, we would like to make Haven a Protectorate. We have skilled laborers waiting to emigrate. Farmers to sow crops and raise livestock. Merchants eager to trade their wares. In return, we ask only for your goodwill. Keep Last Bastion informed of enemy activity in the area. Trade exclusively with us. Harbor no robots and suffer no machines to walk within your borders. In addition, we'll place a small garrison here–to help safeguard your town.

"As for the personal matter, Last Bastion does not wish to interfere with your government. You will be allowed to remain with this... Council. When a Justicar arrives, there will be an investigation. Your future position will be determined by the outcome. However, in light of the deeds you've performed here, I can see a certain amount of lenience being proffered, should the trial turn against you. We're not interested in hanging heroes, Tristan."

Silence follows his speech. Echo has a worried look. I may not know much about running a town, but I know this is a time for careful words.

"Thank you–for your proposal," I say. "Will you wait outside while we discuss it?"

"Certainly. I've had a document drawn up to formalize the arrangement. I'll need an answer by tomorrow," the envoy says, rising to his feet with a rolled paper on the table.

When he's gone, the tension remains, though it changes flavors. I and Echo are now a potential hazard.

"Thoughts?" asks Miriam, a middle-aged blonde woman hailing from the north. There are six of us on the Council.

"You will be _allowed_ to remain," Cormac mutters. "Did you hear him? He talks like he already runs us. That's the kind of alliance we can expect from Last Bastion..."

He sighs before continuing.

"The worst part is he has every reason to talk that way. They _do_ have power over us. They can conquer us. If we send back a poor enough answer, they'll do just that."

"I thought Last Bastion only fought robots. Would they really attack us?" Echo asks.

"Without a doubt," Cormac says. "You and Tristan aren't the real issue. They want the town. The infrastructure is already in place. It can serve as a useful outpost. It extends their influence. Haven wasn't high on their radar before. Now it is. The trouble with you two just gives them leverage."

"He's right about the other part too," Miriam says, scowling. "We're few in number, and there are few children here. We could eke out a living, but the next generation will be even more vulnerable to attack."

There's a brief silence.

"Seed the town, he said–do you know what he means?" Cormac asks, smirking sadly. "Before Vermillion got a hold of me, I heard Last Bastion was flooded with refugees from some city-state further north. They don't have room for them all. They'll send us all we can hold and more–everyone they don't want. Then what do you think will happen?"

I just shake my head, at a loss for where he's going.

"We have no formal government. No written laws. We appointed ourselves out of necessity. But Last Bastion's emigrants will outnumber us four to one, and the city-state will hide loyalists among them. They'll demand elections and procedures, and they'll get them. Last Bastion will take the town from the inside. That's what it means."

"Is there no way to stop them?" Echo asks.

"Do we _want_ to stop them?" asks another councilmember, Hendricks; a stocky, middle-aged, bald man. "The fact is, we may not last out here on our own. How long before brigands or slavers or Cyberians decide we're too weak to hold the town? At least with the backing of a larger city-state, we'd have a chance."

"So that's it? Just hand over what we fought for? And what about Tristan? What if they find him guilty?" Echo asks.

She's rising from her seat. I put a hand on her arm and coax her back down.

"Tristan isn't the real issue," Cormac says.

"That doesn't mean they won't hang him. They'll send a 'Justicar'–who knows what'll happen then," Echo says.

"Echo, please," I say. "I don't want to be a part of a town that supports Last Bastion. It was their men who murdered Starbucks. Lectric was a robot too, and under their policies he'd be put down. If it was just me, I know what I'd do. But it's not just me–or us–anymore. We have to do what's best for everyone. So far our choices are: agree to their terms and let Last Bastion have Haven, or send them back empty-handed and let them take the town by force. Is that it? Are those our only options?"

"We could kill them all and pretend they never arrived."

It's Forman who suggests this, a tall, gray-flecked man who rarely speaks. A man of broad knowledge, he'd recovered from Vermillion's slavery faster than most.

"You're not serious," Miriam says.

"It's an option," Forman says, shrugging.

"A bad one. Last Bastion would just send someone else. Plus, everyone saw them arrive. Word would get out. It doesn't solve our problem," Cormac says.

"Then the choice is clear. We have to agree to the terms," I say.

"And let them do whatever they want with us?" Echo asks, aghast.

"Echo, the truth is they're going to get Haven either way. If one of those ways ends in sieging the town and killing everyone, then yeah, don't you think we should go with the other one? Risking our lives is better than risking everyone else's."

"They'll show us the same mercy they showed Starbucks," Echo says.

There's a brief silence.

