Beginning the Mission's Second Phase

Perhaps it is the newfound optimism in my mission, or maybe it’s simply the medications from the enclave in this small lake, but for whichever reason the swim back to shore is much easier than that out here. It still takes just under an hour, but the ordeal is less exhausting. Climbing out of the lake, I approach my grazing partner. “Hey, man,” I say quietly to my horse, “Everything okay?” He neighs in assent. I let him continue grazing as I pull out from my suit’s side the communication relay given to me by what was once one of fourteen, now One-of-Four. Putting the earpiece in and positioning the mic under my jawline, I set the body of the device back on my belt. My suit melts around it, though this time it does not engulf it fully but only slides around the bulk. I depress the button at the top and ask, “This is Triangle. Can you hear me One-of-Four? Over.” I lift my thumb off the button.

It takes a moment. A pause that lasts likely less than a second but feels like it lasts much longer. Then, I hear in my ears the slow, blank reply. “I speak for the Four. You are heard. Over.” The cadence is off, like that of a navigation device rather than a person. But, such is to be expected with allies like mine.

I push my thumb down once more. “Have the four of you figured out any more about the target? Like where I might find the guy? Over.” I lift once more.

Another pause. This one lasts a bit longer. They’re doing what they do. Making predictions. Being only four, and with their models as off as they have been in recent years, it takes a bit of time. I knew it would. It gives me a chance to pull some jerky out from my partner’s suit and grab a bite to eat with the big fella.

My not quite a meal is interrupted mostly through. “Records incomplete. Knights-Craftsmaster Alberto Montez was last recorded at the Knight Safehouse in Troy, Michigan. This occurred in the early days of the Quiet War, two years prior to the Rise. Current models show that region uninhabitable. We could provide our current predictions as to the target’s whereabouts, however factoring in the deviation from expectation caused by the Quiet War itself, the Rise, and the Apocalypse, we are confident that, without the addition of presently unknown information, our analysis is flawed. Over.”

I sigh. This couldn’t be easy. As I finish my snack, I think. If there isn’t anything documented on the fourteen’s server later than two years prior to the Rise, the guy probably went to ground. Unlike the Builders, the Knights had an inkling of what was coming, after all. And, according to my…well, my sources we’ll call them, the knights were well stocked in terms of armament when the Rise itself began in earnest. So he could oversee production from Troy. Making it likely a production facility. And therefore a target. Explaining the uninhabitability. If it was a production facility, though, then during the rise that whole group would have produced something to get them the hell out of dodge. Which in turn means they could be anywhere. No use heading towards any specific region. He wasn’t involved in the battle of New Orleans, which means he didn’t flee to the Knight’s leadership, at least not initially. I smile. I know where to look. Or, more accurately, what to look for. Putting my bowler hat and letting the suit twist up around and across my face to meet it, I push down on the button one more time. “Would you mind getting me the names of all the Knights-Craftsmen you have a record of being in the Troy Safehouse during the Quiet War? One of their pasts holds the key to finding our target. You have roughly three days to collate this data, as I pushed my partner somewhat hard yesterday. Can you do it? Over.”

I don’t bother to wait for the response before I climb onto my partner’s back. Our suits meet and I nudge him to start our journey towards the nearest Light Field Office. That in Billings. We begin the trek at a walking pace. Over my headpiece, I hear the reply from my computer allies. “It can be done. It may not be a short list, however. We will provide the information when you have reached your destination. Over.” Just as I expected. It will be shorter than they expect, though definitely not short. I’ve been in a Knights production facility before, albeit not with their knowledge or while it was in operation. My best guess, given the timeframe and the amount of weaponry had during the Rise, Montez had about twenty, twenty-five Craftsmen with him. No less than fifteen, no more than thirty. A workable, though long list.

The ride through the mountains is, like before, safe and slow. The wildlife that likely keeps most people away does not bother us, as the nature of our suits is just unnatural enough to make most wildlife uncomfortable in their presence. Hell, the only reason my partner isn’t uncomfortable around my suit is that I gave him one of his own. After we cross the mountainous part, we should turn north. Straight north from there should take us to a road, then directly Northeast should take us to the city itself. It is already dark well before we’ve finished our mountainous trek, but I figure we can push it a bit. My partner did get several hours of rest earlier and darkness isn’t really a problem for us. I look down to check, and indeed my partner’s suit has wrapped itself around and over his eyes, forming some kind of goggle-like structure. We continue into the evening.

