Clara awoke the next morning to the sounds of birds chirping outside. Absent-mindedly, she named the species of bird in her head according to their song, just like her grandmother had taught her as a child. There was the fresh, tuneful song of the blackbird accompanied by the chatter of sparrows and the repetitive eclectic verse of the wren, coaxing her into the soft recesses of her mind. Half asleep, she envisioned waking up in her childhood bedroom. She was high up in her bunk bed, cosy beneath unicorn bedsheets; a poster of a pop star was stuck to her wardrobe which overflowed with clothes, the centrepiece of which was her karate gi and her blue belt; beneath her bunk bed was a den which smelled of crayons and felt tips, curtained with a thin pink fabric, it was her personal space to play and read and organise her toys.
Clara opened her eyes slowly, wishing that the vision would remain. The bare walls of the lodge stared back, but a sliver of sunlight cut through the blinds, riding on the fresh air of morning, painting the timber walls in orange rays. It wasn’t so bad. Clara checked her watch. It was still broken, but judging by the height of the sun, she’d overslept.
Dressing in her dirty combat trousers, a black vest and her camo jacket, Clara regretted not having had room on the motorbike for luxuries such as spare clothes or toiletries. She would have to find those supplies in town, or else scavenge them on the road.
“Get up.” She kicked Andy's bed. He grunted and rolled over, wincing as a sunbeam struck him through the window.
“What ungodly hour is this?”
“About half-ten.”
Andy pulled the sheets over him like a corpse covering itself in its grave. Clara picked up his leather jacket from the floor and tossed it in his face. “I’m going to calibrate for the first time, Andy. Don’t you want to come with me?”
“Later.”
“It can’t wait.”
Andy grumbled, curling up beneath the sheets. She knew he had drunk a lot the night before but normally he could handle the hangover. She stood above him for a moment, reluctant to beg for his company. If he wouldn’t assist her, then she could manage it on her own.
Exiting the inn, Clara took a deep breath of morning mist, evaporating in the sun, carrying the flavour of the soil and nearby forest. The acrid smell of vomit tickled her nose, a patch was splattered on the steps of the inn. Clara avoided the sick as a serving boy ran ahead of her to open her footlocker in the storage shed. Withdrawing her sidearm, she set off into town. The village rose slightly towards the east where the New Patricians’ camp was situated. Along the riverfront, many of the buildings were renovated and occupied. An old dog sunbathing in a ragged basket watched Clara through one lazy as she walked by. Potted herbs shared the sunlight, hanging from the window sill above the dog. In an alleyway, Clara pressed against the wall as an older man and his son squeezed past her carrying a large timber bearing. They dropped it on a stack beside a double-handled log saw. A pile of rubble slouched beside an organised stack of salvaged bricks. A rope pulley hung above them, ready to carry heavy materials up to the second floor. Clara wondered what it would be like to rebuild a house, to have somewhere to live. To live with a family, to have someone else other than Andy for company.
Following the main road, Clara headed towards the marketplace. However, the scene had soon changed. Gone were the stalls displaying military-grade firearms or crude and unusual martial weapons; absent was the well-stocked travelling pharmacy, and the raw materials merchant who sold coils of wire, both barbed and electrical, as well as nets and chains, cement and masonry tools. All that remained were the locals: merchants who crocheted blankets on their doorsteps and repaired scavenged pottery; a bracket hung with rabbit corpses, occupied by a boy too young to join his brothers on the trail; an ancient man, as crooked and rusty as the nails which he plied from scrap timber and hammered back into shape to be reused.
A group of a dozen affluent traders were gathering on the southern road, tying canvases over their wagons, topping their engines with fuel, checking tires and feeding horses. The roads were often safer when travelled in numbers, assuming a group of traders could afford to hire caravan guards. Judging by what stalls were left at the crossroads, Milltown would be a lot quieter without them.
“Hey,” she said, approaching the fuel jockeys’ truck. Two teenage boys dangled their legs off the back while an older man sat in the driver’s seat. “Where are you heading?”