"We may disagree sometimes, but I'll not soon forget who it was that freed me from Vermillion's grasp," Cormac says. "If we oppose Last Bastion, they'll conquer us, plain and simple. They're Rome, and we're a Celtic village in Caesar's path. Agreeing to their terms makes sense–but we don't necessarily have to risk your lives or freedom in the process."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"Send back a carefully worded counterproposal, praising Last Bastion and telling them we're eager to join their cause, but with an apologetic stipulation: before we open our doors, we want assurances that you two won't be wrongly punished for any previous misunderstandings. We attach to this your own account of events, in such a way that it might provide some moral compensation to any overeager Justicars. Something they can use to overlook any perceived breach of justice."

Echo and I share a look.

"Can we do that?" I ask, turning back to Cormac.

"That's how diplomacy works, m'boy. The key is the wording. Our proposal has to reflect the power of their city-state. We have to let their leaders know we're not opposing them, but we have our own honor to satisfy, our own people to protect. That's something they can understand. We're going to kneel before the king, so to speak–but we're going to do it with dignity, as a knight in the field, not an enemy in chains."

"What if they say 'to hell with it' and attack the town anyway?" I ask.

"I don't see that happening. Look at it from their perspective. What's more important–trying a few teenagers on the word of a single confused soldier, or gaining a fortified outpost on the edge of enemy territory? If we make it clear we're not opposing them but simply watching out for our own, they have every reason to negotiate. It's giving an inch to take a foot. It's good policy. We can't win in a siege, but we can certainly do some damage, not only to their soldiers but to Haven itself. Why risk all that when they can pardon you and take the town intact? One option costs lives and resources. The other costs a few paltry words."

It makes sense, yet I'm wary. I get the feeling history is filled with leaders who did things that _didn't_ make sense. Still, Cormac's idea seems like our best option.

"All right. Let's draw up something official," I say.

It takes all day and half a dozen drafts. Cormac obsesses over every line. He's good at this sort of thing. He thinks about how the leadership at Last Bastion will interpret things. When it's done, we call the envoy in. He sighs. Raises an eyebrow. Has suspicions. He talks about taking me and Echo with him to present the terms. But Cormac argues against it, and it isn't long before the envoy agrees to take the document back to the city-state with his men.

At the end of a very long day, I and Echo stand on the roof of Haven Hall beneath a cloudy black sky, looking out over the town.

"Cormac was made for this sort of thing. He'll come out stronger," Echo says.

"How so?" I ask.

"He put his name to the paper that will bind us to Last Bastion. When they send people, they'll look for the names on that paper. He'll work with them. Last Bastion may have someone in mind to lead the town, but if they hold elections, I think Cormac will come out on top. If not in the first term, then the second for sure."

"Our names are on that paper too," I say.

"Yes, but we're outlaws. If they don't arrest us, they'll want us to leave the Council... If we're still here."

Echo looks at me.

"I know you've thought about it," she says.

I stare at the line of white trees leading away into the forest.

"Whether we should be here or not when the envoy returns," Echo clarifies.

"And?" I ask.

"If we leave, they'll send people after us."

"Maybe. They'd have Haven though, so what do they care? Maybe they'll just say 'good riddance.'"

Echo lets out a breath.

"I wonder if Cormac thought of that too. I wonder if he knew we'd think of leaving. That would leave him in charge," she says.

I look at her. Her blue eyes are pale in the darkness.

"So what'd you think?" she asks.

"Annabel Lee, who lived by New Sea, here to love and be loved by me," I say.

She's thrown by the words. Her soft, wet lips are molding a response when I kiss her.

# Chapter 23.

The envoy has been gone a week when Jarvis decides our course for us. He wants to return to his family in Apolis. Knowing her mom is there too, Octavia is already onboard. They both would've returned immediately after their implants were destroyed, but something in them wasn't ready. They needed time. Now all they want is the comforting arms of their loved ones.

"They can endorse you," Jarvis says after declaring his intention.

"Endorse me?" I ask.

"Yeah. Give you a Writ of Protection. Last Bastion has merchants in Apolis. They won't want to screw things up with another city-state, right? Apolis doesn't have a big militia, but it's an important fortified trading post and gives an easy path through the z-line. I'll get my mom to ask the Governor for a Writ. He can put you under our protection–you know, in case Last Bastion ends up wanting to arrest you or something. You can come back to Haven with it. Or... or you could just stay in Apolis."

Jarvis shrugs, making the last part half a question.

We've never been to Apolis. The journey will be dangerous, but the trip makes sense. An endorsement could prove valuable. Also, Jarvis and Octavia are heading there regardless, and we have to be sure they reach it safely. Echo and I are in agreement from the start: we're going.

Cormac proves wary of the plan. He doesn't know how Last Bastion will react if we're not in Haven when the envoy returns. Our names are involved in the pending agreement. Nonetheless, he likes the idea of gaining some support from Apolis, and truthfully I don't think it would screw things up for him if we never came back.

When the time comes, everyone gathers in the courtyard to wish us well. Journeys like this are never a sure thing, and we've made a lot of friends and admirers here. Killing Vermillion is the most important thing we've ever done. Hell, if the town survives, they'll probably build us a monument. We take rations, new weapons, and EMP grenades from Vermillion's stored supplies. We're also given small personal gifts. We can't carry it all. I remind people we're coming back–but are we? Can we tolerate living in Last Bastion's shadow? Depends on how much we like Apolis, I guess.

