Men of Stone: The Faded Earth, #3

1

In the century after the Collapse, time became far less important as a concept than at any point since the dawn of the modern age. An outsider may have considered this shift in attitude an artifact of the thirty or so years it took the Collapse to happen, which began slow and sped up at something approaching a geometric rate. The monstrous Pales infected by the Fade broke the spine of human civilization but its death throes took decades to end in a whimper.

During the last frantic decade, everything possible was done to ensure those immune to the Fade survived. Had you asked the brave infected spending their last months and years of sanity crafting a refuge for the immune what time felt like to them, they would have all given the same answer.

Fast. Perhaps compressed.  Flowing by too quickly for the work that needed to be done, certainly.

The philosophical among the survivors might have said the general ambivalence toward time after the doors were locked behind them was a reflexive push against those urgent years of struggle. The walls were built, the technologies in place. There was work to do within those walls encircling the vast island, but it was of the day-to-day variety. Basic survival. There were no parties to attend, no business openings, no great next project. Only survival. Only the next day.

The damage done to civilization was matched by the wounds humanity inflicted on its world. Weapons of every type were tried against the Pales, who were too numerous and spread out to be destroyed by nuclear weapons or exotic machines the size of specks of dust. The seasons still came, but with far less drastic differences between them. The planet still spun, and if a few tens of thousands of people remembered they were but small creatures drifting through the void clinging to a stone, then the realization humbled them. It was human ambition and no small measure of hubris which began the end, after all. A sense of proportion and an honest idea of how important human beings were in the grand mechanics of the universe were good lessons to learn in the face of self-imposed extinction.

All that considered, was it any surprise that time became less important to those who carried on? The world lacked the bustle and urgency of even the early industrial revolution, much less the international space race that took place in the twenty years leading up to the Collapse. Survival was achieved—or rather a state of continuous survival was instituted. The Fade still existed along with the Pales.

And human nature never changed. Even when the clock was no longer given its historical due.

THREE MONTHS, BECK said as she flopped unceremoniously into a seat across from the most powerful person in her world. Three months of waiting for the other shoe to drop, of putting out fires—sometimes actual fucking fires—and we still have no idea when this is going to end. I’m tired, Commander.

At eighteen, Beck was less than a year into her service with the Deathwatch but felt three times her age. Slim, but muscular from the regular and brutal fitness regime required by the Watch, she was a striking figure with her short black hair and pleasant features. Or she would have been if not for the air of exhausted unhappiness surrounding her. She not only felt older, but looked it. Too many sleepless nights as one emergency or another pulled her from fitful rest before it could do her any good. Far too much responsibility and stress for someone her age.

High Commander Fiona Stein did not study Beck silently as her predecessor would have. The late High Commander Bowers was equal parts politician and soldier, a man content to hold his reactions at bay to gather as much information as possible. Stein was not crafted in his image, though she had been his trusted right hand.

Tell me something I don’t know, kid, Stein said with an equally put-upon expression. You think this job is easy? At least you don’t have to do the official stuff. You’re out there in the streets actually working. I’m stuck her wrangling people who don’t like having their power taken away. Dealing with politicians is like herding cats. I’ll trade you.

Beck knew the older woman would have, too. Instantly, if the trade were possible. Bowers had played a cruel trick on them both by leveraging their sense of loyalty to ensure they did their duty no matter how much they might hate it.

He sacrificed himself to give the Movement, the secret organization led by Bowers to push their society forward out of stagnation, a fighting chance. In the face of such an action, both felt compelled to see the vision through.

Which was not the same thing as enjoying the work.

Bowers made sure Beck had all the tools she needed to handle the more shady gray areas of the Movement’s operations and goals by enshrining her profile in the Mesh network with total administrative access. She was Stein’s equal in that regard. In a society built on the back of automation, surveillance, and technology in general, Beck was functionally a shadow version of the High Commander.

If only it helped more often.

