The Lost Puzzler

Martinn was still chuckling when he said, “Well, the Tarkanians are gone now, and we are free.”

“But they left us a legacy,” continued Khan, as they began climbing another rubble hill. He pointed at the remains of the buildings around them, “Their architecture, their cities, buildings, and roads, but most important: the remains of their technology, Tarakan devices that still work even though we have no idea how. Of course,” he said, patting Rafik lightly on the shoulder, “they also left us people like you.”

“Like me? What do you mean? I’m not a Tarkanian,” he said.

“We are going to find out what you are soon enough,” Khan answered, just as Martinn announced, “We’re here.”

They were on top of an enormous hill made of rubble, or perhaps it was a ruined tower, Rafik couldn’t tell. There was a large, redbrick building before them. Although it was not tall by Newport standards, it was still taller and wider than anything in Rafik’s village. They were standing high enough to be on the same level as the top floor. It was an exhilarating height.

Even from far away the sound emanating from inside the building was loud. There were harsh and fast drumbeats repeated again and again in a simple pattern, and from somewhere inside came the distinct sound of a brawl in full swing. Rafik noticed there were many cracks in the walls and none of the windows had glass.

The two men checked their pistols and looked at each other.

Khan turned to Rafik and looked him straight in the eye. “This guy we’re going to see, Jakov, he had an … accident.” He stalled, looking for words, then said with a shrug, “Some parts of his body are replaced by metal, okay? Don’t be scared, I just want him to have a look at you.”

Rafik nodded. Compared to being told you might be a member of an evil race who caused the destruction of the world, seeing a man made of metal sounded like a blessed distraction.

“You’re to call me Uncle, okay? You understand me? Do exactly what I tell you and nothing else. If I tell you to run, run; if I tell you to dive to the floor, you do just that, yes?”

Rafik nodded again.

“Good. Now let’s go.”

They made their way in silence down the hill of rubble towards the building.

More than a dozen men and a few women were sitting idly outside. With their weapons and wild, unkempt look, they reminded Rafik of the bandits who had attacked his village the previous spring, though they were a bit better dressed, mostly in leather or sheepskin, and equipped with guns instead of the rusty swords and wooden clubs. All were smoking or drinking, but they stopped what they were doing when they saw Khan, Rafik, and Martinn approach.

Rafik’s attention was immediately drawn to the strange bicycles. In his village there were only two bicycles, one for the village elder and one used by the messenger, and they were much, much smaller than the ones he saw now. There were at least ten of these great bicycles standing in a neat row. Some were making a strange humming noise all by themselves. Reluctantly Rafik followed Khan and Martinn away from the great bicycles, but when they turned the corner he was glad he did.

They saw two men in a clearing, each riding on a great bicycle, which somehow moved without any pedals. Both men held very large poles in one hand and maneouvered the great bicycles with the other. They were surrounded by large piles of stacked tires and a cheering crowd of spectators. The riders circled around a few times, then suddenly charged, levelling the poles down and passing each other at blinding speed. There was a large crack as the poles clashed, but the riders passed each other without anyone being hurt.

The crowd whooped, and even Khan grinned and said, “A fiver on the red-bearded fellow.”

Martinn cocked his head, then nodded. “Done.”

The men rode two more passes and cracked poles but didn’t manage to hit one another. The red-bearded rider’s pole snapped and was quickly replaced before the final pass, which left the other rider writhing in pain in a cloud of dust, as his vehicle skidded on the ground until it crashed into a pile of tires. The crowd cheered, and the red-bearded rider raised his pole in a victory salute. Martinn cursed under his breath, and Khan laughed.