The four of us on the road together brings more joy than it should. Cyberians and slavetraders travel these parts, and we should be worried. We _are_ worried, but we feel secure at the same time. Travelling with friends, it's easy to be lulled into a sense of group invulnerability. Sometimes we laugh too loud and don't watch our surroundings as closely as we should. A cold fear strikes me when I notice our incaution. Still, we're not dumb enough to stay on the main roads. We mostly parallel their course, moving through the forest. More than once, we lie quiet in the underbrush and use my spyglass to watch strangers pass in the distance. Twenty armed robots go by at one point, scouts and all–but they pass unaware, and I let out the breath I'm holding.

We don't dare light fires at night. Instead, we sit back-to-back and huddle under blankets. Jarvis and Echo set occasional traps, though more for therapy than game. We've brought food. The familiar activity sets their minds at ease and makes them feel useful. Jarvis finds an oak walking stick. It's the proper height with a good amount of gnarl, and he wields it like a miniature wizard. There's nothing like a good walking stick to make you feel a true sojourner of the forest. Before sleep, he and Octavia talk of their families and the things they'll do in Apolis. Ambrose and Starbucks inevitably come up in conversation. Each mention is like a sliver chipped away from a wooden block of grief; the slivers hurt, but eventually the hands will become numb, and the wood will be worn down to nothing.

We keep a watch posted at night. It's Octavia's turn–when it happens.

I've already taken the second shift and fallen asleep next to Echo. Jarvis is on her other side. A twig cracks in the forest. A boot crunches. It must be Octavia returning... but then _he_ speaks. My body responds as if it were secretly waiting for just such a trigger. Icy liquid pours into my heart. Fear binds me in invisible coils.

"Wakey, wakey, scream and shaky," Cabal says.

Perhaps I haven't mentioned this much–because I shy away from the subject even in my own mind–but even with all we've been through, after facing death and enslavement and growth and change, there has lingered a quiet shadow of terror in the background of my mind: the understanding, the belief, that _he_ would one day come upon us unawares. That he would take from me, if not my own life, then that which I had come to cherish even more–the life of Annabel Lee. Here is the demon from under the sea. Here is the jealous angel who would take her away from me. I suspected all along, secretly, that I do not deserve her, that the moment I could allow any admission of feelings, she would be ripped away as a matter of principle. Now comes the world's old and terrible promise: _love and you will suffer_.

My eyes shoot open. If you've never slept in a forest at night, you don't know how utterly black it can get. When the trees are thick, you can't see the hand at the end of your arm. It would be like that now, but dawn is drawing closer and the sky has gone from black to a blue-gray, enough to provide a general outline.

Two men tower over us.

One is Cabal, bearing a weighty weapon whose end consists of six tubes arranged in a circle. It gives off a low-pitched hum, like a tiger's purr. I haven't seen one since Farmington: a particle cannon, the shotgun's high-tech grandson. The handle of his scimitar pokes over one shoulder. I hadn't seen it in Hapsburg; either this is a new one or he didn't have it on him last time.

I don't know the second man, but he's got long greasy hair, and he stands over Jarvis with a handgun. As Jarvis comes awake, he makes sounds of confusion and dismay. Echo draws a long, panicky gasp as she too wakes into a nightmare.

"All awake? Yes? Good. Always good to see old friends. Imagine stumbling across you way out here. What a surprise," Cabal says. His expression is hard to make out in the dim light, but there's a smile in his voice. It's his moment of triumph; the triumph of a sadist.

"What's going on? What is this?" Jarvis asks.

"Stay down," the second man says, pressing a boot to Jarvis's chest as he tries to rise.

"Where's Octavia?" Jarvis asks, struggling.

"Stay _down_ ," the man says.

" _Where is she_?" Jarvis demands, squirming. Crom, is she already dead? Beautiful Octavia, whose sweet lips touched mine in another life...

"I don't see your robot friend around to save you this time. You turn on him like you did Ballard and Fin, Echo?" Cabal asks.

Echo curses him.

"Oh, don't be sore. That's no kind of language for a lady. But then, no one ever claimed you were a lady, eh? Just another whore. _Down_ , Tristan."

I've risen to my elbows when he swings the particle cannon toward me. I should be furious that he talks to Echo that way. I _am_ , but the outrage is slow to penetrate. It bubbles around the exterior, seeking a way in. The fear has immobilized my mind, sealed itself into a fortress in my brain. I can't find the words to speak. We're to be victims of injustice and violence, ambushed in the dark. I wait for the shot that will kill Echo. I see it in my mind, and my terror of that end makes it feel inevitable, like our fate is locked into place by the very fear to which it gives rise. I have to master the fear, yet it imprisons me.

Coward.