The last three months have been tough, I know, Stein said. Her attempt at a comforting and sympathetic tone missed. Badly. It wasn’t that she lacked those qualities; Stein was a great person with a lot of warmth. The context was the problem. She thought of Beck as a subordinate, and she was, but was trying to treat her like an equal. Before Bowers’s last gift—or possibly curse depending on how Beck felt that day—she would have dressed the young woman down and told her to get the hell over it. She almost wished Stein would. Being treated deferentially because of the power Bowers bequeathed her felt a dozen kinds of wrong.

So Beck interrupted. No, the last three months have been a fucking nightmare, Commander. Let’s be honest about it. Jason Keene and his little private army are still holed up in the Block, for all we know drawing in new soldiers from the rest of the Protectorate. Which isn’t just a wild guess, but a probability based on my team’s analysis of the disappearances caused by all this unrest.

Stein’s eye twitched at the corner, a sure sign the pressure inside her was building. Good. Beck wanted to see some of the Warden she had been before accepting the will of the congress of Wardens to elevate her above them. That Stein was happy to have a drink with you and talk about especially memorable Pale kills. That Stein went on patrol runs whenever she could get away with it.

That Fiona Stein had been a vital human being with some joy in her heart however little bullshit she might tolerate. The woman sitting across from Beck now felt like a stranger.

You know my position on this, Stein said. "Unlike every other person in the Protectorate, you get to question me about it, and I give you answers. But none of those answers have changed since the last time you brought this up, which was yesterday."

Beck sighed. Yeah, okay. I get it. We have only so many resources and have to choose between digging Keene out of his fortress or keeping the Rezzes from tearing themselves apart. I agree. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to bitch about it now and then.

The ghost of a smile brushed Stein’s lips. You and me both, sister. When I find out who released the raw intel from the Cabal, I’m going to skin them alive.

Beck normally felt an instinctive urge to act as a counterweight to Stein, which generally involved the reflex to question her and her plans. A necessary voice of critical observation. In this, however, she agreed completely.

I want to know how they got it in the first place, Beck said. I mean, I know for sure it wasn’t from me. The only copy I had never left my body, and I made sure it was encrypted when I didn’t need to use it for anything.

Stein grimaced. We’ll probably never know. I doubt anyone in the Movement did it, but it would have taken one careless mistake by the Science team that broke the encryption on Bowers’ copy for it to fall into the hands of someone other than our people.

Yeah, Beck reluctantly agreed. I don’t know that it doesn’t matter who did it, but you’re not wrong. Punishing them won’t fix the damage they did.

In the wake of Bowers’s death, Beck used an edited version of files stolen from Keene’s own shadowy group to turn the nation against their former Protector. If there were lies in the curated data Beck released, they were of omission only. Whoever got their hands on the original raw file hadn’t seen, or perhaps cared about, the danger in dumping the whole thing onto the Mesh for everyone to see.

Now the people knew Keene and his Cabal spent decades infecting citizens with the now-defunct Fade B, sometimes killing off entire Rezzes full of them. These were carefully selected. Places where the population had a high number of potential dissenters or troublemakers, usually. In a population the size of the Protectorate, ten thousand here and twenty thousand there weren’t exactly rounding errors, but neither were they brutal blows to the genetic diversity of the species.

What they were was population control. Deliberate stagnation meant to retain the status quo. Keene was a vile, murderous piece of shit, but Beck had no doubt he was also a true believer in what he had done. His conviction that keeping the Protectorate as it was in perpetuity represented the only way to ward off the chaos that came with evolving societies was real and diamond hard.

Now everyone knew about those genocides, and the populace couldn’t seem to stop itself from splitting into factions.

Beck laid her head back and closed her eyes. She was too tired to sleep. Too many thoughts wandered through her exhausted brain, and their inability to find a logical conclusion kept her awake. That was who she was—or at least who she had always been until recently. Beck looked at a system and taught herself to understand it, then fixed what was wrong within.

Trying to keep people from killing the other half of the population might be a little beyond my skills, she mused, not opening her eyes. We’re trying to defuse these situations, but something isn’t working. People aren’t afraid of us the way they used to be. Which normally I’d be fine with, but when respect won’t work...

