chapter seven

Coll’s terrain van had a magnetic compass fitted in the dashboard, a mini-dish satellite aerial on the roof, a radio locator tuned to a similar unit in Jack’s terrain van (two antenna fixed to opposite corners of the chassis for triangulation), and a view of the stars through the windscreen. Using a combination of these he navigated to his rendezvous with Jack and Polit at the music venue they were visiting that Friday night.

The venue was not entirely indoors. Fences with gates had been fixed across a few streets to enclose an area. Coll stopped his van at one of the gates as two guards came out of a derelict building.

“All right?”

“Yeah. All right?”

“Pay through tonight.” That is “[You’ve got to] pay [to get] through [the gate] tonight [because there’s something special on].”

Coll reached under his seat for the bag he kept for such occasions. With the bag on his lap, Coll went through the contents item by item; taking each one out to show the guards, describing it, then replacing it in the bag. The guards saw a packet of razors, a small calculator, some nice cutlery, a box of painkillers, a packet of cigarettes, and two paperbacks in English before they chose some batteries as his entrance fee. They directed Coll to a parking area. The other terrain van was easy to notice and Coll parked in a space next to it.

The car park was on one side of the fenced in area. On the other side was the venue’s bar and stage. Light shone from the bar building’s door and windows, and from no other building around there. Outside the bar, battery lanterns had been placed in more or less of a grid pattern to illuminate a clear area about twenty metres square. The lanterns either had their bases set in concrete bollards or were welded to stiff metal tripods to prevent theft. The area was bordered on one side by what had once been a loading stage. Now it was a performance stage, and therefore had a row of battery lanterns, with reflectors fitted behind them, attached to the edge and up the walls around the sides.

A few of the lanterns in the clear area had people gathered around them drinking from cans and eating. Coll found Jack and Polit just outside the bar leaning against the wall. On the floor between them was a plastic wrapped 24-pack of canned beers, six of which were already missing. On top of the pack was a stack of plastic skiffs.

“Here he is.” announced Jack.

“All right Romeo?”

Coll cracked a grin. “Yeah. Thirsty work though.”

“Help yourself.”

“Well. What shall I have?” Coll paused and scratched his head, overacting “thinks” for Polit and Jack’s amusement. “I’ve got my lager shirt on, John.” he recited.

“You’ve got your lager shirt on, John.” Polit and Jack chorused the reply.

Coll looked left and right, eyes narrowed, then raised his eyebrows to look down at his feet. With a theatrical flourish, he lifted his left trouser two inches so that his sock was visible.

“I’ve got my lager socks on, too.”

“Looks like you’re having .....” Chorused again.

“Lager!” All three of them this time.

They finished the routine, a well established one in The Lager Bastards, in the traditional manner by taking random turns at barking the word “lager” in each others faces for ten seconds or so.

With the forms observed, Coll proceeded to pull a clean skiff from the stack, free a can from the plastic wrapping, pour the contents of the can into the skiff and then drop the empty can to the ground. After squashing it flat with his foot, he kicked it over against the wall behind Polit to join the other six crushed empties.

After a sip a thought crossed his mind. “What’d you give for them?” he asked.

“Them crap watches.”

Coll nodded. After a few more swigs (half the glass) he felt settled.

“Band here yet?” he asked.

“No.”

“Anyone else? Anyone we know?”

“No”

“Shall we go in and sit down?”

“Oh they’re wankers in there mate.” It was Jack who had spoken, and Coll looked at him. Jack looked away and wouldn’t look back. Coll looked at Polit, who looked down at his boots. Coll thought for a moment.

“They say something when you got them?” He pointed down at the cans.

“Not really. Just mumblings.”

“And there’s only two of us. Well there was.”

“Well now there’s three. And one of them’s me. So we’ll see. Shall we?” Coll picked up the stack of skiffs in his free hand “Right, bring the lagers.”

People in the bar turned to look at the three casuals walking in, then turned back to their conversations. Coll noticed a few smirks. Somebody had said something before. Coll wouldn’t be smirked at; time to wipe those smiles off their faces he decided.

“All right are we?” he addressed the bar in general. “Sit there.” he directed Polit and Jack to the end of a small high table half occupied by a few lads, but with a couple of empty stools at one end. “Can I have this? Cheers.” He took a stool from another table and joined the other two who had put the lagers on the table and sat down. “Anyone want lager?” He addressed the bar again. Nobody replied.