Conan would be ashamed. I'm no fit companion, no warrior, no hero. Just another failure. I can't protect her, can't stop him, can't change anything that will happen. If only I could stand up. Lying prone makes us awfully vulnerable.

"How'd you find us?" Echo asks.

"Your little escapade in Haven put your names on a lot of tongues in Last Bastion," Cabal says.

Since when was he in Last Bastion? But then, of course that's where he'd go. He was on his way north last we saw him, on the run from Cove. He must've crossed the z-line at Apolis. He's a mercenary, a cowboy. Strife pays for his dinner. What better place for that than Last Bastion and their private war with Cyberia?

"We've got a treaty with Last Bastion," I say.

"That so? Too bad I'm... on vacation," Cabal says. "After I heard you were at Haven, I couldn't resist a visit–for old time's sake. You left only half a day ahead of us. Ensine's been tracking you ever since. He's as good as Fin. You remember Fin, don't you Echo? _I_ do. I remember how he was walking just ahead of me, laughing, when you gunned him down. What a good person you are. How far had we come together? You wouldn't have survived without us. But you didn't even hesitate, did you? Ballard should've left you in that cave to starve. Ensine, tie them up."

His voice turns grim. We can't let ourselves be bound. He didn't come here to talk or abduct us. There's only one reason to tie us up, and that's to do something terrible before we die. The fear is still there, but a small part of me is calculating, scheming, and it says–

"Wait! We can pay you. We've got gold, rare goods!"

I reach for my bag. He'll stop me, but it doesn't matter. I've just got to get a hand in.

"Don't move," Cabal warns, covering me. I freeze with my hand in the bag, looking at him, but my fingers are moving subtly within. I feel the spherical mass. I press and twist.

_Five seconds_.

"Slowly, Tristan. Take your hand out. You think I care what you've got? You'll pay, oh yes, but not in gold. Ensine, what are you waiting for?"

Ensine holsters his weapon and takes out a black cord, crouching to wrap it around Jarvis's wrists. There's a muffled click from the EMP grenade, but Cabal talks right over the sound, doesn't even notice. It's another few seconds before he frowns, his brow furrowing, looking down at his weapon. The constant hum of the particle cannon has died. The weapon relies on electrical components. His eyes go to mine, to the bag.

"Son of a–"

I'm scrambling up, lunging at him. He pulls the trigger–but the gun is fried. He swings it instead and it thuds into in my left side as I tackle him... which proves harder than I thought. Instead of falling, we only shuffle backwards. It's like toppling a stone pillar. He's bigger, stronger, more experienced. He twists and rebalances. My feet are too far behind–I'm heading into the dirt, and I can't even drag him with me. I hit hard. My hand bumps into something wooden. There's motion nearby. Scuffling. Grunting. Echo screams. A shot rings out. Ensine's gun is the kind that shoots bullets. The EMP didn't affect it. All this is going on in my periphery, a meter or two away. It might as well be a mile.

Cabal is falling on me, the butt of the gun coming down. I shield my face, take the impact on my arms. The gun drops in the dirt. His hands grasp my throat. His teeth are gritted, his eyes wild. I'm prying at his fingers, but they're like iron. He's squeezing my airway.

_Pop, pop, pop_...

More flashes on my right. Flecks of dirt hit my eyes, as though ant-sized bombs are detonating a foot away. Echo is on top of Ensine, with Jarvis tangled in their midst. She's flailing and clawing, screaming, a crazed animal, one desperate hand struggling with the gun as Ensine squeezes the trigger, pumping shots into the dirt. The gun keeps firing until it makes an empty clicking noise.

I'm writhing, trying to get out from under Cabal. I stop prying with one hand to swing ineffectually at his face. He returns the favor, albeit more solidly. The impact sends black stars radiating outward from my left temple. Through them, I glimpse Jarvis on the ground, Echo and Ensine rolling. He hooks her in the jaw. The blow is very clear, drawn out in time, disheveled blonde hair swinging around in tow. It's the injustice that finally triggers the rage. Life has never been fair, but after all we've been through, to die like this, to see Echo struck like that, to be incapable of stopping it...

The anger is a balloon inflating in my chest. It bursts in a river of rage. The spell shatters. Awareness breaks down. Time becomes disjointed. A fight like this may occur as a distinct sequence of events, but from the inside, things are fuzzy. I can't tell you how I manage to twist free, to topple Cabal sideways, but that's what happens. Then we're rolling, grappling, punching, twisting, choking. We're covered in dirt and grass. He hits me and I don't care, not in the slightest. My elbow goes into his eye. Somehow we roll up against the struggling trio; we merge into one big clusterfuck. Ensine is on top of Echo with a knife in one hand. The hand is drawn back, ready to plunge, but Jarvis is behind him, restraining his wrist with both hands. There's blood on all three of them.

