chapter one
The Capital was a magnet for evil. It was a place where most life was low. It was a place of much pain and misery. If you considered the world after Collapse as a sick person, the Capital was a sick head.
World Compassion did indeed consider the world sick. And considered themselves medics. To treat the world’s disorders they had to be able to observe and minister to the head, or Capital. Hence Central Temple. Sited right in the middle of the Capital, Central Temple was a fortified care and relief centre, operated by monks. World Compassion was an organisation of monks. Buddhists.
When Central Temple telephones stopped being answered, they became worried. What did they do? They were monks. They held a general congress and they prayed.
And their prayers were heard.
Who hears prayers? Psychics, celestials, deifics, supernaturals, angels, devils, all kinds of people. Including bhoddisatvas. The enlightened who have elected to remain within samsarra, the cycle of death and rebirth, out of compassion, to help others. Are they separate entities, or simply different aspects of the Buddha Nature? Is there a difference? Such questions, though interesting, were unimportant to the prayer congress. What was important was that World Compassion did not require an entity, or aspect, primarily concerned with Expounding The Way. Or one primarily concerned with Preserving the Innocence of Children. Oh no. World Compassion needed somebody to go into the Capital, find out what was wrong at Central Temple and then mend it. There would be bullets to be dodged, bottlings to be avoided and faces to be smashed in. There would be violence. But the Buddha Nature is everywhere and in all things, even in violence. In the broken finger, in the kicked-in head, in the kneecapping. Its name is No-number Zen, and it hears prayers.
No-number Zen appeared in the midst of the prayer congress seated in a quarter lotus on an empty chair. Had he been standing the crown of his head would have been some six feet and ten inches from the ground. The dark hair on his head had been cropped very close. No comb had been attached to the clippers used for that job. What is generally referred to as a no-number crop.
Across his forehead was tattooed, or rather scratched, in faded dark blue “The Buddha”. Below this, between average eyebrows, was scratched the sacred heart of Buddha .
His brows were heavy and his eyes glaring. His face was long. He had high cheek bones, cheeks not sunken, but taut, tough. It was a face which smiled but little. No-number Zen had a heart full of compassion, and the world was a troubled place. His chin was stubbled, his neck strong, but not thick.
He was wearing a vinyl jacket, light green with orange quilted lining and a plain white cotton T-shirt. Underneath, his torso was muscular, but without too much bulk. A fighter’s body, but with shoulders wide for carrying the world’s pain.
His large hands had pronounced knuckles. On the knuckles of the left hand were scratched the letters F, O, R, M. Across the right V, O, I, D.
The braces he wore were an accessory, not required to hold up the denims. No-number had long legs. Kicker’s legs. They reach a long way. All the way to your head maybe. His kicks were powerful and he always wore heavy DM boots.
Overall he looked hard, definitely not a wanker. Not the sort you’d try to spare change. Although perhaps you should. One thing about No-number Zen - he’s got a heart of gold. But knuckles of steel.
Upon his arrival Zen became aware of the situation immediately, since he knows the thoughts of others in his presence, entering a room full of people with only one thing on their minds makes this obvious to him. Nevertheless he allowed them to explain the situation in case it helped them on the path to enlightenment.
Zen was a formidable warrior but decided to gather still more manpower. Some heroes he decided.
“It’s going to be a big bastard of a row.” he told the assembly. “I’ll get some lads together.”
“Any of us is glad to help, to come with you. Some of us have attained some ability.” The abbot leapt in. “For example, Facet of Infinity, my own student has the power to-”
“Shut it!” Zen showed annoyance to create humility in the foolish abbot. “Fucking pineapple chunks and a slice of lemon floating in the creamy head of a pint of warm bitter.”
Zen was saying that the abbot’s eagerness and desire was incorrect. Possibly even his encouraging his student to acquire magical abilities was being called into question. Some of the monks looked confused, some annoyed, one monk laughed and this pleased No-number Zen.
“Right I’m fucking off.” He rose from his quarter lotus. Some of the monks rose to leave also but Zen turned and shouted “Fucking stay here and pray right? Homage to the Buddha.” They chorused this last phrase back and he bowed before leaving.
Outside the prayer congress, No-number Zen found himself in the suburbs. The suburbs weren’t as bad as the Capital. Nowhere near. Normal people still lived and worked in houses in the suburbs. There was still public transport in the suburbs. It was fully automatic and didn’t run into the Capital but then you can’t have everything.
