“Say again?”
Raxx sighed, looking exasperated. “Alright, it’s like this — take Blackstock. It’s been isolated for a long time; there isn’t much trade that comes through there, and they haven’t got any neighbours. But even so — the people are pretty stable, mentally speaking. They’re still in touch with reality. Their biggest weirdness is that tattooing of theirs.”
“Yeah, I was meaning to ask about that. Everyone I saw had them.”
Raxx shrugged, “It shows bloodline. They get them done when they turn nineteen. It’s like — to us it’s a bit odd because we weren’t born there, the same way the metal in my face might look odd to you, depending on where you’re from. But there’s nothing wrong with it; nothing crazy.”
“I don’t quite read you. You’re talking about cultural traits, right? How can you say that this one’s okay, but that one’s weird? If you’re going to say that one’s crazy, then really; shouldn’t you admit they all are? What are the formal greetings? Do the leaders wear hats? How do grandmothers dress? None of them have any grounding in… in tech; none of them are make sense, they aren’t necessary. They’re just quirks.”
He’d just finished a cigarette, but he pulled out another. “What I’m trying to get at is that culture’s nothing more than a bunch of commonly held, made-up norms — isn’t it?”
Raxx smiled. “I like the way you talk. And yes, that’s true. But what I’m trying to say is that in Blackstock there’s no craziness attached to the tattoos. They only show family history and that they’re adults. I don’t know exactly what you’re talking about, but in Blackstock they don’t think… I don’t know, that it helps them get more rain, or something. Know what I mean?”
“Your problem’s with superstition, not culture?”
“Yes! Exactly.”
“Okay… I think I know what you’re talking about. Too much isolation… well… yeah, it can do some weird stuff. But you’re saying that Blackstock, even though it’s pretty isolated, isn’t bad. They’ve just got tattoos. They’re not crazy. Is that it?”
“Yes… they even speak good, for locals off the trade routes. But my point isn’t just that they’re normal — Blackstock’s actually pretty average, all things considered…
“But then here’s the problem — there’s no new construction in the town. The buildings that aren’t prewar are all scrapped together.”
“Yeah, but it’s like that everywhere.”
“Exactly my point. It’s as if… people — people everywhere — have just given up. They’d rather sit around trying to forget the past than pick up the pieces and try to rebuild. Even out West where the people are richer and they’ve got more tech, all anybody focuses on is politics and cash. Not learning. Not rebuilding.”
Raxx reached into his pocket to pull out another cigar, then changed his mind and put it away. “I think it’s because people are trying to forget about the war, forget about the tech — I can even understand why. Every day we’re paying for it — just look around, the war’s everywhere and it doesn’t stop. People just want put it out of their minds — but that’s crazy because as long as they forget about the tech, and the learning behind it, everything we have is broken.
“We’re squatting on the shoulders of giants. We live in their houses, use their tools, we even keep the same names for the cities. How about the fact that I make a living by maintaining the old tech? There’s a lot of guys that do. I try and build some things, sure, but mostly what I do is just fix stuff that’s broken down — stuff that I can’t build in the first place!
“The old tech is everywhere, it’s in the roots — but nobody knows how to build it. Most guys, sure, they know what buttons to push, they know how to fix parts of it, but they don’t know the whole process. They don’t know why they push the buttons…
“Everyone’s closed their eyes to the underlying truth. It’s… it’s ignorance on purpose, and it’s everywhere. It’s like knowledge scares people — you know what? I think it does. There aren’t many who want to hear me explain what I’m doing, or how to prevent the malfunction from happening again, no matter how much cheaper it’d be. They just want it fixed and working so that they can forget about it.”
This time he did pull out the cigar and light it. “Some places actually think that being ignorant is a good thing, and that learning about this stuff is evil. It’s like; instead of examining, they ignore reality — finding out what’s going on would break whatever they want to be true. They won’t try to see the gears behind the walls, they won’t open up the black boxes, they won’t look under the rug; they just want everything to keep doing its magic.”
He shook his head. “But it won’t. One day, if nobody learns the how and why of it all, every last bit of tech is gonna rusts away to nothing. And then we’ll never have it again. And we’ll go back to the pretech days…
“That’s what I meant about it being a matter of will, not education. People don’t have the will to understand things; they’ve only got the will to be ignorant. And it’s because of that, that we live in shitty, recycled buildings — nobody wants to learn construction techniques. Any vehicles out there are antiques, because no one wants to learn how to make new ones — and socially? We’re stagnating, man. It’s a fucking mess where it’s denser, there’s even slavery out in the badlands. There’s no progress.” He let out a long sigh.
Wentworth smoked his cigarette, and the kilometres burned away.
“Heh, sorry man. Bit of a rant there. I’m just frustrated because there aren’t many people I can talk to about even the basic stuff I do. They don’t want to hear it and I get lonely.”
“No, don’t apologize. I was just thinking about what you said. It strikes a chord. I’ll have to get back to you on it, though.”
“No problem man.”
Fifth gear chugged desperately up the hill as they continued on down the highway.
Chapter 3
“Alright lads, we’re almost there. Another hour and we should be in town. Then we’ll get everything stowed away, and I can buy you some pints of that Landfall Ale I’ve been telling you about!”
Vince and his guards were moving at a steady clip, riding a two-vehicle train pulled by a pair of oxen. They were all in the lead car, a gutted station wagon, behind it the cargo trailer rolled sullenly. Vince sat centered behind the beasts, reigns in hand, while his two guards sat at the rear, back-to-back, facing the passing fields. The station wagon was a comfortable ride, and had been rigged for defence. Steel barricades with gun ports protected the occupants.
Vince wiped his brow and adjusted his wide brimmed hat. His barrel-chested frame slouched backwards in the padded seat, as he scratched at his unkempt travelling-beard. A bandanna hung loosely over his nose, protecting against the dust, while his earth-toned pants and utility vest refused to show wear.
He’d hired the guards back in Hope after leaving the Petrolia–Steeltown–Sauga caravan. Few merchants came out this ways so, as usual, he’d been forced to act as his own Caravan Master, taking care of rations and security. Billy and Verizon had seemed competent enough, and they’d come with good recommendations. As a bonus, their youthful high spirits were brightening his own.
“Ya know, Vince,” said Billy, the one with the green mohawk, “The way you’ve been talking about this Landfall Ale, if Verizon here ain’t shooting rainbows out his ass after the first pitcher then I’m going to be disappointed.”
Before Vince reply Verizon shouted, “‘Shooting rainbows out of my ass with your mother! On her trampoline! Oh!”