Polit and Jack were casting furtive glances around at the people in the bar, and occasionally at Coll himself. Coll was proud of intimidating the whole room - perhaps fifteen people - especially as his two lads were there to see him do it. He could almost hear them vicariously bragging about it to their friends later. Just then Coll felt somebody looking at him for longer than necessary.

“Do you want lager?” He stared straight back at the man looking at him. The man turned back to his own table, cowed by Coll’s threatening manner.

Coll turned back, casting a conspiratorial smile at Jack and Polit, and went to take a sip of his lager. As he picked up the skiff, however, he noticed a patch of grey crust on the white foam of the surface of the drink. He stared at it for a moment.

“Cigarette ash” he declared to Jack and Polit. He looked at the other men at the table. The one sitting nearest to him was smoking. “Cigarette” he said, pointing. The men were all sniggering into their drinks “nice one”. Coll waited until the man put the cigarette to his mouth to make his move.

Coll’s left hand clamped across the man’s mouth and cigarette holding hand. At the same time, Coll’s right hand slapped against the back of the man’s head. The man’s head was still ringing as he was pulled backwards off his stool as Coll jumped to the floor without letting go of him. By the time the smoker’s mates had stood up, and Jack and Polit had reacted, Coll had punched his head against the floor three times.

“I’ll handle this!” A man’s voice shouted, hoping to forestall a brawl.

Coll looked up from his crouched position to see a small, fit looking man standing in the centre of the bar. The man was cool. He wore frayed black canvas and denim all over, he had a brimmed hat and a long coat on, he stood relaxed with his arms hanging at his sides, he had stubble. And his commanding tone had indeed made everyone pause.

His right wrist flicked and there was a flash of metal as he threw two gleaming shuriken. Coll took one on his hard right forearm; but the other hit him on the cheek. It was very sharp and penetrated a little way through his hardened skin. Coll snatched it out before it could fall, put it to his mouth and bit it in half. The man’s eyes widened as Coll chewed half his best handmade shuriken.

Coll stood slowly and spat a wad of metal grit to the floor between him and the man in black. Without a sound he rushed forward. The man smashed two kicks, a punch and an elbow into him, but Coll just walked though them and wrapped his arms around him. The man’s legs danced about looking for purchase and muffled squeaks escaped his mouth as his upper body strained against Coll’s iron-plus grip.

“They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. But really it’s through his ribs.”

Coll shifted the man into a head lock. Requiring only his left arm to hold the man, whose arms flailed at Coll’s impervious body, Coll drew back his right to deliver a crunching upper cut to the centre of the lower chest. The flailing decreased. After a second similar punch the flailing arms and dancing legs went limp. Coll punched a third time to make sure. This time his fist came back wet with blood seeping into the dead man’s shirt (a broken rib had punctured the skin).

Everybody in the bar stared at Coll. He turned his head, his gaze meeting everybody’s eyes in turn, then nodded at the unconscious smoker on the floor saying “OK he started on me with his cigarette ash.” Nobody disagreed.

“This started on me with his shuriken.” Coll dropped the broken body on the floor.

“Any of you want to start on me?” There was a pregnant silence. “Or can I just have a quiet drink and listen to a band?”

Some people sat down, pretending or really not intimidated, but most picked up their stuff (including an unconscious friend in one case) and shuffled from the room. In the course of the next half hour more people left the bar to sit outside. Jack heard somebody saying that they wanted to get a good spot as they left.

“I reckon we’ll get a good spot, eh?” he remarked, loudly, intending to be overheard by the people leaving.

“Pleased to hear it.” another voice called out. The three casuals looked up and towards where the voice had come from: the bar entrance.

Seven more casuals were walking in. They were all dressed tidily, and were well groomed. They were all known to Coll, Polit and Jack: they were also Lager Bastards. Coll stood up to meet them. The seven newcomers stopped, then one of them stepped forwards and stood right in front of Coll. Coll smiled without showing his teeth. The man in front of him smiled back then hooked a punch into Coll’s right cheek. It was a powerful punch but Coll just turned his face as it smacked into him. He replied in kind, but punched with his right into the man’s hard left cheek.

“Your punch is weak as piss, Coll.”

“Lucky your face is soft as a cunt then Joey.”

The new arrivals sat down and helped themselves to lager.

