The Lost Puzzler

His companions chuckled and exchanged a glance.

“Assuming I don’t want to spread my wings tonight,” I asked, “how much?”

He surveyed me again, taking his time, perhaps to see how I handled the pressure. “You carrying anything?”

“Just me,” I replied, opening my cloak to show I was unarmed—which was a mistake, of course. The man—whom I judged to be the group’s leader—smiled to himself.

“Eighty in coin or kind,” he said.

It was absolute robbery and I knew it.

“Thirty,” I countered without thinking, which was my second and nearly fatal mistake. My offer was too low. I was behaving like an amateur, and they sensed it.

One of the other men took a few casual steps to the side, preparing to flank me. “I wonder if you actually could fly,” their leader said, flapping his arms for emphasis. “Perhaps the wings materialize when you’re already in the air? Maybe we should test the theory. What do you think?”

I let my eyes see through them. Their skin faded to transparency, revealing bones and muscle and, more important, knives, knuckle-dusters, power daggers, and stun grenades.

They were already closing in on me, about to pounce, when I opened my own fist to let the one closest to me see the ShieldGuard-issue marked power clip nestled there. The man actually recoiled, and before the others could react further I fished the second one from my pocket and held it between thumb and forefinger, for all to see. The power clips were obviously Tarakan original, two perfect round balls emanating a blue hue that indicated they were fully charged. The clips were the sort that powered many of the artifacts in the city and beyond, even the SuperTrucks traveling on the Tarakan highways, and could only be found deep within the mysterious nodes of the City of Towers. Long ago, when Salvationist crews roamed Tarakan Valley, power clips like these were in abundance, but nowadays things are different.

The easy brutality faded from the leader’s face, replaced by something between calculation and anxiety.

“All I want is to get down to the Pit quickly and quietly,” I said, tossing the clips over to him. He grimaced even as he plucked them from the air. As valuable as they were, being in possession of such items these days was a capital offence.

He eyed me with considerably more respect than before, then nodded and pocketed the items. The clips marked me either as a dangerous and resourceful man or the lackey of such an individual—but either way, a worthy client.

The man nearest the cabin door opened it, darted inside, and returned holding a large, alarmingly rusty metal cage, a mansized version of a singing bird’s cage I once saw in a village’s market fair. He held it with both hands, his face already red with exertion, and handed it to one of the wannabe Trolls, who picked it up with only one hand. As his shoulder brace whined in protest, the Troll tilted the cage sideways, grinning proudly at the show of strength, while his equally large colleague attached a rusty hook to the top and a very long, much-too-thin metal cable. The cage was then slammed down in front of me with a loud bang and more than a few dust clouds.

“Ever done this before?” the leader asked, and chuckled nastily when I shook my head. “Just crawl in—the hatch is quite small, but without your wings you’ll fit in nicely, and hold tight.” He indicated the wooden handlebars inside. “It’s not a long ride, but it’s bumpy.”

“Who’s waiting at the bottom?” I asked as I entered the cage.

“Three to six guys, tops.” He hesitated only briefly before deciding to share a tip. “I’d go with the bearded one. He’s an old-timer, a little wired but a tough Troll, and his metal’s still sharp.”

I nodded and grasped the unpleasantly slimy handlebars, but any thought of letting them go vanished as the cage was picked up and I was shoved unceremoniously through the hole in the wall, feet first.

“Nice doing business with ya,” I heard the leader call as I plunged into darkness.

4 (#ulink_94a3a02c-f60a-549b-9d5d-9a97b894569a)

It was a short but nasty free fall before the cage suddenly stopped, probably just a practical joke, but enough to make me heave the contents of my stomach. On the bright side, throwing up stopped me from crying out loud at the agonising pain the abrupt stop caused my shoulders. After what must have been a short pause—swinging in a cage high above ground tends to distort any sense of time—descent resumed at a fast but bearable pace. I still held the handles tight, as if this could somehow save me if I was suddenly dropped to my death. I decided it was better to look around instead of down. It was easy to spot two of the Tarakan lifts to my far left. They were floating majestically in full artificial light, each carrying dozens of people, propelled by mysterious Tarakan technology. I, on the other hand, was swinging in the darkness inside a rusty cage, my life hanging, literally, in the hands of an oversized and most likely overdosed Troll.