They resumed walking, but after only a few dozen paces their way was blocked by four men and a woman, all brandishing weapons. The noise around them was deafening, and Rafik covered his ears with his hands and stopped paying attention to what was being said. Soon they were led inside. They walked through the lower level, filled with sprawling bodies engaged in all kinds of activities. Four guys were in the midst of a bloody fight, but no one tried to stop them. Rafik was drawn to the patterns on the side of their high boots. Martinn put a protective hand on Rafik’s shoulder and drew him close. Soon they were climbing up, walking over hazardous looking wooden boards placed over the gaps where stairs had once been. Rafik counted the stairs between the holes and tried to find a pattern; it was a nice little game that occupied his mind all the way to the top floor. The music was not as loud as downstairs but still loud enough to be uncomfortable.

There were more people standing around a large open area, holding, checking, cleaning, comparing, or just playing with all kinds of weaponry. Khan, Martinn and Rafik walked past them towards a doorway at the far end of the floor, this one with an actual door in its frame. Two guards stood there, holding even larger guns and wearing more metal than anyone else. They wore distinctive black cloaks. One of the guards stepped forward.

“Tell Jakov that Khan Carr is here to see him, with the boy.”

The guard nodded silently and kept watch as the other guard opened the door and stuck his head inside. After a brief, awkward pause, one guard said, “You and the boy go in, leave your weapons with your friend here.”

Khan gave his pistol to Martinn without argument, but the guard who talked to them insisted on a search and found another pistol hidden in one of Khan’s boots and a knife in the other. Khan apologized profusely, claiming he had forgotten all about “those little toys.” The guard didn’t look convinced, but he let them in. He didn’t search Rafik—which was a blessing, because Rafik didn’t want to give up his brother’s knife to anyone. He snuck his hand in his pocket and gripped it hard. He did this every time he was afraid, which was often.

They walked into the next room where another pair of identically clad guards stood. The man called Jakov was sitting between them. Just looking at him made Rafik grip Fahid’s knife even tighter than he had before. Master Issak’s stern voice rang in his ears, joined by the voices of his father, brother, Eithan, and eventually his entire village, repeated again and again, in sermons, lessons, and prayers, warning Rafik from the greatest sin of all: You shall not attach.

If it was not for Khan’s grip on the back of Rafik’s neck he surely would have tried to run away. The entire left side of Jakov’s face was hidden behind a grim-looking metal mask, with a protruding metallic eyepiece where his eye should have been. He wore a hood, which covered his head, and a plate of chest armour. Instead of a human left arm he had a metallic arm with seven fingers and two thumbs. The hand was picking and prodding at several weapons and other objects which were spread on the large table in front of him, and it kept going even when Jakov looked up at Khan and Rafik.

The room was large but filled with crates, barrels, and weapons to the point that there was not a lot of room to manoeuvre.

For some reason, the music from downstairs was louder in this room, and the floor was humming and shaking with the beat under Rafik’s soft sandals.

“Ah, Khan,” said Jakov in a raspy, metallic voice. Only the parts of his lips which were flesh twisted and moved as he spoke. “You came with the boy.” He didn’t offer them a seat, and all the while his metallic hand kept working on a pistol on the table.

“Hello again.” Khan’s smile was thin and brief. “Glad to see things are still well oiled.” When Jakov did not reply, Khan turned to Rafik. “Show him your hand, nephew.”

Rafik obliged. He released his grip on the knife inside his pocket as Khan propelled him forward until he stood so close to the man called Jakov that he could hear the soft whine of metal from his metallic arm. Hesitantly, Rafik pulled his hand out of his pocket and peeled Dominique’s glove off with his other hand. Jakov leaned forward and took Rafik’s hand in his, studying his fingers intently. After a while his metal hand stopped moving.

“Radja,” he said softly, not lifting his eyes from Rafik’s hand, “I can’t hear myself think. Please ask our hosts again to quiet their damn noise, and make sure you are polite about it.” Rafik heard heavy footsteps behind him and the opening and shutting of the door. Jakov released Rafik’s hand and patted his head in what was obviously an unfamiliar gesture, then leaned back and nodded at Khan.