No-number Zen took an automatic Overground rail train to find his first hero, Witch Carter. Physical journeys are good for the soul.
The Overground rail trains had been made using Extreme Power Efficiency Technology, which is one reason they still ran. They were actually economic on ticket sales. Also they were fully automatic. Also they were designed to be maintained by contractors. When something wore out an automatic problem report was generated and a contract written out. The Overground company didn’t pay for maintenance itself because the computer (the only remaining member of staff) had calculated that this was uneconomic. And unnecessary, since on popular routes the passengers clubbed together to pick up maintenance bills. Unpopular routes didn’t run.
A train would only leave a station when enough tickets along its route had been purchased to cover its power cost. It was possible, when a train was on its way to pick up passengers, for a train to be nearly empty, although the train would only stop at stations where at least one passenger was embarking or disembarking.
So it was that No-number Zen found himself in a carriage occupied by only himself and two others.
Zen looked at the two skinhead boys, pale imitations of himself in appearance. Their thoughts were of hate. No-number could see their crimes plainly: hate, intentional ignorance and stupidity, acceptance of the herd instinct. They walked towards him, trying to look tough. They sat down opposite, still trying to look tough. No-number thought they might be brothers. The one he guessed was older (about sixteen) spoke to him.
“All right?”
“Yeah. All right?” Zen made the formal reply.
“Yeah.” The boy completed the sequence, paused, then continued. “There’s usually darkies on this train. Were going to beat them up but none got on. Some might get on later. ’S the only reason we’re staying on.”
“What d’you beat ’em up for?” asked Zen aggressively, to plumb the depth of their sin.
The skinhead boy looked perplexed.
“’Cos they’re black and they fucking stink.” He replied angrily. His brother tittered as he continued. “What are you? Some kind of darkie lover?”
“I love everything and everybody.” No-number broke in forcefully, leaning forward in his seat, pointing and glaring at the boy. The aggressive confrontation had started certain chemical releases in the boy’s brain. Therefore the boy was now in what Attack theory calls the “open state”. No-number had hoped to implant the phrase “love everything and everybody” whilst the brain was in this receptive state. Further, he had hoped that his obvious superiority would prevent the boy from starting a fight.
“He’s a fucking queer.”
“A queer with a crop.”
No-number Zen consoled himself that it had been a long shot anyway. At their age, as was typical, their crimes were not developed beyond the reach of normal reincarnation, now Zen’s only option.
The older boy combined a standing up move with launching a kick aimed to stamp No-number’s groin into his seat. Knowing the thoughts of others gave Zen a definite combat edge. Before the boy’s foot could gather momentum, Zen had half risen and grabbed the heel and toes with his hands. He lifted and twisted, throwing the boy off balance. The boy fell in front of his brother, also standing by then. The elder tried to rise as the younger stumbled into him. No-number, risen fully, had enough space to kick, a fast solid one to the elder boys guts made him collapse back to the floor.
The younger boy backed away, Zen followed him, stepping over his brother, glaring and said “Form is void.”, his tone suggesting that the younger boy should repeat the phrase. The boy backed into the end of the carriage, No-number advanced, again saying “Form is void.” In reply, the boy shouted and rushed at Zen who responded with a very fast, and perfectly timed back-thrust kick. It caught the boy on the sternum, stopping him in his tracks.
“Form is void.” No-number insisted.
“Fuck you” the boy coughed, blood on his lips, clutching his chest and crouching in pain.
No-number turned to kick the elder boy, who was attempting to rise. The upper arm this time, which went dead but did not break.
The younger boy took the opportunity to launch himself, desperately, at No-number’s back. No-number turned and struck with straight fingers into the boy’s windpipe. The boy fell, gasping and clawing for air, then died.
Zen returned his attention to the older boy. Sitting on the boy’s back, Zen leaned his right fore-arm heavily on the boy’s shoulders and reached around for the boy’s chin with his left hand. He turned the boy’s gurgling head and looked into its left eye.
“Form is void.”
“Form is void.” the boy repeated. Zen snapped his neck with a twist as the last syllable finished.
“and void is form. Homage to the Buddha.” Zen intoned, sad because the younger boy had turned out to be the more evil.