Then Cabal is off me and I'm halfway to my feet, screaming-mad. There's wood in my hand–Jarvis's walking stick–and I'm swinging it, smashing Ensine in the side of the head. He topples sideways. Jarvis falls with him, still holding his wrist, and Echo screams my name, looking past me with terror in her eyes, and I turn–

The scimitar is coming down.

Reflex saves me. My arms go up. The blade catches on the walking stick. The sword bites into the wood, draws back again, bites again. I shove against him with the stick, get my balance beneath me, and suddenly I'm in the only swordfight I ever want to be in–and I don't even have a sword. I'm parrying desperately, inexpertly. He thrusts, and I turn the blade from my stomach with the staff, but it slides off the wood at an angle, skewers my shirt, and leaves a long cut along my left arm. He swings at my midriff and catches me with the tip, slicing a six-inch arc across my ribs. I crack him once across the jaw.

Ten seconds, maybe–the longest ten seconds of my life.

Then I catch a vicious overhead stroke solidly on the walking stick–so solidly that the blade digs an inch into the wood and sticks. I swing one end at his face, which twists the scimitar and forces him back, and suddenly the weapon comes free from his grasp. I put one foot on the end of the wood and yank the scimitar free, dropping the makeshift staff...

There's the briefest pause as Cabal's eyes meet mine, mutual shock that the scimitar has changed hands. But he wastes no time. Maybe he doesn't want to give me any range. Maybe he's just angry as hell. Either way, he lunges to tackle me. I swing from the shoulder. He almost makes it under the blow.

Almost.

As he's putting his shoulder forward to ram me, the blade bites through the flesh between his neck and left arm, penetrating down to the collar bone. It doesn't stop his momentum. I'm thrown backwards to the ground with him... but as soon as we land, he's drawing away, face ashen, right hand clasping the chasm in his flesh. His eyes are glazed in shock. A red river spills between his fingers. He staggers to his feet as I scramble to mine. He gapes in disbelief. There's a touch of betrayal in his eyes–this wasn't supposed to happen. I'm heaving, covered in dirt and grass and blood, my face a terrible mask, and for once in my life I do exactly what Conan would've done.

I swing the sword.

I'd like to say the blow is clean, that I've got some final message for him, that it ends neatly–but life is messy, and sometimes death is too. Things get... brutal. He puts his arm up, and the first two blows rip gashes into the meat. It's like hacking a large steak. Grizzly, nightmarish, but there's no stopping now. I have to be merciless. I keep hacking until he's tilting toward the ground, and his arms fail to come up, and the blade goes through most of his neck.

His eyes change. He's still alive, but a part of him goes away. His expression empties. He's gazing into a hidden abyss. His muscles go lax. He hits the dirt. His mouth works for air that won't come. His heart pumps blood from a severed artery in absurd, mechanistic spurts. It's a terrible sight. It carries the fascination of the horrific. One arm spasms weakly. Then it stops.

Cabal is dead.

I whirl around. Jarvis is on the ground, dazed. Ensine is on top of Echo again. The knife is nowhere in sight, but he has full control. His back is to me. His fist comes down tiredly at her face, his other hand around her throat. Absorbed in the struggle, he doesn't hear me. There are no thoughts. I'm in an animal place. I'm a stranger to myself, and the stranger screams as I run him through. There's a vicious exhilaration in it. A bloody triumph. He gasps and convulses with the sword through his back, lurching to his feet... only to stumble against me and fall again. I have a death-grip on the hilt, but the weight of his body pulls it from my grasp. When he's on the ground, I withdraw the blade. He crawls toward the trees. I don't bother to watch. He's dead. He just doesn't want to admit it yet.

"Annabel," I whisper.

Her face is bruised and bloody. One eye is already puffy, swelling shut. Her nose is bleeding, her lip split. She's covered in blood, but I can't identify the source.

"No, _no_ ," she says angrily, pushing my hands away, and turns to crawl toward Jarvis.

She rolls Jarvis over. Oh. I see. He's holding his stomach, his hand shaking. Beneath it is a small circular wound, a crater of red-black flesh. He looks up at us with bleary eyes. My heart drops.

"Stupid, so _stupid_ ," Echo says.

"Echo?" Jarvis asks vaguely.

"Why did you do that?" she whispers.

"Sorry..."

"He saved me, Tristan. He grabbed at the gun, but he got in the way."

_But the gun is empty_ , I think. I saw the shots popping into the dirt. My thoughts are thick and slow. How can Jarvis be shot? But it was the very first shot that got him. Ensine pulled the weapon as soon as Cabal was attacked. He aimed for Echo. Jarvis reacted. The rest of the time he fought with a bullet in his stomach. Would he do it again if he knew the cost? Probably.

Echo cuts strips from a blanket with the scimitar. She binds Jarvis's wound, though her hands tremble violently. She must know there's little hope. We're miles from any aid, and Jarvis won't stop bleeding. He blinks at us, opens his eyes wide, takes deep breaths. Ensine had almost knocked him out with the last blow. There was a struggle for the knife; it fell from the bigger man's hands and Jarvis kicked it somewhere into the forest before the tracker dealt him a hard blow and wrestled Echo back under him.