Another notable difference was that the people on the discs were sheltered by an invisible barrier from the smoke and the heat that rose from below, while I was coughing up what was left of my guts and feeling as if I were being lowered into an oven. I turned my head away from the ascending smoke and looked up. From where I was looking, the tops of the towers above me seemed as unreachable as the stars.

The low, rumbling noise, a constant feature of the Pit, signalled my descent was coming to an end.

The cage landed on the ground with a bone-crushing thud. I still managed to retain my grip on the handlebars despite my body’s painful protests. Thankfully, the cage remained upright. Fearing that the cage would ascend before I managed to clear it, I forwent dignity and let my backside lead my body out of the cage.

Even with my back to the yard I could sense there were people watching me with professional interest. From the edge of my vision I saw a slender figure, perhaps a woman, stepping to a large bonfire, the only source of light in the area. As soon as I was out of the cage she picked up a burning log and waved it several times in the air. The cage jolted and disappeared into the darkness above.

I took a step and barely managed to stay upright. It was not just the rocking motion of the cage that had made me unstable; the ground was shaking. This was yet another phenomenon peculiar to the Pit. It was called the Downtown Swing or the Newcomers Half-Step—a slight rattle that was enough to make some visitors walk unsteadily or even seasick, and mark them as easy prey for the locals. It was just one of the many reasons why visitor protection was such a big business in the Pit. Walking without it meant you were either competent or a fool, and locals knew exactly how to differentiate.

The Pit was always a wild place. Years ago the ShieldGuards had full control of most of it, but things have changed. Nowadays it was the part of the city where you had to fend for yourself, or pay for someone to protect your back. Whether coming through Cart’s Way or dismounting from one of the discs, buying visitor’s protection was as close to an orderly affair as you could get in the Pit. Mixed groups of men and women were spread around the perimeter like a welcoming committee. Officially they called themselves Guides, but everyone referred to them as the Companies. All were armed to the teeth, of course, and consisted of ex-Salvationists, now unemployed augmented Trolls who needed to pay for their Skint addiction, a drug that was becoming dangerously sparse in the city. The different company groups had names such as Metal Fists or the Bloody Blades, wore colourful matching uniforms, and stood next to signs indicating prices, which were, unsurprisingly, pretty much the same. You could, of course, walk away without hiring anyone, but your chances of keeping your belongings, or your life, were nothing one would wager on.

I, however, was not walking off a disc or climbing out of a cart, I had just climbed, arse first, out of a rusty metal cage. If the Companies were generally made up of thugs who would rob you if they weren’t paid to protect you, the people who surrounded me were the kind Companies thought of as too unstable to employ. There was no etiquette here, so when I heard heavy footsteps behind me, accompanied by the unmistakable metallic whine of unoiled hinges, I had a pretty good idea what I was about to face. Still, the mountain of flesh and rust I confronted when I turned around left me speechless and gaping.

When Tarakan artifacts were found and reintroduced to society, there were plenty of men and more than a few women who were tempted by the idea of inhuman strength, stamina, and speed, and thus Trolls came to be. It was only natural that some people would take their lust for physical superiority to an obscene level, collecting and attaching augmentations to their bodies with no sense of what they were doing to their appearance or their mental stability.

The Troll facing me had only one healthy eye; the other was a messy, stitched-up job, most likely the remains of a botched attempt at attaching an aiming mechanism. His right arm and shoulder were completely covered in metal, as well as both legs from the knees up. Where the right arm should have been was an enormous power cannon, braced to his rib cage with metal rods and poorly attached wires that ran up the right side of his head. That was the prettiest part, the rest was too much to take in.