Witch Carter’s suburban house was all locked up and shuttered when No-number Zen arrived, but he rang the entry phone anyway. It was early afternoon and Witch Carter was ready for him.
Would anything less be expected of a novo-tarot magician? The novo-tarot deck was similar to the traditional, but with Polaroid’s instead of printed cards. Witch Carter had shot the photographs making up her own deck herself. The best way. A few days before Zen came calling, she had dealt herself, in a daily spread amongst other cards, the six of swords (A motorbike is cruising down a tree-lined motorway. The stocks or barrels of six sub-machine guns protrude from the panniers.) and the knight of cups (A pensive man’s face and it’s reflection in the surface of the dark beer in a half empty plastic pint skiff.) which meant, to her, a journey with another person, probably a man. In a supplementary small spread, for more specific details, she had dealt the seven of wands (A person dressed in ragged and dusty clothes, face covered by goggles and a scarf, is standing in a fighting crouch on a low pile of rubble, holding a pick-axe handle in one hand. The other arm is held out for balance. Around the rubble are ranged six figures, dressed in pale red uniforms, similarly posed, wielding clubs and plastic shields.), the High Priestess (In the middle of a room full of injured people, some leaning, some supine, a nurse standing on a chair is changing a light bulb.), the knight of swords (Looking down into a street, an armoured vehicle can be seen advancing. An overexposed flash obscures the muzzle of its turret mounted light cannon. It appears slightly blurred by its forward motion.) and the Hermit (In a cardboard lean-to, at night, an old tramp sits cross legged, meditating. The only illumination is from a small camping stove next to him.), a strange and contradictory deal indeed! The presence of two trumps indicated some kind of myth-superstar, Witch knew she was expecting somebody important. There were still plenty of telecommunications and news services in existence, so Witch had heard of No-number Zen and recognised him from the spread.
Witch was much in demand as a seer by those in the know, but her deck had only recently been completed and her other magical powers were not widely known.
When No-number arrived, Witch was ready to leave. She was dressed for travelling, which is to say she was wearing a thick black pullover and a black leather jacket as well as her normal clothing - a long black skirt, small black button boots and a long-sleeved grey blouse. Her clothing sounds drab, but was so festooned with ruffles and tassels and so extremely accessorised - mostly silver, with occasional pieces in pale bright blue and mat black - as to appear almost gaudy.
Witch confidently buzzed the entry phone to open the door to Zen without even speaking to him. He entered to find her in the kitchen with a steaming cup of white coffee on the table, for herself. Witch had determined that Zen did not drink coffee, or anything else, neither did he eat.
“No-number Zen, I presume.” she said smiling, offering a hand with six rings on the fingers and countless bangles at the wrist. Zen shook her hand and sat down, while she returned to stacking her novo-tarot deck neatly, clearing up a spread on the kitchen table.
“I’ve been expecting you. When do we leave?” Carter asked.
“The two of us aren’t going to the Capital. I want at least one more.” No-number replied.
“Anyone in particular in mind?”
No-number reached out and tapped the pile of Polaroids in Witch’s hands and said “Find Mister Sunrise.”
“The mysterious Mister Sunrise. I haven’t heard of him for years. Is he still alive?” Witch mused, looking through her deck. Zen shrugged.
“I worked with him once before. He’s good.”
Witch Carter picked out a significator for Mister Sunrise and placed it on the table. Then she shuffled the remainder and dealt a line.
“He’s alive, but he’s very ill. He’s being imprisoned. By whom?” She started a new line.
“It’s a corporation, but there’s not many people at the place where he’s held. It’s a big corporation. Looks like mining.” She paused before dealing the next photograph.
“Is it RTZ?” She placed the photograph, it was dignified, which is to say the right way up. “Yes.” Witch began a new line.
“Where?” Before dealing each card she would speak a question. After each card she stated the reply out loud.
“Is it in this country? Yes.”
“Is it north of here? No.”
“Is it east of here? Yes.”
With the aid of several maps and street plans, downloaded from a dial-up information service, she then proceeded to divide up the country and locate the town, then the street, finally the house number of Mister Sunrise’s prison.
No-number Zen seemed happy with her reading, but Witch Carter was uncertain.
“Mister Sunrise was very strong.” she said, then hurried to add “when I last heard about him that is. I don’t see how they can keep him down with only a few people. Blackmail maybe?”