“South,” one boy said. “Altura.”
“Where’s that.”
“South,” he smirked.
“Reckon you can give me a better answer?” she asked the other lad, a little younger.
“Near the sea,” he said, fidgeting with his hands.
“Thanks, kid.” She’d not heard of Altura. It could be good for work, if Milltown and the Patricians didn’t work out. Clara continued east, taking an underpass beneath a railway, and climbing the winding roads upwards, out of the valley’s centre. Further from the riverbank, the old brick buildings wilted into disarray. Grappled by vines, sapped by tree roots, submitted by the weather, many were unoccupied, the spaces between them overgrown. A few well-looked-after buildings stood lonesome amongst the decay. Clearly, Milltown’s population had been vastly reduced since the cataclysm, the same as anywhere in the wasteland. It was a testament to their community that anyone had survived, and they were still striving to rebuild.
A church steeple raised its neck above the town, sat atop an ancient hill, flying the New Patricians flag: a red canvas with three spikes piercing a crescent. Two battlewagons were parked at a Y shaped intersection. One, she recognised to be the Trojan. Its muzzle-like dozer blade and hull had been scrubbed clean of carnivorous plants and zombie entrails since she last saw it in Marsay. The second vehicle was similar in design, except that the rear compartment swung on an axel, and the monstrous face painted onto the front of it resembled more of a canine werewolf to the Trojan’s horned stallion. The driver’s side door was ajar and someone perched on the slate stone wall nearby smoking a cigarette. Clara couldn’t be sure from the distance, but his facial features seemed to be distorted, as though he was caked in makeup. Either he wore padded gloves, or else his hands were inhumanly chunky.
Noticing that Clara was staring, the stranger raised his chin in greeting, and somewhat invitation. Clara turned away, scanning a trail of motorbikes which were leant up against the roadside wall, which led to a third lorry, even larger than the battlewagons, taking up the entire road. Its jet-black hull was marred only by the Patrician’s insignia on the bonet, the black glass of its windshield were like sunglasses, monochrome in contrast to the demonic artwork of the battlewagons.
Clara climbed the steps of the small hill up towards the old church. She passed beneath the ancient brick archway and rasped on the heavy wooden door knocker. Before long, someone opened the doors a crack. A dry, smoky smell wafted outside.
“Who is it?”
“Clara. I have an appointment with Alister.”
“Oh, one minute.” The man left the door. He didn’t invite her in. She waited for a few minutes. Inside the church, she could hear a muffled conversation. A woman’s voice cut through the quiet, sounding distressed. Impatient, Clara pulled the door open and slipped inside.
Sunlight beamed through the stained glass windows, sullied by plumes of soot and tobacco smoke, yet shimmering in moats of dust, as though mixed in with the sullied air were glints of citrine gemstone. The centre of the room had been cleared for a firepit, which smouldered beneath a large bronze cookpot. The church’s pews had been rearranged and dressed in canvases to create a dozen or more dens, inside which slumbered the New Patrician militia, or soldiers, whatever they wanted to call themselves. By the detritus of empty mess tins, they seemed well fed, and certainly well boozed; the scent of spilled alcohol pooled in the cracks of the stone floor, mingling with bodily aromas, which suggested that the group had a lax attitude towards sanitation.
At the back of the church on a raised platform, Alister lounged on a pile of mattresses surrounded by a wall of furniture: draws, pews and tables stacked atop one another, dotted with dripping white candles. Much of the furniture was precariously perched high above his head, seemingly cemented in place by the melted wax. It was a wonder how, or why, they had balanced it like that.
A woman stood before him carrying a cane, dressed in the scavenged rags common of Milltown folk. Her long grey hair ran down her spine–a white streak against her black cloak. She looked small before Alister’s castle of mattresses and furniture, yet stalwart, like a badger against a bear, refusing to back down.
Nearby, a young, unshaven man spotted her. “Who said you could come in?” He hissed in a hushed voice. Rising, he unslung an assault rifle off the bracket of a nearby pew and approached her.
