Torrin sat in the back of his transport, periodically switching between looking out of the window bored and skimming papers.
He was nearly a week from the capital by car and had decided the vehicle was rather sheik. If not his taste. The vehicle's bonnet was a vibrant blue, black rims and a matching roof. A spare tyre on the back. He appreciated it though, Arron would've sooner shipped him to the front in a munitions crate.
In fact the old internal investigations officer had done something similar to Torrin before. He had a job in a southern capital. Viji. Named for their sea god, at least before the inquisition purged their faith. Arron would never let him forget.
" 'It's imperative to the mission,' The old bastard said." Torrin still thought it was because he was late arriving at the canal to set off. Maybe this was a way of apology or maybe it was a shiny coffin. He'd never been too clear on him and his mentor's relationship. He Also knew he wouldn't send him to his death unnecessarily. The fact that he was being sent there at all was a testament to how severe it was, the capital would usually just send military police.
The landscape rolled, small hills and man-made quarries decorate the landscape, burial grounds for dead industry. In between were vast sights of grass, a turquoise green in the blue sunlight. In the distance the grey smog of civilization rolled ever closer blotting out the royal blue sky. Brooms town It was called, a depleted edge town a hundred miles from anywhere relevant.
"We'll have to stop here, Laus." He said to the back of his driver's balding head.
"What would you want to stop here for?" He asked, more bemused than confused.
"Little errands." Torrin replied slowly, he was rummaging. Looking for a file, he skimmed through the alphabet to 'L' then found Larin. Christopher Larin. Bishop for twenty years his career was unmarked, two daughters, wife left for a city man.
Involved in the deformed and disabled liquidation program for seven years. Used to work out of the capital as a vicar. ran here to hide from our wolves, likely got a high position from a friend still in the capital. care houses managed by Christopher were found to have made nearly forty men and women disappear each year, a total of two hundred assumed dead as well as.
These two numbers were consistent at every Care house he managed fifteen in total.
He then returned the file to his case upon reaching the part about the man's family; he didn't want to read that again. Besides, he hated reading about the people who had hunted him.
.- .-. .-. .. ...- .- .-..
Broom's town was a nasty place, Torrin decided, soot-sodden and unkept.
People. Coated in smoke dust like the buildings they trod past, their eyes as dead as their hearts. They trod mud sodden, slowly stomping to an early end or redundancy in whatever factory or plant they had been assigned to. The ones not working dragged themselves down to the single drinking house who's musty sign stood as the one thing even remotely bright in the main avenue, 'town bar and eatery.' The sign said with little pride, flickering like the eyes of a marionette.
The car jolted suddenly before coming to a stop, a trail of curses came from his driver as he got out to see the damage.
Torrin stepped out of the back and rounded the front. "Everything alright?" Said Torrin, patting Laurence's shoulder.
"All fine, sir," he replied. "Just a bit of wood." he pulled a mangled fence post wrapped in wire from under the car and hurled it to the side. "Just need to replace the tire now," he smiled.
Torrin nodded, returned the smile, he looked around at the dark buildings, the drinking house. He sighed.
"How far are we till the next town?" he asked, with a heavy sigh. Sharp stabbing pains shot down his wrists.
"About another fifty miles to Mallough then another hundred to Rofus, then a good two hundred to Burkenworth."
"Laus, I didn't ask for the list." Torrin said exhaustively, He didn't know of Torrin's circumstances.
"on top of that." He continued, as if Torrin had said nothing. "Another hundred and twenty to the river Riorden." he made a look of consideration, a rare thing for Laurence, apart from his occasionally kind demeanour and frightful fits of rage, the man's face was a statue. "Maybe a day, day and a half." he eventually came up with.
"Could have said just that, man." Torrin said brushing his hand through his hair, he'd forgotten to have it cut before leaving and for some reason the price of a good haircut in the outer grids was laughable.
"Like you would have remembered anyway." The older man said, pushing himself back up against one of the car's black wheel rims. "And when will you take those gloves off? They probably smell of shit."
"I'm going to find the town's Comm station. I need to send messages back to our people in the capital." The old driver accepted this with a nod as Torrin began down the road to the square.
"Don't be too long. I don't like driving in the dark much." He called after Torrin, who Called back his understanding. "Twat." The man yelled. Torrin waved it off. He'd sounded angry to Torrin but he'd gotten used to the man's bipolar moods on their long journey to Riordan's field, had it projected at him as and when he'd won at cards. Besides, there was still likely three hours of light left anyway.
