In this particular tower they had already removed the bikes from the four bottom sections, so in order to get the bikes down from higher reaches they had to set up a pulley system. To open up a new section in the building it got tricky. One had to affix a series of extension ladders to the side of the building, then climb up another expanse of the tower and use a welding torch to cut the wall and open the next section. Then the ladders could be properly secured to the opening, a pulley system could be put in place, and bikes could be rappelled down from the higher reaches.
Given his skill with a blowtorch, Owen had been selected to open up the next highest section of the building—and possibly also due to his inquisitiveness on the ride that morning.
Owen only had a quick bite before the team went into action. It took half an hour just to get up to the last opened section. He dared not look down as he climbed up the various ladders. Some of them were fastened poorly, and they shifted with each step. He tested every rung of every ladder carefully, and in a couple of cases the team worked to improve a ladder’s positioning or reinforced it with rope or bungees. It seemed the higher he went the more the wind would push and pull on him, despite the relative calm at ground level.
With all these travails Owen couldn’t help pondering the lack of access points to the towers, and even between sections. Why hadn’t the architects rectified this obvious design flaw? Even the bridges that connected the clustered towers together looked to be designed solely for structural support. One could probably try to cross to another tower from the roof but it wouldn’t be far removed from tight-rope walking.
In the end it wasn’t that bad. He was secured to a safety rope the whole time, and he had no fear of heights. Owen began to actually enjoy it.
It took him thirty minutes with his torch to create an opening in the wall on the highest section. Finally, after moving the slab of metal aside and stepping onto the level, he sat down and allowed himself a chance to rest.
“You okay up there, Owen? Sometimes the wind can feel like it’s chain-whipping you.” It was Chester. He’d been spotting him on a ladder below.
They were in a rush to get the pulley system set up, but Owen felt like he deserved a break. “Just fine. Give me a couple of minutes,” he yelled back.
His eyes followed the meadows and forests spanning out into the distance. This must be the highest he’d ever been in his life.
He figured he was facing north. He tried to see any traces of Washington in the distance. Unfortunately, the horizon was a flat line, devoid of detail. Washington was either too far away, or perhaps there was nothing left to see.
He imagined this was what it must have been like for all of the workers in pre-Detonation times. Every day they would come to work and look out over vast horizons like this, or see mile after mile of buildings in every direction. These same buildings would be teeming with glittering screens, computers, phones and electronic billboards. Internet and phone conversations would be constantly travelling in every direction—through them, to them, and around them. All the while electric cars and planes danced through the same cities and skies.
It was a life too foreign for him to contemplate, a higher level of existence than he could possibly imagine. There were books, pictures, buildings and other traces of them everywhere, yet it still seemed too magical to believe. It seemed like the people had lived like gods.
What on this earth could possibly have destroyed these gods? What made them throw it all away?
He sighed, stretched his legs and then began setting up the pulley system.
THE CHERRY BLOSSOM, THE DEER, THE WOLF, AND THE JACKAL
“Would you like a drink?” Flora asked Reed.
“Yes, love. One of the newer malts,” Reed responded, patting her shoulder.
“I’ll be right back.” She smiled at Reed and Splitstone, who were already back to the conversation she’d interrupted.
She took the long way round the semicircle of chairs and tables, not daring to cross where the performers were doing their dances, juggling, and theatrics. The fire-breathing acts were about to begin.
It was the Day of the Deer, a yearly Essentialist celebration. Her back and legs felt heavy and stiff from preparations. Chief Darkwind and Curator Luna insisted on erecting over twenty totems adorned with hanging baskets replete with flowers, vegetables, and animal skins. She’d spent much of the morning climbing up and down the precarious posts. After she’d helped with moving furniture and setting up the event tents.
Then she would have to clean it all up again tomorrow.
A gaggle of men laughing boisterously were gathered around the closest kegs, some of them chewing on sticks of venison jerky. She waited for an opening to form between them and then went to fill up Reed’s pint glass.
“Enjoying yourself, Flora?”
The man was hard to distinguish from the people moving about in the darkness. It was only when he broke off from the drinking men to greet her that his face became distinguishable. It was Finch, from the administrative office.
“Yes, blessed be the deer,” she said as she connected Reed’s glass to Finch’s half-empty mug. She was in no mood to fend off Finch’s probing questions, but she couldn’t think of an easy way to exit the conversation.
“You know they took the Spoke prisoner away today.”
“Really? Who took her?”
“Ember Thisslewood and a couple of Merchant Mercs. The one called Mehta that came when you were there, and I can’t remember the other one’s name.”
“Where are they taking her?”
“I heard them talking about going the Gap Run route. Sounds like they’re going into Spoke territory, but it’s not clear why. Maybe some kind of peace offering, or prisoner exchange? Seemed strange to me, but the release was signed off by both the curator and Darkwind. Maybe the mercs were some sort of compromise.”
A sinking feeling claimed Flora. After her meeting with Luna, Flora had gone to Chief Darkwind to see if he might have a different perspective—to see if maybe he would allow Flora to go on the trip. He’d said he would talk to Luna about it. Apparently Darkwind didn’t get his way. Or maybe he didn’t even care to ask.
What was more concerning was that Ember Thisslewood seemed to be leading the foray. Thisslewood had extreme Essentialist views, one of them being that the prisoners in Spoke territory were contaminated, and therefore not worth saving.
But something about how Finch described the mission didn’t sound right. “Why do you say compromise?” she asked.
Finch guided her away from the other men and spoke quietly. “Well, you know, Darkwind and Luna don’t exactly see eye-to-eye on things. They may have agreed to take the prisoner into Spoke territory on some kind of mission. But Thisslewood is Darkwind’s man, through and through. I suspect the mercs were included to keep Ember in line, so that Luna got whatever what she wanted as well.”
Finch was probably right, but it offered her no more hope that they might negotiate for the Essentialist prisoners. More likely, the Mercs were going to ask for valuables or supplies in return for Cecile. They would get some cut of the spoils. She could see Luna, Darkwind and the mercs readily agreeing to that arrangement.
The sinking feeling was deepening, taking root in her chest. The chance of getting Granger back seemed unbearably remote.