“I’m Augmented,” Clara said. “I heard that means something amongst you lot.”
The guard stopped a few paces before her. “Well, wait outside.”
Clara ignored him. If she had any judge of character, she didn’t think he’d be bold enough to force her to leave, and she had no interest in appearing amenable. Nearby, a bleary eyed face poked out of the nearest den and regarded her. Clara recognised the boy from the night before. His name was Curly, like his ginger hair. If Andy was having a bad hangover, then Curly was on death’s door. He slumped onto his mattress with a groan, head hanging over the side, forehead pressed into the cool paving stone floor.
“In seven months, my daughter will be with a child, then who will look after her?” The woman announced without turning to regard the commotion Clara had caused. “Your man should have thought of the consequences before he seduced her.”
Alister yawned and reached out for a bottle on one of the shelves above his head. As he pointed at it, the bottle shimmied and dropped off the edge as though Alister had pulled on it with an invisible string. The bottle fell into his hands with a splash. Alister swigged it, then addressed the old woman. “What do you want me to do about it?”
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“You must reduce our taxes, please. We will need everything we can to bring a child into this world. And also, I would like payment. I would like him to pay us.”
The woman pointed towards three men lounging together amongst the mattress laden dens, but they gave so little reaction, Clara couldn’t tell whom she’d meant to point out. Clara recognised Knockoff amongst the men, sneering and shaking his head. He had a belt tied around his forearm, while beside him, a companion sterilised a needle in the flame of a lighter. Clara hadn’t taken the man for a junkie, nor any of the Patricians for that matter, they seemed too healthy for that. Perhaps then, the clear liquid inside the cylinder was medicine?
When Clara returned her gaze to Alister, the man was staring directly at her across the church. An unusual sensation tugged at Clara’s stomach, tilting her forwards as though she was light headed. Clara assumed a fighting stance–one foot forward–and took a steadying breath. The feeling passed.
“Let us discuss this another time,” Alister said, rising from the pile of mattresses.
“Please,” the woman went on. “We must begin saving for the baby now, and without a father, who will work to feed it?”
Alister waved at her like swatting a fly. “We will arrange something.”
“That’s what you said last week.”
“Fine,” he snapped, standing above her on the dias so that his feet were at her head height. “What is your family’s name?”
“We are the Hickenses, sir.”
“Okay. Knockoff, compensate the Hickneses.”
The stout man laughed, but when the sternness in Alister’s expression didn’t change, he scowled. “What, really?”
“Yes, really. And see that Craig wears a condom in the future. We have plenty in supply.”
Knockoff’s hesitation spoke volumes–Alister’s decree seemed to have caught him by surprise. “Okay.”
Alister hopped down from the dias with a grace Clara hadn’t expected of the tall man. He landed softly and strode past the old lady, pacing between the row of dens towards Clara. A smile touched his lips as he approached her.
“That’s not good enough,” Lady Hickenses said behind him.
Alister stopped. The smile on his face lingered as he turned away from Clara, but she could hear in the tone of his voice that his merriment had gone. “Excuse me?”
“The man, Craig, should help raise the child. It’s his duty.”
“His duty lies with me,” Alister said.
“This is just my belief,” Lady Hickenses said. “He is responsible for the child. It’s his now. Ours. He is bound to us.”
“Bull-shit.” The voice came from a man stooped on a mattress beside Knockoff. He was about Andy’s age, but much chubbier, with short blonde hair and small eyes.
“Yes you are,” the old woman’s voice rose in pitch. “You lied to her-”
“Control yourself,” Alister snapped. “In my home, you shall behave yourself.”
Lady Hickenses bowed her head, weaving her fingers over her stomach, shrinking inwards as though she’d taken a blow.
“If you’re so inclined,” Alister continued, his voice low. “When we retire to the Golden City, you may join us.”
“Our home is here,” she replied softly.