It grows quite dark soon enough and, checking out the comparatively flat area in front of us, then gazing at the clear sky, I decide we’re at a good place to rest until morning. I couldn’t see any roads, there looks to be some water a bit away, but not close enough for watering animals to bug us. Climbing down, I lay on the ground and rest. I suspect my partner does the same, though I don’t check. He knows what’s up and is smart enough to take care of himself. That’s why I’m comfortable calling him my partner and not my pet or ride.

We wake in the morning, eat some rations together, then head out. Skirting the mountains and heading north, we pass by several small roads that would no longer be drivable, and smaller farm towns that likely don’t have anyone in them anymore. I don’t care enough to check. By late afternoon, however, I do finally reach an actual national highway. Not an interstate, fortunately, but the road I’m looking for nonetheless. Rather than cross it, I turn and begin to head northeast. I ride into the evening and, as night falls, I once again find myself coming upon the same road. Crossing it, I find a small farmhouse. Leaving my partner to rest and recoup in the yard, eating and sleeping as he wills, I break into the house, open the garage for my partner in case it rains, and for the first time in what feels like an eternity but is actually only about a week and a half, I sleep in a proper bed. A not entirely comfortable and sheetless bed, but a bed nonetheless.

The next morning, I wake up, head back to the pantry area of the farmhouse, and cook up some canned beans. I don’t even check the expiration date, because, being in sealed cans, even if it’s expired it can’t be that bad. I assume. And, since the internet doesn’t really work anymore, there’s no way for me to check that and prove my gut feelings wrong. After my beans for breakfast, I head outside. My partner has made himself quite comfortable in this farmhouse’s lawn. It doesn’t look like he went into the open garage, so I’m guessing it didn’t rain last night. Together, we resume our journey.

By early afternoon, we’re in the city. Or at least, the ghost town that remains where the city once was. By late afternoon, I ride right into the Light’s field office. Sliding off my horse, I pat him on the side to let him know he can relax, then I head towards the file room. The room is near pitch black. I don’t mind. I can see perfectly well in the dark. After forming the keys and unlocking all the cabinets, I find our cabinet containing our knowledge of the personal lives of the Knight-Craftsmen. Pulling out the Montez file, I skim it. Nothing in his past stands out in my subconscious. Pressing the button on my belt, I ask. “One-of-Four, have you finished the list for me? Over.”

There is a pause as the words take their time to reach them, as long as that first pause, both in time felt and time passed. Then, my earpiece crackles alive. “Yes. Would you like us to read them out to you? Over.”

“I would, though if you leave a two second pause between each name for me to find the files, that would be appreciated. Over,” I reply.

The process begins. I hear a name, find the file. I don’t bother looking in the files yet. Not until I have them all. Hear the name, find the drawer, pull the file. Name, drawer, file. A rhythm, though one I’m not particularly fond of. If only Stanton were still alive. This is the sort of thing he adores doing. Adored. And he was good at it, too. He’d probably have all the files pulled much faster than I do. But, just because it takes a bit longer, doesn’t mean I can’t do this part.

It’s twenty one names, about what I expected it to be. Putting all the files against my chest, I let my suit warp around them to hold them. Going through these files is going to take me a while, and I’m not about to let my partner sit inside without any food while I do. Heading back to the lobby, I get on my horse’s back once more and walk out of the Light field office. We go to a park where I can see a bench for my own work and plenty of grass for my partner to graze upon. Letting him go about what he will. I take my small box, remove some powder from within, and draw a perimeter around the park. Laying one of my idols in the center of the park, I bleed my wrists and face, draw the sigil around the statuette, and chant the words. The perimeter bursts aflame for but an instant, then is gone, along with the sigil. Only the statuette remains. So long as it’s there, nothing is getting in unless I say it can. Sitting on the bench, I get to work.

I read filings and tax returns and reports on these people through the afternoon and evening. Settling in for the night, I sleep. Then in the morning, I grab some jerky and get right back to work. It takes me until late afternoon to find my answer. The secret sauce that bugs my subconscious. Mr. Montez owns a pharmaceutical plant about two miles from a large-scale metal machining operation owned by the family of one of the other craftsmen, one Georgia Roberts. Combined, that’s everything a mechanical mysticist, even one who doesn’t think of it that way, would need to construct just about anything they’d want. And it is a remote enough place that they could feel safe doing it. I inform my computerized compatriots, “I’ve got it. It will be a bit of a trek, but I suspect I can find our Craftsmaster. How do you feel about the Upper Peninsula of Michigan? Over.”