Hard for people to be afraid when they’re that angry, Stein said. A big part of the problem is that now they all know they could have died at any time. People out there know the Rez they lived in for years could have burned up like a torch if a Fade B bloom hit them. Think about the first time you went into any kind of combat. Probably during your training when they put you in the arena with a Pale. You were angry afterward, right?

Beck opened her eyes and looked at Stein. Sure. No warning at all, just sent me and my team in there with nothing and expected us to kill one of those things.

Stein raised an eyebrow. And later you realized something important, didn’t you? Something the Watch knows that every person should, but most choose not to.

Beck looked off to one side. Oh, she knew the lesson. She knew it well before going into that room and fighting for her life. It was one written into her bones, her heart, and her soul if such a thing existed. Scribed there when her family was taken by Fade B. All of them.

She answered as Stein expected, not wanting to argue the fine details or brush any harder against that particular scar. The instructors wanted us to understand that it could happen to anyone at any time. Not necessarily a Pale attack. Just...death. Any moment could be our last for a ridiculous number of reasons.

Stein nodded. That’s what the Trads and the Dians are fighting about, and what’s drawing everyone else toward them. Both groups are extreme reactions to shock and fear on different ends of the spectrum. That terror at what could have been, the anger at what many of them did actually lose, isn’t something we can control. At best we might be able to direct it. I’m doing what I can from this office. It’s up to you and your people to do the rest.

No pressure or anything, Beck muttered.

2

It was rare for her team not to travel with her nowadays, and this trip was the rule rather than the exception. It was also the first day back for Wojcik, who had taken a number of bullets for Beck months earlier. A partially regrown lung was actually the easier of his injuries to heal. The shattered bones in his left arm required surgery and reinforcement with an internal lattice of carbon fiber.

It’s totally better than it was before, Wojcik said over the team channel, flexing his armored limb as the transport trundled across the badlands. Technically this makes me a cyborg.

It does not, Lucia Vargas, another team member said. She and Wojcik were an item these days, and while Beck generally approved she had worried from time to time that it would alter team cohesion. The fear proved to be baseless. When on the clock—which was exhaustingly often—they were as professional as ever. Which said a lot about Lucia and not much about the big man.

No, seriously, Wojcik said. The lattice is hooked onto my muscles and nerves. It has a little control chip that’s powered by the movement of my body. It’s helping with the nerve damage. I’m a cyborg now. How awesome is that?

Beck let the conversation wash over her as they rode the open-backed transport toward Canaan. Their job on this trip was to safeguard Parker Novak on his twice-monthly sojourn to the Remnant community. His cure for the Fade was imperfect thanks to the delivery system needed to make it work. The complex soup of enzymes, artificial proteins, and targeted gene therapy would have been introduced into the bodies of the infected by a virus in the old world. The folly in such a move was how the Fade itself had spread across the planet and caused the collapse, however, necessitating a different solution.

Instead the cure—which wasn’t one on a technical level since it killed the vast majority of Pales—had to ride in on a piece of nanotechnology very difficult to produce even with the advanced capabilities available to the Protectorate. It would take ages to ramp up production in the sort of clean facilities currently making the things, so manufacturing the cure out here in the wild was impossible.

So Parker had to make house calls. Since he was still a state secret, he needed a team from the Movement to guard him and get him there safely.

From the cab of the transport, Jeremy Grayson chimed in, his voice grumpy. They rotated through who drove every time they made the trip, and her stoic second in command disliked being at the controls. We’re five minutes out. Which couldn’t be more appreciated since I’m tired of hearing all of you babble at each other.

Stop being a petty bitch, Jen Okuda said from her perch on the back end of the flatbed. We’re all keeping our eyes open and doing our jobs. Talking just passes the time.

I’m not being petty, Jeremy insisted, though no one bought it.

Right, Jen said, stretching out the word. That’s why the only time you complain about the chatter is when you’re stuck driving. Because you’re not petty.

Beck happened to be looking at Jeremy just then and saw the shift in the set of his armored shoulders through the window. She heard the first rumble of real anger in his voice—rare enough to be worrisome—as he started to speak.