“Then remain here, and be content.” Alister turned his back on the old woman and approached Clara. He scowled at the rifleman who had failed to stop her entering, and opened his mouth to speak when something tripped him. There was a yelp like a dog from under his foot. Curly rolled over, clutching his skull where Alister had accidentally kicked him. The tall man turned around, fists bawled, his sandy blonde hair rising on an imperceptible draft. The atmosphere was suddenly tense. Moats of dust and soot seemed to be drawn towards Alister’s fuming form, then he unclenched his fists, and the air settled.
“Watch yourself, boy.” Alister turned around to Clara, the humour of it lost on his face. “I’m sorry about that. Please, let us go outside and get some fresh air.”
Clara followed his invitation out of the church and onto the small hill overlooking Milltown. From this vantage, Clara could see all the way over the roofs of buildings, past the trading district and the Haven Inn towards the forest on the opposite side of the valley. A smokestack rose from the trees there; if Clara had her bearings right, that would be the cartographer’s cottage.
“This way.” Alister said, leading her down the church path towards the black lorry. The vehicle filled the villege’s small road, they had to squeeze between it and the slate walls circumventing the church’s embankment to get to the rear. At the back, Alister unlocked the doors and swung them open.
“Huh, what?” A woman swung around in a hammock and looked down at them from inside. “What time is it?”
“Morning,” Alister said. “We’ve got a customer.”
“Christ, I’ll get up then.” The woman swung out of her hammock in her underwear, pulling on a black overall and swilling some mouthwash. She unhooked her hammock from one of the lorry’s internal walls, keeping her sleeping bag inside as she hooked both ends together like a cocoon. Spitting the mouthwash outside, she leant on the lorry’s doors. “Right, come on up then.”
Clara climbed into the lorry. There was a small section separated from the lorry’s main compartment by a chain link fence. Beyond the fence, the ceiling and walls were protected by a foot of padded armour. At the rear of the compartment was a glass cylinder braced by metal beams, etched with complex circuitry. Cables ran from it to a console near the fence, the armoured casing of which was made from corrugated metal.
Clara climbed into the lorry and approached the chain fence as the woman beside her turned the lights on and activated the console. A dull red light illuminated the cylinder from the inside, while dazzling circuitry played across its surface like a pale blue thundercloud.
Device located within operational range, a voice spoke to her. She jumped, it had been so long since the AI had said anything, she had actually forgotten it was there. Commence initial calibration.
Clara’s heart raced. This was it. She’d watched Andy calibrate his powers just a handful of times, but always wondered what the process was like. It seemed to cause him pain; would it hurt like her transformation had? A feeling of liquid fire... but she had only ever dreamed of power it granted, and now it was in her hands, ready to be configured, unlocked, truly made her own.
“I don’t think we finished discussing terms last night,” Alister said. He stood outside the lorry, arms crossed over his denim jacket. “Allow me to be brief. This console is not powered by conventional means. It runs off a living batter, something that came into our possession… must be two years ago now. However, the battery is dying. We need another. In fact, we would appreciate a few more, if that’s possible.”
Alister gazed out over the valley, pausing for thought. Clara may have prodded him for information had she been more on the ball, but she was distracted by the technician booting up the console beside her. The display screen ran with a landslide of code, none of which made sense to Clara. The techie input a command, and the screen blinked, coming alive with the familiar, military-simple user interface.
“That’s essentially why we are here,” Alister said, retrieving her attention. “We traced where the battery had come from to a factory north west of here. I was going to take the boys out there myself last spring, however, as I’m sure you’ve just had the displeasure of witnessing, the management of a town of sapes, even so small and unambitious as this one can prove time consuming, and draining.”
“I see,” Clara said, choosing not to voice her doubts. Silently, she wondered if his alcoholic subordinates had something else to do with their shortfalls, or whether the task of retrieving the battery was as simple as he made it out to be. “Nothing Andy and I can’t handle.”
“Good, one more thing. Once you step inside that chamber, you will be entering into a contract with us. I expect a degree of professional honesty. However, regretfully, I understand that we are not allies, but merely employer and employee.”
