Danie Ware - Ecko Rising

Ecko’s targeters flashed, he was away from the desk in an eye blink. He snatched it from Roderick’s hand. His flicker of inevitability – helplessness, almost claustrophobia – rose to a thunder. A wash of returning nausea made him breathe, breathe.

He looked down at what he’d grabbed.

It was a lighter – heavy, square, chrome plated and, so far, the only piece of metal he’d seen. On one side was engraved the Harley logo. On the other...

On the other, it said: Alexander David Eastermann.

“This is Lugan’s.” He gripped the lighter harder, as if it were the only solid thing in existence. “He lost it, like...”

Like yesterday.

For a moment, the complete insanity of the situation screamed at him – he wanted to push the walls down, like a film set, tear the scene from top to bottom as if it were only fabric, reveal the Bike Lodge that lurked just behind it... didn’t it?

Didn’t it?

But the Bard was still speaking, as if nothing strange had happened.

“The Wanderer finds many things,” he said. “Just like it found you. It’s a portent, I think. And it’s white-metal, muara , extremely rare and of a quality I’ve never seen. Its value is considerable.”

With a sense of absolute surreality, Ecko chinked the lighter open and flicked the wheel. It sparked and died.

“Outta gas.” Somehow that wasn’t the point.

The point was that it was here. Like a swat round the head, Eliza had clearly marked the opening point of the pattern. She’d given him the “Go” signal: “Ecko Start Here”. Amid the tension that still thumped in his throat, the thought was fantastic enough to be ludicrous.

“So you’re tellin’ me the adventure starts in the tavern. Cute. I’ll give Collator 86.24 per cent there’ll be giant flying lizards by the end of the week.”

He glanced at the Bard. “Fuck!”

In a flash of frustration, Ecko threw the lighter viciously across the room. He was manipulated, betrayed, powerless, caught like a fucking street urchin. Somewhere, Eliza sat watching this on some huge fractal flatscreen – maybe she was behind the Bard’s violet eyes, maybe she’d be behind the eyes of everyone he passed. Somewhere, Collator calculated odds, mapping, generating, predicting. Every movement Ecko made, every decision, every word he spoke – hell, maybe every thought in his head – was going to ripple outwards to affect the world around him – and those ripples would be broadcasting his behaviour. They’d be analysed, interpreted, judged.

Ever get the feeling you’re being watched?

He wanted to rail against his fate, show that damn psycho-the-rapist bitch who was boss – but she had him by the grey matter and there was no way out of his own head. Bitterly, his mind spat at him: Will you stay with the tavern? Turn to page 102. Will you flee? Turn to page 94.

Or will you torch the place and watch it fucking burn?

The blazing temptation just to destroy everything... because he could. That’d fucking show her. Hell, what did it matter if he trashed cities – none of it was real. Keep your fucking breadcrumbs; I’ll do this my way.

The answering thought was so flawlessly enmeshed, he wondered if it was even his own: Turn back to page 1.

Would they really loop him, endlessly, if he didn’t succeed? Or would they just – Jesus – would they just turn him off ...? Could they really do that?

For a moment, his intellect battled his emotional, knee-jerk instinct. Then, slowly, like it was the hardest thing he had ever done in his life, Ecko walked across the rug and picked up the lighter.

He felt dirtied – like he’d taken the first psychological step to sympathising with his torturer, like he’d already let them beat him.

But he was conceding the battle, not the war. He would so pay them back.

Roderick stood silent amid the shattered remnants of his table. Vocal enhancements or not, he made no attempt to push Ecko’s decision one way or the other.

If Eliza was behind his eyes and had witnessed Ecko’s acquiescence, the Bard did not show it. Yet strangely, his wordless comprehension was almost harder to bear. He held out his hand for the lighter and, with a flash of his more usual cynicism, Ecko brandished it like a dare.

He threw the words. “Only ’til I find the way outta here.”

Remarkably, Roderick managed to say, “Of course,” without sounding remotely smug.

PART 2: RIPPLES

4: THE MONUMENT

THE CENTRAL VARCHINDE

Across the vastness of the Grasslands, the sun was setting.

The low rays were warm on the riders’ backs, around them, the open Varchinde glowed in celebration of a summer’s day done. Soft brown shadows grew from the hooves of the creatures they rode.

Their progress had been steady – they would make the Monument on time.

Around them, insects were beginning to sing. Ears chilled from endless wind, Amethea spat out the stalk she’d been chewing and reined her beast to a patient halt.

“Thea?” In the final stages of his ’prenticeship, Feren stopped beside his tutor.

“Just stretching.” She lifted her pale braid of hair away from her neck. Under her, her heavy, slope-shouldered chearl leaned his ugly head down to snort among the grasses. Tiny flecks of life scattered. “Long day.”

“Aye.” He looked behind them, maybe at Roviarath’s distant Lighthouse Tower, the safe city world he’d left – maybe at the great shadow of the Kartiah Mountains growing over the empty plain – Amethea couldn’t tell. “And off the trade-roads.”

“Nervous?” She smiled.

He shrugged. “Just tales.” Running his hands through his shock of orange hair, he shook the dust out of it. “My cousin Redlock used to scare us kids when we were knee-biters. How the Kartiah are haunted and some such... Got any more water?”

“Told you not to guzzle all yours.” Leaning over in the high-backed saddle, Amethea passed him her waterskin. “You said yourself, we’re off the trade-roads, no one comes out here – even assuming we’re lucky with the taer, it’ll be late tomorrow before we get back to the river and any hint of civilisation.”

Feren took a careful swallow of lukewarm water and gave her a cheeky, sunburned grin. “You wouldn’t fail me. Not after everything.”

He had a point.

Taer was dusk blooming, found in only three places across the Grasslands and sought for a pollen that knit bones like hide glue. Crossing the open plainland herself was a huge undertaking – taking her ’prentice on his final test was as much an assessment for her as it was for him. “Go with caution,” Vilsara had said, “and return with wisdom.”

All very well for Vilsara, far to the north-west in Xenok’s hospice... Amethea and Feren were two days out of the Great Fayre at Roviarath, nearly a full day from any kind of safety. The vast emptiness of the open plainland was powerful, unknown, dangerous. Only the Deep Patrols came off the trade-roads – and they were an odd lot, somehow changed by the desolation.

“...Days since we’ve seen a decent tavern.” Feren was muttering under his breath. He suddenly interrupted himself with a pleased grin. “Unless The Wanderer comes out here.”

“The Wanderer?” Amethea chuckled. “Wasn’t it in Xenok? You think it’s following us?”

“I wish it was.” Feren’s grin broadened.

The teacher shook her head.

“We see it out here, I’ll eat my saddle and ride home bareback.”

“Really? Now, who told me the Gods had a sense of humour...?”

“You want me to finalise your ’prenticeship?” Checking about her, Amethea swung one leg over the chearl’s spike-maned neck and slid, with a groan, to the ground. The grasses reached past her knees and she leaned forwards to pound stiff thighs with her fists, making dust and pollen fly. Her chearl turned and blew noisily on her breeches. Absently, she scratched his great head.