“Nah. All his power’s from the sun. He has to see the sun every day. He’s hard as a bastard but if they get him and stop him seeing sunrise he’s fucked. I reckon they went in with a whole fucking army, stopped him seeing sunrise, then just kept him down with a few lads somewhere. They’re tight gits, corporates. Won’t use no more than they have to. I bet they watch him fucking close at sunrise though. How can I get him?” No-number started thinking out loud.
“If I could get to him at sunrise OK, but they’ll be ready for that. I don’t want to just kill them all. If I get him out any other time they’ll be straight after us. If I can get him out for sunrise they’ll just think ‘Fuck it’. They know how he works. Once he’s seen sunrise they need an army again.” As he was talking/thinking, No-number had taken something from his pocket and fiddled with it, absently.
“What’s that?”
No-number put a small round tub on the table. Witch picked it up and noticed writing on the side. “Elastic mirror wraparounds” she read, puzzled.
“I’m none the wiser really.” She said, replacing the tub on the table.
“He always wore them. They’re like sunglasses.” No-number explained, his voice vague and distracted.
“I think I can help.” Witch had an idea and picked a card from her deck. She turned over a photograph.
The sun, seen as a glaring reflection in the side of a towering, mirror windowed office block.
“In tarot this is called ‘The Sun’. Perhaps you could use it as a simulacrum?”
No-number looked at the card and felt its magic. His mind raced, and finished. “I can go in any fucking time I want!” he exclaimed excitedly, standing up.
“I’ll get some Green Warriors. They’re always ready to scrap with mining corpo’s, especially cunts like RTZ. Diversion, I jump in, buzz up Sunrise and Bob’s your knob.” He flicked the wraparounds into the air, caught them and pocketed them with a big smile on his face.
No-number Zen placed a quick telephone call to some local Green Warriors he knew. He arranged to make contact on the train he would be taking to get to Mister Sunrise. Picking up a printout of the last map downloaded he was again on his way.
Meanwhile, Witch Carter had laid out all the trumps from her deck in a wide circle in her living room. All except The Sun, of course, which No-number had with him in his pocket. She sat in its place in the circle in a trance.
chapter two
The Green Warriors appeared on schedule, five of them getting on the train at once, three women, two men. They were wearing painted combat boots with fluorescent laces, patched khaki combat trousers, jackets with slogans written on them and an assortment of army surplus vests and sleeved shirts. Each of them had at least one facial piercing: nostril, septum, lower lip and/or eyebrow. All of them had long hair, in dreadlocks.
They sat down together, a little way from No-number Zen, then one of them approached him.
“No-number Zen?”
“Yeah.”
“Just call me Catherine. We’re not Buddhists, why d’you call us?”
“You fuck with RTZ?”
Catherine smiled. “Of course.”
“They’ve got a mate of mine. I want him out.”
“OK we’ll help.” Catherine paused deliberately, “If it’s true.” She beckoned the other Greens over and explained the situation. They voiced similar concerns over the veracity of No-number’s information and intentions. Some of them were quite experienced and wise to tricks that might be played.
“How exactly do you know the location?” One asked.
No-number unfolded the street plan. Pointing to one of the roads, which had been marked with a highlighter pen, he said “Number eighteen.”
The Green looked pleased. “RTZ have a standing order that all coverts contact their control at eighteen thirty hours every day. I know the frequency. We won’t be able to understand the message, but we will be able to detect it.”
“Sounds like a result. When can we hit them? I want to go in soon.”
Catherine smiled. “How about eighteen thirty-five hours today?”
This suited No-number Zen very well, but he was aware that Catherine’s plan arose from a lack of trust - she didn’t want to give him time to tip off the RTZers. Him being present when they attack was also demanded as further insurance, which was his plan too.
They all alighted at the next station. Three cars were waiting for them by the station, occupied by more Green Warriors, of similar appearance. The cars were old, but not antique. New enough to run on batteries. The car No-number Zen got into had extra radio equipment fitted. From the thoughts of the Greens he could tell that one of the functions of the extra equipment was to detect transmissions from within the car, presumably in case he had been carrying a bug of some kind.
The cars drove down the street of the RTZ house and onto a nearby patch of wasteland, which had been a park before Collapse. There the Greens and No-number Zen planned their attack on the house, which had not been fortified in order not to attract local interest.