That’s enough, Beck said in a measured voice, overriding the channel. We’re almost there, and I don’t want our new friends seeing us snipe at each other like children. Canaan is already on the fence about our new relationship thanks to the Trads and Dians making us look terrible. We don’t need them to see Watchmen giving each other shit. Have a fistfight later if you want. For now put your game faces on.

Beck glanced at the last member of the team, who as always observed everything and rarely spoke. The rest of you could take a lesson from Tala, she said. She knows when to keep herself professional.

The rebuke was as gentle as Beck could make it. The constant back and forth wasn’t a bad thing. It had existed in their unit since the six of them went through training together. It was like the hum of a suit of armor or the ticking of a clock; a sign of normal function. All systems green.

Only the context had changed. The stakes they worked under were higher now. The costs for failure were far worse. Beck loved her team, an admission she had taken far too long to make even to herself, and she feared for what might happen to them if something terrible happened on their watch. It made her more strict than before society had begun bucking against the revelations thrown at them.

They approached the cliff leading down to Canaan and slowed to a stop. The thin wooden rods with bright green pennants marking the farthest the transport should travel loomed in the distance. Jeremy brought them to a stop and everyone, even Parker in his borrowed set of armor, took up their assigned packages and gear. Every trip was used to supply Canaan with materials they couldn’t easily get out in the badlands if they could acquire them at all. This had the deliberate effect of making the place a more powerful hub of trade. The Protectorate asked for nothing in return but goodwill. So far this only meant sending an emissary to Manhattan so Stein could try to work out some sort of diplomatic framework between the two nations.

Beck set an enormous box of polymer fabric on her armored shoulder and picked up a bag stuffed with weaponized darts full of the Fade cure with her free hand, then made her way down the switchbacks to Canaan itself. The path leading down the cliff had been reinforced and widened where possible in recent months, which she was grateful for.

When she reached the bottom, she saw Eshton first and the man being held captive in a cage second.

HE WAS DIRTY AND CLOTHED in rags. Scars crisscrossed his body nearly everywhere skin was visible. Some were obviously cuts, but the rest Beck couldn’t identify. They were too regular for burns but had that same shining quality.

The cage was new, not shoddily built but clearly not professional work. It was eight feet on a side and contained a sleeping pallet, a small table with the remains of a bowl of food sitting on it, and a pitcher of water. The man himself sat with knees drawn up to his chest, eyes scanning around constantly as if looking for danger.

Eshton stood nearby, not wearing his armor. He stayed in Canaan irregularly but fairly often, serving as a diplomat for the Protectorate but in practical terms he was more of a guard dog for the people here. During the months Beck and Eshton were exiled here, he’d developed a love for the place. And, as it turned out, a love for her. She suspected the seeds of that were planted long before they came here.

Want to tell me why you’re keeping this guy in a cage with a roof on it out in the open? Beck asked as she approached. And why you’re out here alone? We have a lot of cargo to hand off, and we’re not allowed to take our suits inside. I’m not planning to spend all day playing runner.

Hey, Eshton said, looking up at her. I missed you too. How have you been?

Beck released the seals on her helmet and pulled it off. Yeah, yeah, I missed you. What’s with the prisoner?

Complicated, Eshton said. As for why people aren’t out here to meet you, they thought it would be better for me to explain this first just in case you and the team got...upset.

Beck shook her head ruefully. They really don’t understand us at all, do they? No Watchman would get violent without cause. Unless they were planning to attack us...

Not at all, Eshton confirmed. They weren’t sure how you’d react to this. He waved a hand at the caged man. He’s not a prisoner, exactly. He’s a Pale. Or was one.

Beck heard gasps all across the team channel, though only because she hadn’t removed the earpiece connected to her suit’s comm system. A glance back showed the rest of them in loose formation behind her. You’re kidding.

I’m really not, Eshton said. He showed up about a week ago, apparently. Can’t speak, at least not in a language we know, though we’ve suspected for a while now the Pales have been developing their own. He’s not violent any more than the average person, but no one wants him inside the walls.

"And they don’t want him out there alone, so they put him in