I didn’t need my enhanced sight to notice the distinct green markings around his nose, a clear sign that the monster was a hard Skint user. Skint considerably dulled the pain when the body tried to repel the attached augs, but too much of it made Trolls even more unstable and susceptible to violent episodes.

This Troll—I couldn’t decide whether to call it a “him” or an “it”—prodded me with his free left hand and said, “You need protection.” There was no question in his tone whatsoever. He had a squeaky, unnaturally high voice, which would have been absolutely hilarious if I were telling this story over scented wine to a bunch of drunken friends in a tavern up in the Upper Spires, but it was just scary and odd from where I was standing.

I glanced nervously to my right; the slender figure kept her distance.

“Hey, don’t be looking over there,” barked the mountain of metal. He prodded me again. “I’m your Troll. Look at this cannon, eh?” He waved the massive cannon in front of my face as if it were a children’s toy instead of a weapon that normally needed the strength of three men just to be picked up. “This baby can blast through stone walls, eh? Clean a whole street in two shots. Mister, you want me”—he pointed the cannon at himself—“protecting you”—and aimed it at my face. There was a very distinct suggestion of threat in the Troll’s voice, but the high pitch made it dangerously unconvincing.

I peeked to my left and spotted a man who was watching us from a short distance with what I instinctively felt was quiet disdain. He had a white beard, cropped short in a fashion long out of style. It was probably the individual whom the gang leader so helpfully recommended just before throwing me off the ledge. I caught his eye. He nodded once and began walking slowly towards us. This time the prodding from the huge Troll was strong enough to make me take a step back.

“Hey, don’t be looking over there. I’m the escort you want, man, twenty in coin or kind. We have a deal?”

The man approaching us was a Troll as well, but the old-fashioned kind, not an oversized, crazed junkyard who pumped himself up with Tarakan toys. He looked like the Trolls who used to do Salvation runs, back when that wasn’t just a suicide mission. He certainly showed more flesh than his bigger version, and there was no trace of Skint on his face. Metal gauntlets covered his arms from the elbows down, the back of each hand marked by three dart ducts. Short tubes were protruding from the side of his neck, in the classic fashion of a Salvationist crew tactical Lieutenant, but no wirings were attached to them. The rest of his body was covered in flex armour so worn that it was grey rather than black. From the way he walked I guessed he was also wearing a torso brace and a spine protector.

“Hey, look at me, fleshy. Twenty, yes?” insisted the giant, but the man was now close enough to intervene. He eyed my face just for a heartbeat, taking in my facial tattoos, and nodded at me.

“I believe I can counteroffer this … man.” His tone of voice was mild, but the word man was overpronounced and probably meant as an insult.

The metal monster sure seemed to take it that way. “Lift up, sucker,” he warned, but the man ignored him and fixed me with a calm stare.

“Where are you heading?” he asked.

“Atrass District, but perhaps other places as well,” I answered, trying to ignore the cannon swinging angrily above my head.

“I said take a lift, Galinak,” the large Troll squeaked again.

“Twenty-five in coin, no kind,” the man said, not taking his eyes off me.

The bigger Troll grinned in triumph. “Don’t listen to the old man—his metal is rusty. I tell you what.” He leaned close enough for me to smell the stench emanating from his metal-tipped teeth. “I’ll sweeten the deal. Fifteen in coin or kind, special price for you, deal?”

I looked back at Galinak, who shrugged and said, “Thirty in coin, no kind.”

That didn’t make sense. He was supposed to be haggling the price down, not up. Even the big Troll managed to work out the rudimentary economics and laughed out loud.

“See? The flesh brain is at the top tower. What you want? Flesh hookers? Dope? I know everyone here. I’ll take you around the block for some good time, no problems. Now give me fifteen.” The last phrase was said with desperate urgency.

Galinak raised an eyebrow and said, “I am about to raise the price to thirty-five.”

“Thirty,” I said quickly, knowing I was paying Company price for an old, burned-out Salvationist with no visible weaponry while making a very unstable giant of a Troll who was holding—I read the letters as he repeatedly swung the cannon by my face—a “GY blaster 2015-d special edition” extremely angry.