The metal arm disappeared briefly under the table and came up holding a bottle, A moment later, two small glasses appeared as well. “This is a rare one,” Jakov said as his hand manoeuvred and poured. “Pre-Catastrophe. You would not believe how much metal I spent on only two crates, but it was worth it.” The liquid settled in the small glass and Khan accepted it. The part of Jakov’s face that was made of flesh twisted into a smile as he lifted his own glass. “Freedom, Metal,” he announced, and then there was the sound of a shot, followed by a woman’s shriek, which caused Khan to spill half his drink and swear. A series of shots followed, after which the music stopped abruptly.

“Much better,” commented Jakov and with a quick toss, drained his glass through the corner of his mouth. Khan hastily followed suit with what was left in his own glass. Jakov poured them another round.

When the liquid was gulped and the glasses knocked resolutely down on the table Khan asked, “So, is my nephew here the real deal?”

“We shall see shortly,” said Jakov. Again, his metal hand dove under the table and brought up a metal box, roughly the size of a hand. There were three holes on the side of the box, each roughly the size of a finger. Rafik was ordered to stand closer to Jakov, who turned his seat so he could face Rafik. His metal hand gripped the boy’s shoulder as he brought himself even closer.

“Now, young man, I want you to put your fingers here, here, and here.”

With every here Jakov’s human finger poined at a different hole and the metallic hand squeezed Rafik’s shoulder lightly, with just enough pressure to cause discomfort, silently promising crushing pain if the boy did not comply.

Heart thumping in terror, Rafik placed his fingers where he was shown. The metallic hand released its grip on his shoulder. “Good, now sit down over here and relax,” Jakov said. A guard slid a comfortable-looking chair over and guided Rafik with a gentle push to sit in it. Rafik tried to pull his fingers out of the box, but found that it was impossible. The metal grip on his shoulder was back. Jakov was standing too close for comfort.

“I said relax,” said Jakov as he pressed several buttons on the lid of the box. “This will not hurt, much.”

As he pressed the last button the box hummed, and Rafik felt a strong jolt of pain hitting his fingers and travelling up his arm. He must have screamed—he certainly heard something resembling his own voice—but it was as if he were screaming from a long distance away. He was somewhere else, somewhere safe, enveloped by darkness and staring into emptiness, happy to be away from the people and the noise. They were all bad people, he knew, even Khan, even Dominique—they were like the Tarakan infidels he was warned about, and Jakov was the worst of them. He was a metal man. The man who lets metal be a part of him is cursed for eternity. He and all of his shall perish in holy fire.

In the darkness, shapes and symbols began to form. They were closer than the symbols in his dreams, much less numerous and all drawn in a faint greyish colour. The symbols moved sluggishly around and in obvious patterns. Rafik stopped one symbol from moving the wrong way before he realised what he was doing. Then he did it with another symbol, and another, again and again. The pattern was so evident that Rafik almost laughed. He quickly stopped the symbols to form half the pattern, and then, with a surge of inexplicable pride, he exposed the entire pattern. There was a soft buzzing sound and a flash of light, and he was suddenly in the room again, with his fingers out of the box.

“I did it,” he said excitedly, “I solved the puzzle.”

“Yes, you did.” Jakov’s half grin was as wide as it was unpleasant.

“Are you sure?” asked Khan. “It was only a couple of seconds. What do you mean, ‘puzzle’? What did you see in there?”

Rafik was too confused to answer, but he heard Jakov say, “Yes, I’m sure, only his kind can do this, anyone else gets a mighty jolt, believe me. What you have here, my friend, is a genuine Puzzler.”

Khan whooped and even clapped his hands, unable to contain his joy, but Jakov kept calm and turned back to the boy. “Tell me, Rafik, who is Khan to you?”

Rafik turned his head towards Khan and said, “He is my uncle.”

“Really? Uncle?” Jakov’s made a show of turning his gaze back and forth from boy to man. “Strange, you don’t look alike at all. Even your skin colour is different.”

“Uncle twice removed,” Khan said quickly. “Or even three times. I don’t know, my family’s history is a bit … eh … complex, shall we say.”