Chapter 8 Alone

Petar arrived at the garden in the afternoon. He had a coat on - autumn was getting on, and the weather was turning colder in the hilly city. Under one arm he was carrying a bundle of papers. He waved at Damien as he walked in. “Hi, Damien.” 

“Hey,” he responded. 

“How’s the garden?” 

He sat back on his haunches, resting his dirt-stained hands on his trousers. “It’s getting colder. Harvesting is close to finished. It’s time to let things lie.” 

“Right…” said Petar, trailing off into silence. He sighed and scratched his head, then flumped into one of the chairs next to the table. He sat there for several minutes while Damien attended to the few plants and weeds poking up through the ground. 

“It’s not the same, is it?” 

Damien shook his head. “It isn’t.” 

“Hard to believe. It’s hard to believe.” 

“Yeah.” 

“But it happens, man. It happened to Alex. It happened to Bob. At least he lived a long life. That’s more than many can say.” 

Damien looked down at the cold, dry earth under his fingers. “Yeah.” 

Petar leaned forward and clasped his hands anxiously. “So…what do you think…Harper’s tonight? A drink for the old man.” 

“Sorry. No.” 

“But why not?” 

“Just…no.” 

He sighed. “I understand Damien, I really do. We all do. We were all close to him, but you two…I mean you had a bond. But the time for mourning has passed. It’s time to move on. Bob wouldn’t want you to be miserable.”

“Ok.” 

Petar’s lips made a thin line, and he hung his head. He picked his papers up off the table and made for the exit. “We’re all waiting for you to come back to us, Damien,” he said, with his back to his friend. He left the lot.

Damien continued gardening, alone. 

Things had changed after Bob’s death. Captain Carline had succumbed to his wounds on the field of battle. He received a military funeral. What had happened to Bob’s body, they never knew - Han said that it was government business, and had left it at that. It was Captain Han, now, so they were in no position to argue. In light of Carline’s death, his lieutenant had resigned in shame at the failure to both defend the district and the resultant loss of life. It was something of a scandal across the country. They had even had Agurts Times reporters come in for interviews. For the most part they had been banned from talking to the press, but Petar knew someone through his family and they had managed to get a column entitled “Heroic Troops Fight for Survival During Zamaii Riots.” But the main story was the shame heaped on Carline and the existing administration of the ZBP - so Han was appointed as new captain on the strength of his career as a military man and his reputation for his effective (if tough) leadership. And indeed, Han had whipped the ZBP into fighting order. Besides frequent patrols in and around the city - including the eastern suburbs - he ordered daily training exercises and weekly meetings with officers. The soldiers joked around that they were actually part of the military now, but they did so with pride because they did feel like a more cohesive unit than they once were. All in all, despite Bob’s passing, the atmosphere around both the barracks and the city as a whole was on the up and up. So it was that the gloom surrounding Damien stuck out like a sore thumb.

“Excuse me?” 

Damien turned around. It was a chilly morning. He was covering his plant beds with plastic sheets to protect them from the brunt of the cold. He wouldn’t be gardening again soon. Standing at the entrance to the lot was a small, old woman. She had a look of concern on her face. She was wearing a big coat that dwarfed her body, making her extremities seem strangely undersized. A wooly scarf half muffled her voice, and a fluffy hat covered her head. 

“Um…are you lost?” He had certainly never seen her before.

“Are you Damien?”

He blinked and stood up to face her. “I am.” 

The old woman’s head moved up and down, sizing him up as if he was livestock for the market. “Aren’t you cold?” 

He looked down at himself. He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and trousers. He supposed he did feel a little chilled. He hadn’t noticed. “A little.” 

“Well I’m not surprised! Half-dressed like that as you are. Do you have a coat?” 

“Back at the barracks.” 

“Is it a winter coat?” 

“Not really. Winter is not so bad in Fierla.” 

“Well you’re in Zamaii now, my dear. Come on then,” she turned to leave. “Let’s get you a proper coat.” 

“Uh…ma’am, who are you?” 