A decisive attack on the house was not necessary. Instead the plan was for an attack from the front, by most of the Greens, acting as a diversion to allow No-number and one of the them to enter from the rear. If at 18:30hrs there was no transmission, then a simpler plan would be followed. The Greens would capture whoever was posing as No-number Zen. The capture would be easy since the impersonator was unarmed, and the Greens all had guns.
At 18:25hrs the cars moved into place. No-number was in a car with a driver and one other warrior, which was parked in the street “behind” the house. The other cars were parked around the corner from the house.
At 18:29hrs the other cars started driving. They passed the house at 18:30hrs.
The radio in No-number’s car was switched to speaker. A static hiss filled the vehicle.
At 18:30hrs words came out of the radio “Rising! Rising! Rising!”. The warriors responded immediately “Right! Go!” The passenger pulled on a gas mask and rushed out of the car. No-number followed, also wearing a gas mask. Their gas masks had a symbol on them for identification .
No-number and the warrior ran around the side of the house whose garden backed onto the RTZ house, stopping at a flimsy slatted fence at the bottom of the garden.
They could hear breaking glass as the warriors at the front launched riot gas grenades into the house. Next came the automatic gunfire. They listened for a short while, hoping the RTZers would allocate all staff to defending the front of the house from the assault. No-number Zen took a couple of steps back and took a running kick at the fence. A section of the fence sagged and they ran across it into the RTZers back garden.
There was little cover in the back garden. No-number and the warrior zigzagged across it to the house. The gamble on the house being short-staffed seemed to have paid off.
No-number Zen kicked the door, which rattled without giving way. The Green gestured him clear, fired a short burst into the door, then kicked it in successfully. An alarm sounded in the house. They rushed in, finding themselves crossing the kitchen.
The warrior crouched by the kitchen door, opened it a crack to look. Outside was a short corridor and the staircase. From the top of the staircase a man in an unmarked gas mask opened fire. The Green jumped back in from the still open door, unhurt. He stood close to No-number Zen to talk to him.
“Looks like they’re all upstairs.”
“What about the fucking cellar?”
“There was a door under the stairs.” The warrior shrugged.
“Worth a try. Which way is it?”
“About three metres that way from the door, but you won’t reach it. There’s a guy at the top of the stairs. Wait a second.” The warrior pulled a length of string from one of his pockets. One end was tied in a loop. He quietly approached the kitchen door, placed the loop over the handle and stepped back, paying out a little of the string.
“Ready?”
No-number nodded his reply.
“Go when I start firing.”
The warrior pulled the door open. Immediately, a burst of shots was fired through the doorway. After the burst the warrior stepped over and fired back, standing against the door jamb for cover. No-number bent down and ran out of the kitchen.
The door under the stairs was locked so he put his shoulder to it. It gave way. Behind it was a dark staircase leading down. “Bingo.” Zen muttered under his breath. He went to the first step and found a light switch. Hoping he was right about Mister Sunrise being in the cellar he descended. Behind him he heard the warrior, identified by his thoughts (Doing it, we’re actually doing it. And this time I’m right in the middle!), close the door and stop at the top of the stairs.
At the bottom of the stairs was a small, smelly cellar. The smell came from a Sanilav in a corner. An ill looking man was sitting on the floor, chained to the wall. His hands were cuffed together and he was holding them clamped over his eyes. No-number Zen choked back tears as he passed the elastic mirror wraparounds to the man he recognised from his thoughts as Mister Sunrise.
“It’s me mate, No-number Zen. Put these on.”
Mister Sunrise took the wraparounds in one hand, leaving the other across his eyes. Feeling for the front of the sunglasses he slid them under his hand, and shuffled them into place. He seemed to relax slightly as he pulled the cord back around his head. He looked at his surroundings, apparently for the first time, and then at No-number Zen.
“It is you. Thank God.”
No-number Zen didn’t have time to correct him. Instead he just handed him Witch Carter’s tarot Polaroid. Sunrise looked at the photograph for a moment, his expression almost a smile, then he stood and turned his back on No-number Zen.
All Zen could see was Sunrise holding the Polaroid in one hand, necessarily close to his face since his other cuffed hand was lifting the shades from his eyes. The Polaroid suddenly became a glowing square, the glow becoming very intense after just a few seconds. A shadow of Mister Sunrise, surrounded by yellow light, was cast on the floor. Sunrise gave a sharp cry of pain and shivered violently. No-number could no longer see the Polaroid. A moment later the Polaroid was gone and Sunrise was clawing his shades back into place whilst doubled over, clutching his abdomen and vomiting copiously on the floor.