“Is this it? Where’s the others?” Polit asked generally.

“Too fucked to come out mate. Had a bit of a run-in.” Jace, one of the recent arrivals, answered.

“Who with?”

“Few baldies.” Jace saw that his slang was not understood and tried some alternatives. “Buddies. Z Monks.”

“Yeah? Religious discussion was it?” Polit made a joke.

“Fuck off laughing, right?” Joey was not amused. “Ten of our mates are laid up, two of them might not make it. I’m after one particular hairless git name of fucking Innocence. Put five of us down.”

“Sorry Joey.” Polit meant it. “How’d it happen?”

“Nothing special really. There’s this wanker, got a couple of trucks up Hackford way. Collects every two weeks regular. Decides not to pay somebody. Tells him to spin for his money. They come to me and say: knock this guy over, we know when he goes. Sent ten of the boys down. There’s monks guarding the trucks. Had all their gear on right, robes and that. When they saw it was monks the lads gave them a chance. ‘Hand over the stuff and we won’t hand you a beating.’ type of thing. The monks agree, till the lads get close and their guards are down. Then a few more of them jump out, including this mad fucker Innocence. Surprised the boys didn’t they?”

There was general shaking of heads and cursing. “Bastards.” “Easy to be tough when you get the drop isn’t it?” “Taking advantage that is.” “Don’t ever go easy, that’s the answer.”

Had Innocence heard Joey’s account of these events he would not have accused him of lying, although the story was transparently untrue. Innocence would have seen the fabrication of Joey’s lieutenant, and Joey’s belief of it, as a metaphor for the way desire clouds perception, and the way the unenlightened mind ignores the clouding. And is that not a Great Truth? Had Innocence heard Joey telling the story he would have smiled enigmatically.

Then again, he had done a lot of that recently. Ever since entering the post-karmic state his expression had been a succession of enigmatic smiles. While training, while fighting, while on look-out, while eating, just when he was walking around, even while sleeping, the same enigmatic smile played around his lips. Fairly soon he would die, presumably still wearing the same enigmatic smile.

Innocence knew that he would die soon, but he was not afraid. Apart from being free from fear as he was free of all desires, he was also post-karmic. Which is to say that he had attained all that he could in his present form, and saw in death nothing other than reincarnation in a higher form. Not exactly a frightening prospect. Post-karmic entities are rare and short-lived. They exist as glitches in the moment it takes the wheel of karma to change up a gear.

It is said that training and study both involve the negation of one’s desire in that they involve dedication. And this had been Innocence’s route to his state. Specifically the study of martial arts and inner energy, or chi. Which made him a useful man in a scrap and a great asset to his temple’s business: caravan guarding. On the other hand his new-found propensity to enigmatise raised certain practical problems when it came to reporting on missions.

Hence, on his squad’s return to the temple, following the truck-guarding job on which they had encountered some of the Lager Bastards, the abbot had asked a more junior warrior-monk for an account of what had taken place.

“Only one incident in the two day journey, sir. We were attacked in the night by raiders of some kind. No firearms involved. The sentry spotted them and called Innocence before raising a general alarm. As soon as they attacked, Innocence and the rest of us charged them. We saw them off but didn’t give chase, because we had to stay with the truck. Five of ours injured, no fatalities, no prisoners. Homage to the Buddha.”

“Homage to the Buddha. Dismissed.”

The abbot had been pleased that nobody had been killed. As a post-karmic, Innocence was no longer subject to sin. This meant that, unlike all the other monks, he did not mind killing people from time to time. The abbot had a bit of a problem with this. Although in theory, since Innocence was immune, it was not a sin, it still didn’t feel quite right to him.

The abbot was in his sixties and still fighting fit, although definitely starting to slow down. He was a competent warrior and master, possessed an amount of chi, and was fairly enlightened, as would be expected. Nevertheless he felt somewhat uneasy around Innocence and other super-powered individuals.

After Innocence’s return, the abbot’s unease level had been further raised by a phone call from No-Number Zen announcing his arrival in the next few days.

chapter eight

“There’s always room for men like you on a guard detail. There’s a big merchant convoy leaving in three days. You and your companions will be paid the officer rate.” The abbot was seeing No-Number Zen in his office. He had been relieved that the reason for Zen’s visit was only that he was looking for guard work, and made him an offer quickly.