She turned to look at him and put her hands on her hips impatiently. “I’m Susan!” she said, as if she was answering the simplest question she had ever heard. 

“Oh. Right,” Damien replied. He had no idea what to say. She started to walk off. He walked after her, hurrying to catch up. “Wait, please. How do you know my name?” 

She didn’t even so much as break her stride. “Bob told me.” 

“Wait - Bob told you? You know Bob?” 

“Well of course I know Bob,” she said, as she turned down another street. They were near the central square, on a road he had often passed, but never been down. There were a number of shops here, including clothes shops. Susan examined them with a critical eye. “Macsons…no, no, too pricey. Cotton and Fur? Bad stitching…” 

“Uh…how do you know Bob? Are you-” Damien swallowed. “-were you his lover?” 

“Nope,” she said matter-of-factly. “Although when we were young…no, he only had eyes for Amy.” 

“Amy?” 

“Yes. Amy Harrow. Poor girl,” Susan sighed. Then she seemed to get an idea. “Old man Tomavich might have something suitable! A bit old fashioned, but good price, good quality. Not here though. Off we go!” And off she went. Damien once again hurried to keep up. She set a blistering pace. 

“So…Bob, he told you about me?” 

“He did. The old vagabond was quite fond of you.” 

“That-I..I didn’t know that.” 

“Well, now you do.” She stopped in front of another storefront. To Damien’s eye, it looked rather rundown. “Are you sure this is the place?” 

“Of course I am, known Tomavich for years! In we go.” In she went. Damien stood for a moment before following. Inside was an older man who was completely bald. Susan was talking to him and pointing at Damien when he walked in the door. The old man came up to Damien with a measuring tape and took his measurements. “Broad shouldered lad, ain’t cha? What are you, an army boy?” 

“Yes sir.” 

“And where do you come from, sonny?” 

“Fierla, sir.” 

“Oh! Good air down there, I hear.” 

“It’s not bad.” 

“Better than here anyway.” 

“Uh…yes,” Damien answered awkwardly. Those who lived outside of the embrace of the Tritans envied those within. He could see why. It took all of his knowledge of plants to even get rustatoes to grow, and they were one of the hardiest plants around. He had known, of course, from a young age about the world outside of Agurts. But hearing about it and living it had been something else entirely. 

Susan and the old man - he guessed this was Tomavich - picked out a thick brown coat for him. It was only wool, fur would have been way too expensive, but it certainly kept him toasty, even if it was a bit scratchy. After some haggling, they agreed on a price, which Damien paid. Then they left, waving goodbye to Tomavich. Once outside, Susan looked him up and down again. 

“Better,” she pronounced with satisfaction in her voice. “Now we can head over to the westside.” 

“The westside?” Damien asked as Susan once again took off like a shot. “What-Why are we going to the westside?” He had only passed by that part of Zamaii. It was mostly residential, like the east, but there was never any trouble there. “Why are we going there?” 

“It’s where I live,” she answered matter-of-factly. Then she stopped suddenly. She wiped a tear off her face. “Bob was living in a small shack over there. Didn’t he ever show you?” 

Damien shook his head. “No…he never really talked about himself that much, to be honest.” 

She nodded. “That sounds like him. Always thinking of others over himself. Well,” she said, “I thought-well you were someone he trusted, anyway.” This last comment she seemed to be speaking to herself as much as him. 

There was a rickety bus service that looped around Zamaii, and they took it to the westside. It was quieter than near the barracks. There were only a few people moving around, and a lot of them were older. The buildings looked old too, but kept in decent enough condition. “Why don’t more people move here?” he asked. Susan shrugged. “A lot of reasons. Back when I was a girl, there used to be trade with Estancia that ran through here. Now it’s just a desert over there. Niah too, used to have some communities…” She looked at the clouds as if somewhere up there was a window to the past: “My friend Yev was the mayor of one of them. But the rain kept coming. The air got worse. Most decided it wasn’t worth it. Being a Zoner isn’t for the faint of heart.” 