“Of course,” Clara said.
“But it doesn’t have to be this way. If you would accept tutelage under me, then I would willingly indoctrinate you into the New Patricians, teach you our ways, help you to get set up within the nation.”
“You don’t need to tell me about contracts,” Clara said, avoiding the proposal. “I’m a merc, we’ve got a code.”
“The code, indeed. And how does failing Old Blue Eyes quest affect your code?”
The question stung Clara, but she didn’t let it show. “Not great. Shit happens.”
“Is that in your code?”
“It is, section fifteen.”
Alister chuckled, then held up a finger. “Quickly answer me this. Did you know what the payload was that we were tasked to retrieve?”
“I could guess,” Clara said.
“Go on.”
“A weapon,” Clara said, considering her answer. The closer to the truth she revealed, the more convincing her lie would be. “A serum.”
“Ding ding,” Alister imitated the sound of a bell. It was uncharacteristically playful of him. Clara wondered if he was acting coy, or genuinely beginning to relax around her. “We were going to take it for ourselves, no hard feelings.”
“None taken. We would have retrieved it for Blue Eyes.”
Alister sighed. “But alas, neither of our trepidations bore any fruit. It is a shame that the serum was wasted on some vagabond’s hands. Perhaps we will visit this Hallow Hill and try to pick up on its trail. However, I fear it is long gone.”
“We tracked the payload for as long as we could,” Clara said. “Until the tracker stopped beeping, and we ran into the vampire. Survival took priority then.”
Alister nodded as his eyes glazed over and he stared at nothing in particular. “My greatest sympathies lie with the scientists who were tasked to create it. They must have spent years reverse engineering the Bulwark technology, and without the guidance of the master network, it’s a miracle that they managed it at all. But, to what degree, we will likely never find out.”
“To what degree?” Clara repeated.
“Much of the Bulwark technology has been replicated, only diluted. It’s something we Patricians occupy ourselves with. However, a brand new Augmentus… A new archetype. I didn’t think it was possible until recently. And I’m still not sure that it is. This technology comes with risks. Untested, it might kill the recipient, or worse, turn them into an abomination.”
Clara’s heart thumped as anxiety doused her veins. But she wasn’t convinced of Alister’s ramblings. Everybody had a theory about everything. There was only one way to know for sure: try it for yourself.
Clara had been there when Andy had first calibrated his Augmentation four years ago, but the memory was a hazy spot in her youth. She’d seen him do so a handful of times since then, she knew the procedure: it was advised to undress before entering the chamber, the conductive gel worked better that way. Leaning over the edge of the cargo compartment, Clara seized the doors and closed them one at a time. “Thank you, Alister.”
The disappointment was subtle on Alister’s face as she shut him outside. Clara entered the caged-off section of the lorry’s compartment and undressed down to her underwear, leaving her clothes in a heap outside the calibration chamber with her firearm on top.
“Ready when you are,” the technician said, sitting beside the computer console.
The door unlocked before her with a decompression hiss, hanging open. Clara stepped inside, trying to force her muscles to relax, and closed the door behind her. The rubber handle felt odd to touch. A sudden sensation of claustrophobia washed over Clara. Despite the cylinder being made of glass, she couldn’t help but feel trapped. Was this a mistake? Should she have forced Andy awake to accompany her? She had been too proud to admit she needed his help, too eager to calibrate to wait for him to get up. Was this a mistake? Could she trust the Patricians to uphold their end of the bargain?
A calming scent filled the chamber, like lavender and wet soil. A mist enveloped her, clinging to her skin. She breathed quickly, the warm air fresh on her breath like mint. A tingle started at the base of her skull, then spread throughout her body, lighting up her nerves and flooding her brain. It vibrated faster, louder, like a revving engine, until it was more powerful than anything else around her, louder than her body, or the outside world. Clara was awash with ecstasy as she felt herself be lifted out of her body, and pulled through a funnel, drifting into an ever dull, ever dark universe, twinkling with stars.