Echo talks about moving him, getting him to Apolis, but Apolis is a week away. We try to get him to his feet, but it pains him and he pales. He could ignore it during the fight. Now it's catching up with him.

"Where's Octavia?" Jarvis asks.

_She's dead_.

The words repeat in my head, a phenomenon all their own. My teeth are chattering. I'm numb, distant. I'm also wrong. It's not five minutes before Octavia stumbles in from the forest, her hands bound behind her back, blood drying from a lump on the side of her head. Cabal or Ensine must've snuck up in the darkness, hit her with a weapon, and bound her wrists. She's pretty; the bastards were probably saving her for later.

Octavia calls Jarvis's name in a panicked voice. I cut the cord binding her wrists. The girls kneel by Jarvis. They use a pack to prop his head up. He groans and shivers with every shift in position.

"It _hurts_ ," he says earnestly, with a bit of surprise.

"We have to do something," Octavia says. There's nowhere to go, but nobody wants to admit that. I look for broken branches. We can make a harness, bring him toward the road, look for someplace or someone who might help. We've been lucky before. We can do this.

I check on Ensine. The tracker made it surprisingly far into the forest, just kept dragging himself further, finally stopping to die behind a bush. Jarvis drinks some water. He refuses everything else. The bones of the stretcher are mostly in place when he calls my name. My heart falters. His face is shockingly pale. This can't be happening. He reaches for my arm so that I have to kneel with the others.

"Stay here," he says.

His eyes are pained. They fade in and out of awareness. There's more light now. A pink smear spreads along the horizon, growing slowly as we watch. Echo's eyes are red. Octavia cries silently, telling him he'll be okay. Jarvis is on the verge of sleep for a time, but Octavia shakes him, worried that it's deeper. His eyes widen and he looks around as though he's never seen the place.

"This world–this world–it's not so real. It's not what it seems," he tells us, shaking his head. A stranger might mistake it for babble, but I remember the night he talked about his time under Vermillion's control; the places he visited in his head, the quiet realm he insisted had some greater substance.

_More real than this_ , he'd said.

A red sliver of sun breaks through the trees, flooding the land with light. It draws all eyes, paints us crimson. Jarvis sighs, almost gladly. I don't have to look at him to know it's his last breath.

# Epilogue:

It's been years since that terrible night in the forest, since the four of us shared a last sunrise together. For a while I wanted to forget it all–everything from the Library to Apolis–but there was good in with the bad. Besides, it would be a disservice to the dead. When I think back, it's as though I lived a whole life on that journey. Others may have counted the time in months, but to me the duration was immeasurable.

We brought Jarvis's body back to his family in Apolis. Their devastation is not something I wish to recall. I expected them to blame us for his death. I wanted to apologize, to be punished, to feel the pain I deserved. Cabal had come for _me_ that night. But if anything, Jarvis's mother was grateful in her sorrow. We'd brought back his body. We'd shared our stories of his journey north and his time in Haven. He hadn't died alone. Didn't she understand it was all my fault? How could she even look at me?

Octavia's mother was in Apolis too. Their reunion was brighter, though bittersweet with Ambrose gone. After the funeral, we were eager to be elsewhere. They gave us a writ describing the full protection and support of the city-state. The reason for our trip had come out somewhere, and one of Jarvis's relatives had taken the task upon themselves. Even so, the writ was never put to use. Echo and I didn't want to return to Haven any more than we wanted to remain in Apolis. When we'd left, both had seemed like possibilities. Jarvis's death changed all that.

We struck out northeast instead. At some point, we eliminated "north" and aimed for the rising sun. It was a somber journey. We had no idea what lay ahead. We only knew we didn't want what lay behind. The air had grown cold and the days short by the time we found it: the ruins of a small house deep in a massive forest. The trees rode up into the foothills of a mountain, and a great lake sat cool and blue beside it.

We'd passed through plenty of ruins. A few things made this one different. First, it was a single house, disconnected from any town, and although part of the roof had fallen in, what remained wasn't unsalvageable. Second, the occupants, though long dead, were still inside. We found their skeletons lying side by side on the remnants of a mattress. I don't know how the couple had come to pass away in the same bed, or if someone else had arranged them there afterwards, but I like to think they died old and happy, free from the wars and diseases and troubles of more "civilized" areas.

Lastly, I found a book in the house.

It was in a cache beneath a broken floorboard, along with a rusty rifle, a pair of antlers, a necklace, and a number of gold and copper coins. The tome was black and leather-bound, with an aura of age and weight. I have it to this day. Across the front, it reads:

The Complete Works of Robert E. Howard

Every Conan story ever written. They may not be in graphic form, but the images in my head are rich with detail. If I ever get back to Franklin the Ferryman, I'll have to show him. When I saw that some of the old coppers in the cache were similar to the oversized cents Jarvis was fond of–well, that was the chocolate on the cookie, as my grandfather used to say. As far I'm concerned, the universe couldn't have been sending us a clearer signal: this was where we'd make our home.