Witch Carter came out of her trance and looked down to see the card in her hands. She left the circle, placing the Polaroid in its place with a ritual gesture.
Sunrise stopped retching and took a few deep breaths. He and No-number Zen became aware of the world around them again.
The Green was wounded but still alive, firing single shots from the cellar door. Above him the stairs creaked as the RTZers tried to fight their way down. They had been ordered to kill their prisoner if his escape became inevitable. Their commander gave a hand signal and they charged down the steps, firing. The Green stepped out of the door, fired a long burst, then stepped back in. He stumbled, gasping in pain and switched off the lights. He quickly took up a braced position on the cellar stairs facing the door through which he expected the RTZers to burst at any moment. The pain must have affected his hearing.
“Fuckers are going to shoot through the floor.” No-number Zen could hear the RTZers in the room directly above the cellar.
In the darkness Zen heard Sunrise snort derisively. There was a sound of breaking metal, followed by more alarms as Sunrise removed the handcuffs and chain, followed by a splintering crash as he leaped upwards, punching through the wooden ceiling and floor boards. Dust, plaster, light, pieces of smashed beams and floor boards and a little riot gas entered the cellar through the large hole. Followed by confused shouting, cries of pain and coughing and gasping noises.
No-number Zen jumped up and scrambled through the hole, but Sunrise needed no help. He was fully restored. It had been a few seconds since he had entered the room. Three RTZers were already disarmed and staggering around coughing and gasping - their gas masks having been removed. Sunrise was grappling with a fourth, holding his gun up in one hand whilst tearing at his gas mask with the other. The remaining RTZer was shouting “Get clear get clear. I am about to fire.” Before he could do so Sunrise hurled the disarmed man into him, then leapt on him, disarming and de-masking him also. Sunrise looked around the room smiling.
The RTZers thoughts, behind their immediate discomfort and disorientation, were grey twisted masses of Good Practise and Corporate Style. They were soldiers, some of whom had seen and done much, but it had not touched them. No-number Zen could see that each of their minds needed to be given some spare time to notice itself. Before going beyond itself. This might well happen, if they were given time to recover from their gassing. Mister Sunrise was just glad to be back.
“I didn’t kill them. I could have.” Sunrise said and thought.
Zen nodded briefly.
The gun battle was continuing upstairs. Zen had what he came for. He called through the hole “out the back”.
“I can’t walk.” the injured Green answered.
“Shit. Don’t move we’re coming round.”
Zen beckoned Sunrise, who was lightly subduing the RTZers, out of the room towards the back of the house.
No-number left the room first. A wounded RTZer turned on the floor, Zen kicked his rifle away and ran past him to the cellar door. He returned down the corridor, helping the wounded Green Warrior who had one arm across his shoulders. Sunrise was standing in the corridor looking around. Seeing Zen, he rushed over and took his place supporting the warrior. Zen lead them out through the kitchen and garden to the waiting car. The warrior driving took them past the front of the house, where the other cars were still engaging the RTZers. They disengaged and retreated in good order.
Mister Sunrise fell asleep in the car.
The Green Warriors woke him when they were abandoning the vehicles some distance from town. Clearly he was not fully restored; although he did have power it had tired him to use it. No-number Zen wanted to get him back to Witch Carter’s place, but the Greens insisted on debriefing him first.
They made a deal: the Greens would provide transport for No-Number and Sunrise, in return for questioning Sunrise about RTZ on the way. Catherine used the car’s radio to call a van from their base, then produced a cassette recorder and began the debriefing. Meanwhile some of the warriors set about removing the radio equipment from the cars.
It turned out that Mister Sunrise could tell the Greens little that they did not already know. They were not interested in details specific to his capture or imprisonment.
By the time the van arrived, and had taken them to an Overground train station, it was late. No-Number Zen and Mister Sunrise finally said good-bye to the Green Warriors at 20:30hrs. No-number wanted to talk to Sunrise about his experiences but Sunrise was tired and slept on the train.