Like all towns in the empire, Broom's town was as close to a perfect square, primary functions for the town's success lined the rim of a town centered by an obelisk carved from slate, which was itself, surrounded with stones that to Torrin didn't think were from this region. The obelisk itself was engraved with the near unreadable code language of the builder, he noted also.
'How old is this town.' He mused. 'it's old enough to have code carved iconography but recent enough to have the stone imported.'
Torrin walked, scanning the square, other than the house of the builder of course, his next destination, The comm station stood proud as any of god's buildings. Clean, unlike half the buildings and homes in this place, apart from the temple. He had business there too. it had large almost monolithic concrete pillars fronting the near entirely concrete building. It stood out in a way that Torrin while finding off putting had slowly learnt to appreciate. There was a simple perfection to it, practicality manifested in architecture and religion too as the builders' temple was even more garish. The construction stood twice as tall, almost fifty feet high, the first ten feet of it was small, maybe fifteen by fifteen it served as an entrance and baggage room to leave any coats, once passed the first floor the concrete structure expanded to more than twice the bases radius and that is where the true temple lies. That was supported by concrete pillars laser carved with honeycomb patterning.
Upon entering the Comm station he found a series of three counters, though only one of them was presently attended.
A kindly old woman with frayed clothes and haunted eyes greeted him with a smile and processed the three letters he had; one for Arron, another for Markus, his partner and finally one for Marie.
None of them were too important, just reports of goings on in some of the larger towns, a letter to Markus to keep him happy.
It did give him a reason to be there though, such as precariously keeping him sane and giving him an alibi.
The journey had not been bad at first but after five days travel monotony had come crashing in.
"Are you new or travelling, youngster?" she asked in a dry voice aged and threadbare.
"Passing through." He answered by leaning one hand on the counter. "Name's Torrin. I believe you called."
The lady drew back, surprised by my forwardness, then frowned.
"Thought your capital lot would be more discreet." She said, raising her brows to articulate this point.
"No point in a place like this." Torrin dryly. "What's the population? A thousand, at most."
"Population of eight hundred and you still have me here."
"Fair point, so?" He asks, gesturing out the window and across the square to the temple.
"He should be there now." The lady said, filing the letters into a small box to later be scanned in. "Nobody else should be there, the others upon learning of his actions chose to give him up."
"At least deaths will be limited then." He replied, glancing back through the window at the industrial building. She grimaced at that. "The state is a clock, I'm just here, correcting for the right time." He affirmed her, but thanked the lady and pressed his two fore fingers to the brass Builders mark, (several interconnected triangles creating a loose circle in which the likeness of god was lasered into the fragments, as if he were refracting.) which was stamped into the red wood counter. He set a card about the size of his thumb on the counter, it was worth five credits under imperial currency.
What surprised him was the hand that took his payment was missing all but three fingers and a long gnarled scar, the kind made by serrated blades.
Maybe there were lumber yards here once.
the injury itself was enough to get reallocated, she probably managed to get this job because of the legislation Torrin and Marie set in place. the need of the singularity was no longer the priority. Though, the injury was easily enough to face prejudice it was not enough to be written off, a perfect conscript for the cause.
As he walked away, Torrin only then noticed the beauty at hand in the room. It had been some years since he had been a joiner's apprentice but the furniture present in the waiting area could pay for several months rent in the capital, likely a house here. A table, in the corner caught Torrin's eye on the way out, it was engraved with a likeness of one of the builders' marionettes on each leg, a surprisingly accurate likeness by Torrin's memory, especially for one made by a man.
Once back out onto the street he decided to potter around and see if there was much of interest, he found there wasn't; that drinking house turned out to actually be the only one in the town and more than that there were only a hand full of actual businesses, Torrin had seen towns outside of the grid that were set up better. He knew why of course, this far out to the border the only things being manufactured here would be enamelware and munitions, it was probably why there isn't a good coiffeur in the area. shipments of certain goods while quickened by the invention of motor vehicles will still take time and with the war, fewer and fewer are willing to come up to this end of the region for fear of Chimeara, so getting any kind of machine made tools would be extremely costly.
As unrealistic of an idea as a Chimaera reaching this far south was, it wasn't unheard of, Torrin knew this better than most as he studied the north-men and their language in preparation during his journey. Sparse as knowledge of the northern hoards is. Of course he too had never seen them or their beasts. Torrin decided he couldn't blame the shippers for their disquiet, before noticing he'd been standing on the side of the street for several minutes staring at the temple.