Damien looked at the westside with new eyes. He saw the hope of yesteryear and the worries of today. Would things get better? “People don’t want much, Damien,” Susan remarked. “But they want to be able to live in peace, and to have some small comforts. Maybe they don’t think that Zamaii will be able to provide that in the future. But we’ll see. We’re tougher than we look, you know, us Zamaii locals!” She tilted her head back proudly. Damien smiled. “I can see that.” 

They arrived at a nondescript looking home. Susan knocked on the door and a large man with a big beard opened it. He eyed Damien warily. “Is this the lad, Sue?” 

“It is. The one he always talked about.” 

“Right,” the man humphed. “Well then. Let’s be about this.” 

He led them behind the house where there was an old - if tidy - shack. Next to one side Damien could see that Bob had raked some of the ground and seemed to be in the process of setting up a small garden of his own. His heart broke: all the emotions of that horrible day came welling back. “Are you alright?” The bearded man and Susan were looking at him with concern. He realized he had stopped walking and had just been staring. 

“Yeah. Sorry,” he said. 

The bearded man came up to him and gave him a hug. Damien stood there surprised for a moment, then accepted the older man’s embrace. “He meant a lot to all of us, son,” the man said. Then he turned, sniffing, and fished around in his pockets for the spare key to open the shack door. He held it for Damien. “Well, here we are. Go on in.” 

Damien looked at the two of them. “Aren’t you coming in with me?” 

Susan shook her head. “Bob was a private man, as you say, and we’ve always respected that. But, well-” she looked at the bearded man as if she were at a loss for words. He spoke slowly: “Bob…gave us reason to believe there may be something going on. Something bad. But we wouldn’t know anything about it either way. So we thought we would have you take a look, if you were willing.” 

When he heard what they said, Damien felt very cold, despite the coat. Something going on? Perhaps Bob’s death hadn’t been an accident after all. He walked into the old veteran’s shack without a second thought. 

Far to the south and on the other side of the Tritan Mountains, Senator Jovik Obremark was sitting in a corner of a small cafe on one of Sonceto’s winding cobbled streets. It was midafternoon, and the sun was shining through the wide windows. Outside, people were walking in the streets, going about their business. He was in a part of the old town that ran down the hill from the clifftop and government buildings down to the shoreline. There were few cars here, mostly just dark government cars taking senators up and down the hill. It was peaceful; one of his favorite places in the city. He enjoyed coming down here, sipping on a cup of tea, reading some papers, and people watching. A woman passed by in a colorful dress and high-heels carrying a wrapped box under one arm, as if she were attending a party. An older couple bickered as they walked, even while firmly holding each others’ hands. He smiled at them, thinking of his relationship with his own wife. Then his smile disappeared as he noticed a golden-haired man sauntering directly towards the cafe. Of course. He wasn’t here for leisure. He had almost forgotten. The man walked into the cafe and sat down opposite him. A waitress came up and handed him a cup. Obremark poured tea. 

“Bob is dead. I received a report this morning. He was killed in the Zamaii Riots.” 

The golden-haired man almost jumped out of his seat. “Dead?!”

“Yes, and keep your voice down,” said Obremark, quickly scanning the room. It was mostly empty. Two women and a man sat at a table on the other side of the cafe gossiping. They paid no attention to Obremark or his guest. 

King sat down and rested his head in his hands. The tea sat next to his elbow, forgotten, quietly going cold. “We should have known.” 

Now it was Obremark’s turn to be surprised. “You should have…?”

“We picked up a lot of chatter from Gafia after the MMR passed through Zamaii.” 

“Chatter from Gafia?” 

“Yeah. The Syndicate received a very large contract.” 

“The Syndicate! The terrorist organization? The assassins?” He shivered.

“That’s right.” 

“You think Bob was killed by Syndicate assassins?” 

“I think it’s a strong possibility. We couldn’t figure out who they were targeting. But we know the PTL was involved.” 

“The PTL! Baluard’s Teeth, this just keeps getting worse. Why would the PTL be involved?” 

“No idea. But a Clan Mianzi Shadow was known to have approved the mark. And paid for.”

“A Clan Whosit What?”