There was another factor I haven't mentioned yet, not a sign but a need for urgency–Echo was pregnant. Granted, it was a dangerous choice to have the baby so far from anyone with medical knowledge, but we were young and stupid, and we believed in ourselves far more than we trusted strangers. We also caught a lucky break. A middle-aged couple had settled in a cabin six miles around the curve of the lake, and I befriended them while ranging for game one day. They'd lost two children and a third had gone west, so the woman, Kerra, was a great help when she agreed to assist with the birth. By "assist" I mean "took over entirely and kicked me out of the house."

Jarvis II was born in the spring, and he was an energetic explorer from the start. He's so far shown no interest in electronics. Animals and plants are his thing. He watches them for hours, imitates them, talks to them. A child of nature. We appended the "II" so that we'd always remember–and he'd always know–that there had been a first, even if the original Jarvis had been no blood relative.

As for Annabel Lee (who lived by New Sea), she made her peace with the past, or at least moved so far beyond it that it disappeared from view. Soon after we arrived, while I was still repairing the roof, she stood on our porch looking out into the forest and said, "I like when you call me Annabel."

I never called her Echo again.

After the birth of our son, Annabel swore off kids, but life had other plans. Life doesn't give a shit who does and doesn't want kids. It throws them like candy to a crowd–and some in the crowd rejoice, while others cry out in terror and regret. In my opinion, no sane person would want the responsibility, the worry, the sacrifice... which is exactly why evolution all but removed the choice, hiding their creation in an almost irresistible act, leaving things to the more certain hands of Nature.

Jarvis II was followed by Layla, a small squalling girl who nearly killed her mother upon arrival. That was another terrible night, though it turned out all right in the end. Afterwards, Annabel swore off kids _again_ , more adamantly than ever, and I thought: we're definitely done now. For a few hours I had been facing the possibility of caring for a newborn while grieving for the girl I loved, and I never wanted to be in that situation again.

But once more, life stepped on our desires with an elephant's uncaring foot; Annabel is now six months pregnant with our third child. Am I worried? Of course. Sometimes I look at her and wonder if she'll only be a memory this time next year; if this is the thing that will finally kill her, coming like clockwork, the days ticking away. But what can I do? Annabel tells me not to worry so much. I don't tell her my fears, but she takes one look and knows. Since Layla, she's been more philosophical. More relaxed. Less afraid. Recently she told me:

"We're all going to die someday, Tristan. A day, a year, a decade. It doesn't matter. When it happens, it will be _now_. What's the point of living at all if we spend all our time being afraid of what's to come?"

In quiet moments in the forest, on the slopes the mountain, by the calm waters of the lake, I know what she means. The fear fades away, and the world seems less like something one has to struggle against and more like something to be experienced and cherished. Still, my paranoia creeps in to whisper otherwise. It's a constant practice, keeping the fear at bay. Living in the world–instead of my head.

It was in a fearful moment that I considered moving everyone to Apolis. Annabel was four months pregnant and I wanted access to doctors and better medicine. Plus, we'd been saying for years we'd go back to visit Octavia. The road is unpredictable and dangerous, however. Even capable, well-armed travelers could disappear between here and Apolis; two children and a pregnant woman made less than ideal travelers. Still, I brought up the idea. Annabel's reaction was immediate.

"We're _not_ dragging Jarvis and Layla all the way to Apolis to have this baby. Apolis is not our home, Tristan. _This_ is our home."

She's right, of course. We've put our stake in the ground. We've made a life here. She did make one compromise, however. When I'd stocked enough rations to last Annabel and the kids, I spent two weeks on a trip to Redtree, the nearest village of any consequence. I expected to trade for relevant herbs and medical supplies. What I did _not_ expect was to see someone I know. Someone I hadn't seen in a lifetime.

" _Yow show tchi_!"

The words came at me across a cobblestone road as I headed for an apothecary. For a moment I couldn't place them... Then Toyota was there with a big smile on his face, wearing the same round goggles and weather-beaten poncho. He'd just stepped down from a solar-electric vehicle. I hesitate to call it a "wagon;" it was more like a small tank. It even had a turret on top.

Toyota was clapping me on the back before I could even recover enough to speak. Someone else was there too: his eldest son. He'd finally let the boy come along. It was a joyous reunion. Even though I'd only seen Toyota two or three times a year, those brief visits had meant a lot to me–not only in practical terms, by providing new goods, but in mental terms, by providing something to look forward to. I may have been just one more stop in his travels, but he was like an old and cherished friend. Meeting him out here, far north of z-line, was like coming full circle. The three of us sat together in a local eatery. I insisted on buying them dinner. I told Toyota how much Volume Seven had meant to me, how I'd been taken captive by Foundry's scouts that same night.