“I might want a different rate.” Zen knew what was going through the abbot’s mind, as he always knew the thoughts of others. Also he knew what was required for his mission to Central Temple. The abbot was so uneasy that he might just agree straight off. And, from his abrupt military manner, Zen guessed that the abbot didn’t enjoy long conversations and negotiation anyway. No-Number went for it. “After the convoy’s done the boys go on to another job. Not guarding. And there’ll be no pay for it.”

“No pay of any kind?”

“Fuck all mate. Central Temple’s under some kind of siege. I’m going to bust it, when I know what it is.”

“We’re not part of World Compassion, but that doesn’t mean I won’t help them.” The abbot reckoned for a moment. “I’ll give you a squad plus any volunteers.”

“Yeah.” That was a fair offer. “Cheers mate. Homage to the Buddha.” No-Number Zen stood up to leave the abbot’s office.

“Homage to the Buddha. Oh and one more thing.” The abbot stood as well. There was a question he had to ask, as a matter of form. He braced himself. “I was wondering if you would be Expounding the Way whilst you’re here?”

“Nah!”

chapter nine

Some places kept their names through the wars and Collapse. Places with some kind of eternal character. Some places were abandoned or razed during the wars, and so lost their names. Some new places appeared, with new sounding names. And some of those subsequently got abandoned or razed themselves. Some of the old abandoned places got revived, and renamed, sometimes more than once.

Seventy-five Fifty-two was a place, a merchant town. It didn’t have eternal character and might or might not have been abandoned and revived a number of times. In those days, when caravans wanted to rendezvous somewhere before going into the Capital, they gave the place’s co-ordinates, longitude and latitude. And because 0.75 longitude, 52.04 latitude was a good safe location, with good road and rail access, and power and water, and telecommunications, more and more people used it to rendezvous, and it attained a kind of permanence. But no name, other than its navigating co-ordinates, or Seventy-five Fifty-two for short.

Arriving in 75,52 by train, No-Number Zen, Witch Carter, Mister Sunrise, Innocence, two squads of Buddhist warrior monks and their captain, knew only the name of the merchant for whom they would be working: Harris.

The train station at 75,52 was a terminus. It was located at the main intersection, the heart. On disembarking and leaving the station, the party stood to look up and down the crossroads. Some of them had been to 75,52 before, but the place had changed - it was always changing.

The Mann Trading office was surrounded by scaffolding now, being developed into something more defensible. A building that had been another corporate office was now a tavern with tables outside. Another tavern, which had been a tavern before, had been painted on the outside. The truck repair shop’s wall was higher and thicker than before, and now made from pieces of rubble held together with some new kind of cement. There was a second and larger dish aerial on top of the tall, but mostly empty building housing the local telecoms access shop. And somebody had done something to the roads. Previously they had been crushed down bricks, cement, concrete, paving and packed dirt - with plenty of tufts of grass peeping out. Not so much a road as a gap between the buildings. Now the middle of the road was a straight path of uniform black tarmacadam, wide enough for two cars.

The captain ordered them to split up and search for “Harris” and to meet back at the station in one hour. He told one squad of monks to check at the tower, then the lodging house, the other to find the hospital and religious missions which were a little way from the centre of 75,52. He knew it was pointless ordering Innocence to do anything so left the monk to himself. He seemed uncertain about giving orders to Zen and his party.

“Shall we check the taverns?”

No-Number Zen looked at Carter and Sunrise who shrugged assent. Carter could have found Harris with her novo-tarot deck, but she preferred to save her energy for something more difficult.

In the hour they met a corporate representative in transit to the North, a merchant just returned from the Capital, four different people who wouldn’t say who they were, where they were going, or where they had come from, and two people who traded only within 75,52 itself. None of them knew Harris.

Back at the station, however, one squad of the monks had news.

Harris herself had not yet arrived, but her assistant was at the lodging house where beds and food had been arranged. They would leave tomorrow, which gave them an evening in 75,52. The captain gave orders for everybody to be back in the lodgings by midnight, but said they could do as they wished until then.

Innocence went off on his own. The monks split up, some went to find a quiet place for their devotions, some to return to the hospital, some just to take a look around. Zen beckoned Carter and Sunrise to one side and waited for the others to disperse.

They followed him outside the lodging house onto the busy street. People and vehicles bustled up and down.

“It’s handy that we’re starting here and we’ve got a night in town. There’s somebody I could meet.”