To stave off attentions he did another lap of the town finding a bakery at which he bought a pastry of bacon, potato, peppers and cheese, common delicacies for the working class.
"Busy day, Torrin." he mumbled to himself tossing the wrapper in a barrel as he passed, pulled a cigarette from a pocket in his travel wear, a large weather-proofed poncho and a pair of brown trousers that he'd sewn extra pockets into during the journey. Partially out of boredom, partially out of necessity, motor carts were efficient though also cramped things and Torrin enjoyed picking up little trinkets as he went.
He got out a lighter that Rebekah had taught him to make out of a bullet shell and sparked the end and looked at the name engraved on the side, 'Markus" before pocketing the thing again.
He took a long drag, still staring at the building. They were planning on banning cigarettes, a circumstance that Torrin hated, though would accept the moment the prohibition came.
It was time to work.
Torrin began marching for the temple. He slicked his back and threw his cigarette. He needed to get into character.
"The need of the state over rights all else." He told himself. Pressing his march. "It may die one day but I will make sure it's after I'm dead." He continued his adage. Passing solid slate monoliths, reaching the stairs. "Cut the sick branches so the rest may thrive."
He reached the door.
- .... . / ..-. .-.. .. --. .... - / --- ..-. / - .... . / .... --- .-.. -.-- / -- .- -.
Bishop Christopher Larin sat in his office tossing documents into the fireplace; manifestos, private letters, essays and invoices. Anything with a name and signature. He didn't have much time, the agent knew something. That Christoph was sure of.
He pulled another stack of papers and dumped them on the fire. He wondered how long ago that dead weight, waste of space shit at the Comm centre started looking into him.
He didn't feel guilty for his actions, it was the will of his god. This generation would never understand, there can never be a place for the miss-born in the singularity.
He got up and quickly before leaving grabbed a pocket watch his mother had given him off his desk, she had given it to him at his graduation, how proud she had been.
He went back to the fireplace and took a picture of him and his son Alech from its frame. He looked at it longingly, missing younger days, before the commandment came through from the capital. At least he could thank Fredrick for tipping him off, he was a kind boy. He waited outside for him, he offered to drive Christopher out of the town on his family's truck and for that he could be glad.
At least one of the posterity understands what must be done. Fifteen years and they wouldn't leave him be. Larin thought
It was then when a loud wet thud echoed, dull through the concrete wall, Christopher barely heard it but it was there. For a moment there was silence. Then the sound of footsteps, slow, echoing off the boundaries of the barren hallway outside.
A knock came. Loud, clear, it echoed through the old study and shuddered Christopher's very soul. The handle turned on the metal door and it creaked open to reveal a man in a black poncho, with lots of pockets on his trousers.
"The acolytes are gone. Your friend is too. Unfortunately." The agent said to the bishop as he casually paced the perimeter of the office stopping by a window in the last light of their faintly blue sun. He looked almost white in that sun, if not for the heavy coat to Christoph, he looked almost like a painting he'd seen of one of the builders' marionettes. like an actor coming out for his scene.
Even his collar length hair, jet black it almost reflected the light it was bathed in. His height helped the effect.
"He was a good man, you know. I watched that boy grow." The bishop said. Holding his hands together and bowing to the door, where Fredrick lay dead. He knew he wouldn't have time for a proper prayer.
"I don't like killing bystanders I'll admit, but I don't have time to fix your corruption."
"And what kind of man are you?" The bishop asked, mortified. looking back to the door, seeing the blood pooling there. " an agent of god, killing a man in the house of god? A bishop as well, non the less." He raised his arms to empathise the perceived absurdity of it. He moved slowly to wherever the other side of the room from the agent was.
Torrin wagged his finger and gave a smug smile, though his eyes were lead.
"You see, that's where you're wrong, Christopher." He said, the older man starting at the use of his first name.
"Mouth of a wolf, eyes like a lambs. I am no agent of god, I'm an agent of the state." He continued forward, it was then that Christopher realised how tall the man was.
"Your god is not here and I think he'd care little about protecting you." He spat. "This place, this 'house of god' so you call it, is nothing but an empty cradle to a dying world." He now stood over the bishop, his face half lit from the fire.
Torrin spoke frankly now. "Your god has been gone for a long time, and it was men like you who did it, men who sought to 'purify.'" Torrin smiled at the man the same way he'd smile at a child, Chistoph's face had now gone from afraid, to confused, uncertain.
"If your state gave you an order, you would follow it." The smaller man looked up at his murderer. "My god gave me mine command and I followed it. Do what you must, arrest me. I will go willingly."