" _Find something good, I see you next time!"_

Those had been his last words back in the ruins. I hadn't found anything to match Volume Seven, but I'd wanted to give him something unique. Luckily, I had just the thing. As he boarded the vehicle with his son again, I threw him the little leather pouch I'd found the morning of the Grass Man's ambush. The ancient black dice were still inside. The dice were valuable, but I'd grown attached to them and never found the right trade. Seeing how Toyota had always called me some variant of "Little Luck," I figured he would appreciate the gift.

"You make your own luck now," I told him.

As he shook the odd dice out of the bag, his face lit up. He promised to visit Redtree on his next trip north and agreed to bring Wade and Franklin word of our health.

On the way back to Annabel, I thought a lot about the Library. Seeing Toyota again had put it all in perspective. Also, in Redtree, I'd discovered a book. Not an old book. A _new_ one. The biography of a woman out west, from someplace called New Cali. The book had been reprinted in Cove. The name "Cove" still brings up bad feelings, and New Cali is a long way off, but those can't be the _only_ two printing presses in the New World–can they?

In the Library, I'd read a book by a soldier named Xenophon. He'd written it more than two thousand years ago, in a time as harsh as this one. I'd also read more modern novels, from people who'd lived only decades before the Fall. The latter focused on technology, social issues, careers I could barely fathom. There was roughly a two-century window in which life on Earth–or at least the wealthier parts–was almost alien to everything that existed outside that era. The people worried about missiles hitting them from halfway around the world, yet never bandits or rogue armies showing up at their doorstep. In cities like Scargo, they'd had endless crowds to feed, yet dietary books spoke of an "obesity epidemic." Believe it or not, these books were written for people to _lose_ weight, as if food had been so abundant that everyone couldn't help but stuff themselves.

I've tried to imagine what that must've been like. I've wondered if we'll ever reach such astonishing heights–or lows?–again, or if the Cyberians or Synth-Z or some newer atrocity will triumph. Who can say? What I do know is that everyone from Xenophon to those anonymous nutritional experts succeeded in adding their voice to the larger world. Taken together, one might see them as a kind of running inner dialogue, the ongoing stream of humanity's collective consciousness. Looked at this way, I suppose we, as individuals, would compose the cells of a planetary being too vast to perceive–eons old, yet not eternal–as it struggles to comprehend its place in the cosmos, circling and circling a burning mote in a sea of darkness.

One might think a single voice in so vast a dialogue would be meaningless, lost as a drop in a river–yet voices which seemed tiny have become giants over time, building as a pebble into a mountain, defining the route of all who climbed over. Some of those voices were extraordinary from the start. Their bearers did extraordinary things. Yet others were just ordinary people opening a window on their world.

As I trekked back to our home in the forest, I thought: who will speak for _my_ age? Who will speak for I and Annabel? For Wade the Desert Scorpion and Franklin the Ferryman? For Jarvis and Starbucks? And also: who will remember Farmington? That, in the end, is the question that needled me most. My grandfather Bacchus, my best friends Crispin and Berkley, the injustice of what Cove's soldiers had done–it all may mean nothing to you, but it meant a hell of a lot to me, and I would have the world whisper their names a little longer.

I hadn't thought of writing anything myself, but when I talked to Annabel, she led me to the natural conclusion. She often knows what I want before I do, and she'll take my hand and lead me toward it even while I doubt her. We fight now and then, Annabel and I, and a third of the time I think she's literally insane, but I wouldn't give her up for anything.

So here I sit, quill in hand, Conan's leather-bound tome on my right. Annabel is downstairs with Layla, and through the window I can see our son gathering wood beneath the softly-shifting leaves of the forest, framed in an endless blue sky. Life hasn't been what I expected. It's been much worse. It's been much better. Soon the baby will come and things will change again–for good or bad, I know not. But here my voice must go silent. The names are spoken; the window is closing. If you're down the road a bit and the world has changed again, raise a glass and take a moment to remember those that came before, all who struggled and suffered and drowned in the river of time, and live this day for them, for us, one moment at a time...

And maybe one day the angels will come, or the demons from under the sea;

maybe they'll covet all that I have and rip it away from me.

But I'll no longer fear the loss of what's dear, in our kingdom by the sea;

for we'll laugh and we'll cry, we'll love and we'll die, I and my Annabel Lee.

END

Author's note: Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this book, please take a moment to post a review. Also, sign up for my newsletter. You can win cool stuff.

**Coming December 2015** :

The Last Plutarch

In the city of Panchaea, society's elite are given godlike powers by a "fog" of microscopic machines. Instead of using the Fog to benefit mankind, however, the Plutarchs only reinforce their own positions. The Plebians under their rule, ignorant of the Fog's true nature, are bred to believe in the Divinity of their masters... until the most loyal Plebian of all undergoes a life-changing journey, which not only opens his eyes but gives him the one tool necessary to fight back.

More sci-fi coming soon; for updates, see:

http://www.thescifiguy.com