“Clan Mianzi. They’re the head family of PTL public relations. What most people don’t know is they also manage the PTL’s espionage.”

“But why in all hells would the PTL want Bob dead? And how does it tie in to Broz?” 

“We know Broz has been having meetings with quite a few PTL representatives. But to go so far as to have Bob killed?” King shook his head. “We’re missing something here. Which is why we’ve decided to leave. I was coming here to tell you. This…the commander’s death only means we need to hurry.” 

“Leave?”

“That’s right. We’re splitting up. Jack and Steel are going to go through Niah to Omanga. It’s been far too long since we’ve had eyes on the empire. We have no idea what they’re up to. And with all that’s been going on, we can’t rule they didn’t have a hand in this.” 

“And you?” 

“I’m going to Gafia. I was going to investigate this chatter before and the PTL, but now…” He paused for a moment, then looked up, fury etched cleanly over his handsome face. “I’ll find who killed Bob. They’ll talk. And then they’ll die by my hand.” The ferocity with which he uttered these last words left a lasting impression on Obremark. He was reminded of a dog he had raised as a child: once it had latched onto something it wanted, it wouldn’t let go for love nor money. 

“Well…I’ll do what I can to support you. I can have some funds directed your way, discreetly, of course…”

“No need,” King smiled. “We’ve lived in luxury these last few years, but it never suited any of us. We’ll manage.” 

“Right then,” Obremark said. There was an awkward pause. Then he held out his hand. King shook it warmly. “It’s been a pleasure working with you.” 

“And you, Senator. And good luck,” he said, standing up to leave. His tea sat on the table, having long gone cold. As he pushed open the door, the door-chime tinkling melodically, he looked back at Obremark. “You’re going to need it.” 

And with that, he was gone. Obremark sat for a long time in the cafe, staring out the window into space. His allies were off on their own missions, and he was alone in the city. He would need to step up, find others he could trust, and unravel whatever tangled plot Broz was weaving. He had been too late to do anything for Bob. Would he be too late for his country?

Damien didn’t know what exactly he had expected from Bob’s quarters. He supposed that he had thought that someone of Bob’s fame and experience would have chambers decorated with awards and trophies of successful campaigns. In reality, the interior of the shack was ordinary, even spartan. It was a single room. In one corner, a bed in a wooden frame with a simple wool blanket was pushed against the wall. Next to the head of the bed was a small bedside table on which stood a framed picture and a book of illustrations from an artist named Kit. At the foot of the bed was a simple metal chest. Besides the bed, there was a desk and chair next to the window, looking out at the beginnings of the garden. On top of the desk were a few simple tools and a couple of pens and pencils. At the other end of the room, near the door where Damien was standing, there was another table upon which sat some cooking tools: a portable stove, a pot and pan, a plate, bowl, spoon, and fork. They were all clean and neatly stacked. Besides all of this, there was a large wardrobe that stood opposite the kitchen area. At the back of the room, there was another door. Damien started there: the door opened out into the lot behind the shack, and a small privy. There was a small washtub positioned just outside next to the door. He closed the door again and surveyed the room. 

He started with the picture and book next to the bed. The picture was of a young man and woman. The man had his arms around the woman’s shoulders. Both were grinning happily. Inside the book were maps and illustrations of the artist’s journeys around the Acid Rain World, as well as some small notes from Bob. He decided the book would be worth taking with him, though it contained only a few small remarks here and there. He tucked the volume into one of his new coat’s many pockets. An inspection of the chest proved less fruitful: it was packed neatly with spare clothes, a first aid box, a toolbox, ropes, and other sundry goods, but no clues as to what had happened to him. He turned to the desk. Sitting at the chair, he opened the large sliding draw underneath the desktop. Nothing. Feeling frustrated, he slammed it shut. But then he heard something: a thunk, as of a large object hitting the back of the draw. He opened the draw again, and saw nothing. He closed it slowly. Nothing. He opened it again, then closed it very fast. Nothing. He mused for a moment. Then he opened it very fast and closed it very fast. Again he heard a thunking sound. He tapped on the wood bottom of the draw and was rewarded with a hollow knock in return. He used the tools on Bob’s desk to remove the draw’s false bottom. Therein he found a beaten leather journal. He took it out and began leafing through it. It was written in the same handwriting as the scribbled notes in the corner of the artist’s book, so he guessed it was Bob’s. But he couldn’t read it. The words were all jumbled together strangely. Maybe some sort of code? He felt himself tense with excitement. Whatever it was, it was certainly a clue. If Bob had gone through all of this effort not only to hide the journal itself but also to write the contents in code, then it had to be important. He slipped it into his coat pocket alongside the artist’s book and carefully replaced the draw inside the desk. 