Witch was awake to let them in, having determined their time of arrival in advance and set her alarm. After letting them in she returned to bed. Sunrise made himself comfortable in the living room and was soon asleep again. Zen did not exactly sleep, that night or any night. Some nights he would stay simply awake all night. Some nights he would meditate. Some nights he would make astral journeys.
Sunrise awoke before dawn and went outside. After watching the sun rise he did not go back to bed, which is to say the living room floor. Instead he took a quick look around Witch’s house. He found No-Number Zen in the kitchen, fully normally awake and ready to talk. They sat at the kitchen table.
“They found out that I have to see dawn. It was about a year ago. I’ve never seen so much military equipment in one place. Not just their own troops, you know RTZ Warfare, but merc’s as well. I couldn’t take it and they got me. They told me their plans. Bastards. They were going to keep me from the sun for two years, just to make sure I was going to be compliant, then take me to a laboratory, study my metabolism and create some artificial power source. One they could control, of course. Then I’d be working for them, probably forever. Oh and they said that if they didn’t succeed in creating a power source in one year they’d kill me. Just to give me some motivation to co-operate in their experiments.” He paused and turned to look No-Number straight in the eyes. “I probably would have done it. Gone along with them I mean. Now I’ve seen dawn I’m OK, but then ... I felt so weak, and full of hate ... I had to eat food and everything. It was disgusting, torture. And they’d have given me another year of it too. I don’t know. Thanks for getting me out mate.” Sunrise held out his right hand.
Zen did not take it. He raised his own hand in a “stop” gesture. “Don’t thank me.”
“No?” Sunrise withdrew his hand.
“I’m being a cunt. I didn’t help you. Go home mate. I’m a cunt.” Zen’s sudden apprehension of the lack of compassion in his actions was hitting him hard. He had not been concerned about Sunrise, only about his mission to the temple.
“I haven’t got a home. Besides I thought we could, you know, maybe work together for a bit.” Sunrise extended his hand again.
“Thanks.” This time No-Number did shake his hand.
“Thanks?” Sunrise finally noticed something odd, he grew suspicious, his eyes narrowed in thought for a second or two then he smiled. “You’re already on a job aren’t you?”
“Yeah” No-number replied sullenly, that being the whole problem.
“I hope you’re not worrying about compassionate intent.”
No-Number shrugged. He was avoiding Sunrise’s eyes.
“Come on. There’s a lot of people who really need your compassion. Not me. I just need to be working. If you’ve got something for me to do now, that’s great. And if you didn’t waste time worrying about me when I was captive, but spent it helping people that’s more great.” Mister Sunrise had stood and stepped to No-Number Zen’s side of the table. No-Number stood too and they hugged. The time for shaking hands was passed.
Witch Carter had been listening to their conversation from her bed. She smiled, thinking that the Mysterious Mister Sunrise seemed like a nice chap, then turned over and went back to sleep.
When Witch woke up properly, a few hours later, Sunrise and No-number were planning the journey to the Capital. Witch took a shower. As she dressed, travelling clothes again, she remembered her “failed” reading of a journey the day before. A typical trap for the seer - she had read that she would be going on a journey with a person, then read the time that person would arrive, and had then assumed that she would go on a journey at that time. She smiled, realising that it was not an important error, and joined No-number and Sunrise in the kitchen.
Witch filled the kettle and switched it on, then, remembering her duty of hospitality, she turned and asked “Would anybody like some coff-” then she thought. “Sorry, stupid question.” She turned back to the kettle, blushing a little.
Sunrise looked at Witch’s back as she made her coffee and picked some small cakes for her breakfast, then turned his attention back to the notepaper on the table. On the paper was written a list of names and telephone numbers. No-number was adding a new name and number at the bottom.
“Who are they?” Witch asked, joining them at the table to eat her breakfast.
“Caravan guards Zen knows.” Sunrise explained.
“All of these people’ll take us along. All of them can get work easy as piss.” No-number expanded, still frowning in thought.
“Oh. I get a bit of work from caravan leaders, myself. From time to time. Readings and so on.”