"You're not lucky enough to get arrested." Torrin said. He grabbed the frail bishop by the back of his head, kicked out his legs, slamming his face into the seat at his desk. His nose shattered with a wet crunching sound. The man grunted, then screamed as he fell over the chair, then slumped to the ground, blood pooling on the grey marble tile.
"You knew the people you sent would die." Torrin said, kicking down on the man. He looked at the Bishop balled on the floor, seeming even smaller in his garb which now seemed to envelop him. Pathetic, that was the only word that came to Torrin.
"And what." the man said in a nasal voice. "The old; the crippled, the deformed and neurotic, they were useless, expenses to society." Torrin's mud coated boot came down on the man's head, bishop Larin was barely cognisant now.
Torrin crouched by the bishop. "Your people used to hunt people like me for sport." He said, eyes now denser than lead. pulling at the fingers of his glove, he removed the thing to reveal a prosthetic hand. From pinky to forefinger the shell was made of ceramic, nearly identically coloured to his skin. The other part from forefinger to thumb and his palm, was transparent and inside you could see hundreds of thousands of tiny cogs, which worked in reaction to Torrin's nervous system through a micro computer inside his wrist.
Torrin was one of only five people in the capital allowed such a piece.
Arron had his communicator. He didn't know what the other three were.
He took pride in that fact. It didn't save him from the stabbing shocks.
The old man, battered on the floor, looked at it in astonishment as he pulled himself up against the bench he'd been broken against, to him such technology would look like something out of legend. It was probably decades more advanced than anything within four hundred miles of where they stood.
"A gift from the builder, why?" Christoph marvelled. His eyes darting to Torrin's a new, almost reverence, Torrin interpreted.
"In a sense." Said Torrin, flexing the fingers of his prosthetic. "He was nice enough to offer me this in trade."
The bishop's face went from reverence to bemused bafflement.
"You expect me to believe you spoke to god?" The man laughed.
"No." Torrin answered again. He crouched by his target, grabbed the flinching man by the neck and squeezed. Eyes bulging, the other man grabbed and scraped at Torrin's arm, he squeezed tighter still. Tendons and muscle compressed and after a moment he felt the structure of the man's neck collapse under the force. The flailing stopped. He stood again letting the body slump to the ground, a soft thud as head slapped the marble floor. He looked at his handy work for a short time, then even stopped to appreciate the chair he'd just shattered a man's nose on. He regretted it now after seeing such beautiful artistry.
His arm hurt. He pulled up his sleeve to see his non clockwork arm was bruised and battered from the man's retaliation. He'd barely even noticed.
He scanned the desk, also perfectly crafted and several sets of drawers, finding little of interest. He scanned the walls, checking behind paintings, under a dull rug depicting a pictogram centred by a tesseract. He paced the room frustrated, he had been too slow.
He wiped his face trying to relax himself.
He then noticed a small slip of paper that had fallen out of the fire. He picked the half burnt scrap up, pinching out the still burning edges. An invoice for firearms, though the location these were sent to is burnt, where they had come from wasn't. He got back up, smiled and turned on his heels, dawdling out of the concrete church with equal casualness as his entry.
He didn't feel guilty and doubted the bishop did either. Torrin looked around at the dulcet town marching out of the square, scanning over the paper scrap he had found before folding it and slipping it into a small pocket in his sleeve, hidden in the cuff.
He passed the auto-comm office he'd visited earlier and the drinking house to which destitute factory workers stumbled toward in search of purpose. He wondered how long it would take for them to find the body, if anyone would even care for the loss of their bishop. All pieces are sacrificial if you win the game, and while he was in title, a bishop. In temperament he was a pawn, Torrin detested such people.
He arrived to find Laurence had replaced the tire and refilled the water on their auto-cart.
"All well, sir." He asked, putting a cap to his balding head, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Of course." Torrin said back. "Business as usual." He smiled at the man.
He doubted the man would approve if he knew of Torrin's work, he didn't either. Though the driver's feelings along with the lives of the people he killed were both inconveniences to the agent, hindrances to the new order. The Conclave.
As much as he was also a servant of that order. Torrin liked Lawrence, he was a good enough man and one of the Conclave, on a lower level. you wouldn't have guessed by his appearance though that was the point. He liked the man but he also knew he wouldn't be able to understand the necessity of his colleagues' actions.
"Should we stay in the next town? We still have a couple hours of light left."
"Don't see why not. We'd be camping if we stayed here I reckon anyway." He said, nodding his agreement. "And I can show you how to drive a bit on the way."