He then went through the metal chest again, taking out everything piece by piece to see if he had missed any secret. He had not. Finally, he took on the wardrobe. Opening it up, he found hanging up Bob’s extra combat gear. It wasn’t much different than what he had back at the barracks, but he went through it regardless. Inside the pocket of one of the belt-packs he found a very small crumpled waterproof pouch. He looked at it for a moment in bemusement. Had he seen this before? Outside, the sun was going down. As the light struck it orange and gleaming, he remembered: when they had first met, Bob had showed it to him. He opened it up. Tucked inside were a few of Bob’s precious coffee beans. He recalled the old man talking of his dream of a world where everyone could drink coffee if they wanted to. He took the pouch with him. There was little else to take away from the rest of the wardrobe, but he decided to pocket an extra sidearm and knife. He decided it was never bad to have a little extra protection. Just in case. 

When he came out, the bearded man and Susan were there waiting for him. 

“Well?” Susan asked. 

“Uhhh…,” Damien responded. He thought about what to tell them and what not to tell them. He wasn’t sure how much they wanted to know. “Well…”

The bearded man stepped in. “Probably best if you kept it to yourself, son.” 

“Um…right. Sorry.” 

“No need to apologize,” said Susan. “It’s what Bob would have wanted. Now,” she turned around, eyes already focused on the next destination. “It’s time to eat. You look like you haven’t had a good, home-cooked meal in a long time. I’m quite a good chef, I’ll have you know. Mac, you’ll join us?” 

Mac ruffled his beard nervously. “Sorry, Sue, the wife’s got plans already for us. If you’d like to join-” 

“Oh no, you’ve got enough mouths to feed as it is. Well, come on then Damien, it’s just you and me! And my useless son, if he decides he’s hungry enough to show up. Come on, it’s this way!” And she started out of the lot. Damien looked at the man she called Mac. He smiled widely and chuckled. “Better hurry lad. She’s not prone to slowing down.” 

“I noticed,” Damien grinned. Then he went after her. He could feel his stomach grumbling. He was hungry. He would join Susan for dinner and then head straight back to the barracks to discuss what he had found with Schertling, Petar, and Djemai. He was sure if they just put their heads together, they could figure this out. They were going to decipher Bob’s journal, solve the mystery, and then avenge their friend’s death. Whoever had done this to Agurts’ hero - his mentor - wouldn’t get away with their crimes. He would make sure of it. 

In the Zamaii Border Patrol barracks, a telephone was ringing. A man picked up the receiver at once. “Yes sir?” 

“News of Bob’s death has spread quickly. How? I thought I told you to keep this quiet.” 

“Sorry sir. Our-our men weren’t the first to find his body.” 

“And who was?” 

“It was the squad he had been posted in, sir.” 

“Hm. Is that one of your units?” 

“Yes sir.” 

“How long did they work with the old man?” 

“Since he was posted here, sir.” 

“I see.” 

“They shouldn’t be any trouble, sir. They’re just kids.” 

“I don’t like leaving any loose ends, Captain.”

“...yes sir.” 

“I’ve had an idea.” 

“Oh?” 

“My secretary will send you the details. You just follow commands. You’re a soldier, after all. You should be able to do that at least.” 

“Of course sir.” 

“Good. This has gone on long enough. I’m ending it.” 

The phone went dead. Han sat in his office for a good while longer, alone, contemplating his future.