The caravans were the only practical physical infrastructure connecting the country to the Capital. And there was plenty of stuff consumed in the Capital that was made out in the country. Why? History and inertia mostly.
chapter three
Before the wars and Collapse the Capital had been a major financial and commercial centre. There had been excellent road, rail, sea and air connections. There had been office accommodation of all kinds. There had been outstanding telecommunications availability. After the wars and Collapse there was mostly just wreckage, debris and ruins. Did that drive business away? Did the companies re-establishing themselves choose nice places in the country to build their headquarters? No. They chose the Capital. After all, they all knew where it was, and where they were talking about when they discussed it. Perhaps they considered that resuscitating remains would be easier than starting anew. Perhaps they found some real value in the Capital’s geographical location. Or perhaps they felt some kind of affection for the place. Or perhaps the Capital itself exerted some strange kind of fascination. Whatever the reason, real or stated, work went on there. Much less than before, but then there were far fewer people after Collapse, so much less was to be expected. Similarly, things that took up space, like farms, factories and mines, and had tended not to be done in the Capital, were still not done in the capital.
Hence the caravans; merchants taking what was grown or manufactured by the people in the country to be eaten or worn-out by the people in the Capital. And hence the caravan guards, whose job it was to keep the cargo out of the hands of the other people in the capital. Whereas the people were generally described as employees, the other people were generally described as raiders, bandits or brigands; gangs usually, but sometimes tribes or families. There was little difference between the people and the other people, a matter of degree really; there were no “law-abiding citizens” or “law breakers” because there was no law. That didn’t mean that there was no business, just that things were done in a certain way.
Lack of public transport made commuting problematic, and people didn’t want to travel a long way in the Capital, in case they met some of the other people, so they tended to live close to the office. Very close. Frequently in the same building in fact. This made life easier for the security staff, whose job it was to protect employees, and other company resources. This included operating the purely defensive weaponry mounted on the fortified office buildings.
Utility companies, providing water, gas and electricity through fixed links (pipes or cables) still existed, but only outside the Capital. They found the Capital’s no-holds-barred business climate a bit too challenging. Imagine having to defend all that piping and cabling from companies wishing to “cut off” their competitors. Not to mention other utility companies. The typical Estates department had, therefore, to adopt a flexible and resilient approach to the provision of such facilities. For example, drinking water could come from the ground, be transported into the Capital, or could come from a canal, or river; a good Estates manager would have contingency plans for use of all three. The exception was electricity, which could be broadcast, thanks to a few technological leaps during the wars before Collapse. With a PowerCast account, and the right kind of aerial, a building could have all the power it needed. Problems arose if somebody’s purely defensive weaponry should happen to damage your aerial. Such problems could usually be resolved.
Telecommunications was another area. There was a lot of left over equipment, no longer owned by anybody, but still in place and functioning. Left over exchanges in the Capital’s war rubble, left over cables in tunnels and sewers underneath the Capital, and left over satellites in geostationary orbit above the Capital. So you had your cable jockeys and you had your sat hackers. Both had the same two objectives: to get your calls through, and to get your competitors wrong numbers. Your cable jockeys ran around the sewers finding and connecting any cables that might be lying around, and getting into the occasional fire fight with your competitors’ cable jockeys (conducting prejudicial maintenance involving pre-emptive defensive action). Your sat hackers used special telemetry and tracking dishes on the roof to send signals to satellites, to login, to route your calls through the satellite, and to try to lock out your competitors (assuming authority for unilateral resource administration).
Other resources ran in much the same way: You didn’t own a thing unless you defended it. The whole situation was a deregulated free-for-all.
Of course many companies couldn’t operate under those conditions. They went to the country or went to the wall. The successful modern business people of the day didn’t mind one bit. The radical decrease in the amount of rules after Collapse (decreased to none) had given rise to a certain commercial culture and had fostered a certain kind of business person. The kind of person who said “Who the fuck wanted those wimps around in the first place?”. Absolutely. “No wimp companies, and no wimp people.” was their motto. And “Warlord” was the word they used to describe themselves.
The warlord, and the term was applied to men and to women, operated internally within a company much as the company operated externally. Warlords were quite happy to use lines of management, channels of communication, policy positions, job descriptions, manuals of procedure, and any other official systems and structures that the company might provide but they did not restrict themselves to them only. Truth is they did not restrict themselves at all. They had their official staff, but would also have contacts throughout their company, and perhaps in other companies, and some people outside any company. All these people could be asked for information or resources, and all had their method of payment. A good warlord understood his or her business, understood people and understood information. But a really successful warlord, such as you might have found on the board, also understood power, besides which, as a wise man once said, everything else is illusion.