Men of Stone (The Faded Earth Book 3) Read online

  Jeremy’s silence was profound. Beck gave him a curious look.

  “He didn’t want to come,” Jeremy finally admitted. “He didn’t want to see you.”

  Beck should have felt the world drop out from under her. Maybe a sharp sense of betrayal. Neither happened. Instead only a dull sensation of inevitability filled her heart. “Yeah, he was never a big fan of the Watch. I guess it was always going to happen. Let me guess, you drew the short straw for passing the word to me?”

  “I volunteered,” Jeremy said. “You really want Wojcik to do it? Or Jen? The others don’t really have much in the way of social graces. I don’t either, but at least I get how much it bothers you.”

  But did it? Beck searched her feelings and tried to figure out whether the loss of Fisher was the tragedy it should have been. She cared about the man, that much hadn’t changed, but during the frantic months since returning from exile and during the exile itself, they’d drifted apart. He had very strict ideas on what a Watchman was and what they represented, which made it pretty hard to reconcile how he felt about her with that image.

  On the surface there was some hurt, yes. Deeper down she felt a species of shamed relief. Every time she’d seen him recently, the unrest around the Protectorate and her part in quashing it grew up between them like a wall. The constant need to navigate and fine a way to come together was another stone in the burden she carried, and Beck found herself happy to set it down. Hopefully that would be temporary, but if it wasn’t, it wasn’t. He had the right to make whatever call he wanted.

  “Why else are you here?” Beck asked, standing and stretching. “Coming to get me is kind of your job as my second, but you could have just called. You wanted a private chat that couldn’t be overheard and you know this bar is a dead zone.”

  She knew she was right by how long it took him to reply. “Are we doing enough?”

  They’d worked together long enough that Beck could infer the full meaning of the question from the way he spoke it. The set of his shoulders, the tension in his light brown eyes, the slight frown on his face. All these things gave context to the words.

  “We’re doing everything we can,” Beck said cautiously.

  Jeremy shook his head, the movement sharper than she was used to from him. He was the quiet one, but that reserve grew more measured the harder their job got. It was a defense mechanism, and those tended to fail like old metal after too much pressure was applied over time. “No, we’re as busy as we can be. That’s not the same as doing the most with what we have, Beck. Look at the riot last night. We ran around taking prisoners, but all that did was delay how bad it could have gotten. It won’t stop the next one from happening any more than all those runs at agitators behind the scenes stopped yesterday from happening. We’ve been soft on these people. Showing up in the middle of the night to threaten them isn’t enough. We have to do more. Be more effective.”

  Beck didn’t want to have this conversation so early in the morning, but the universe didn’t give a shit about her desires. Given that it was happening, she decided a drink would pair well with the talk. She waved for Jeremy to carry on and shuffled over to the bar to pour a few fingers of terrible bourbon.

  “You’re a good leader,” he said, a carefully respectful note in his voice. “You don’t stay on our asses but you don’t let us get away with slacking. You put our safety over your own. You—”

  “Don’t need you to keep on blowing me,” Beck said, twirling a finger at him. “Just get to whatever it is you’re buttering me up for.”

  Jeremy nodded and crossed his arms. Not imperiously as some might have, but as a show of nerves. Another person might have forced themselves to relax and leaned against the door frame behind him. Not Jeremy. He was a bow string under tension at all times. “You’re a good tactician in a fight, but your ability to strategize and deal with people on a large scale is weak. You’re relying on Stein’s analysis to choose our best way forward because of it. You’re so worried about pushing the Trads and Dians too far, and of offending the Remnants we’re trying to work with, that you’re being too soft on everyone.”

  Beck took a sip of the turpentine pretending it was sour mash. “And I suppose you know better?”

  “No,” Jeremy said, surprising her again. “I’m just objective enough to see the problem, but I’m not much better off than you. But I do know someone we should talk to. I think he’ll be able to give us all perspective.”

  6

  “If they’re sending you to talk to me, it can’t be good,” Scott said.

  Eshton smiled as he stepped inside the quarters set aside for the older man. The Spire was not merely the seat of Deathwatch power and operations, but a full chapterhouse of its own. The floor below Stein’s office held spacious living areas for visiting Wardens.

  “I need your advice,” Eshton said. “We need it.”

  Scott ran a hand through thick, dark hair only feathered with the first threads of silver. He was old enough to be Eshton’s father, but his lightly browned face held no sign of it. Life in the badlands aged some prematurely. It only seemed to invigorate Scott Riddle.

  “Are you talking about me, your friend who has lived out in the wild, or the me who is the ambassador of his people?” Scott asked. There was no accusation in the question, only genuine curiosity. “Because one of those people might answer differently from the other.”

  Eshton took a seat at the small table that served double duty as dining area and work station. “Both, I think. You’re aware of the troubles we’ve had lately, I assume?”

  Scott chuffed out a laugh and waved a hand at the massive vid on the wall, which silently displayed reports of last night’s riots. “Kind of hard to miss. Is that what this visit is about? Because I can’t offer much input on how to take people down more effectively. You guys look like you have that in hand.”

  “No,” Eshton said with a shake of his head. “Not that. Well, not just that. Damn, I had this all planned out in my head. Now it’s all jumbled.”

  Scott took the seat across from him and laced his fingers together. “No plan survives first contact with the enemy, kid.”

  Eshton rolled his eyes. “You’re not my enemy, Scott. You know that. We’ve been trying really hard to show you that, which is part of the problem.”

  The humor on the older man’s face faded. “Okay, lay it out for me.”

  This was what Eshton liked most about Scott. He was a curious blend of compassionate and reasonable contrasted with a no-bullshit way of dealing with things.

  “We think our approach to the riots and the people behind them is too soft,” Eshton admitted. “We’ve been trying to make it clear to you—and by extension the Remnants you represent—that we want to move past the way things were. But that seems to be kicking us in the ass. The problem is we don’t want to be seen as carrying on with the way things used to be done. We don’t want to oppress. This violence, though…some people think we’ve given a bit too much ground while we tried to loosen the controls the Watch has on basic freedoms.”

  “Ah,” Scott said, understanding dawning on his face. “Word of advice, son. If you have to say all that again to anyone but me, make sure you don’t make it sound like you’re doing all this for our benefit.” He raised a hand to forestall Eshton’s response. “No, look. I know you aren’t. Your movement has been working for however long to move your people past what the Protectorate became. I know that. But when you say you’re trying to make sure we know where you stand, it can come off as pandering.”

  Scott cleared his throat. “As for whether you’re going too easy on people? Well, yeah. You are. I’ve thought that for a while, and my people back home mostly feel the same way.”

  Eshton blinked in surprise and leaned back in his chair. “Really?”

  Scott gave him a mildly disbelieving look. “Of course. What, you think we get along out there without rules? You lived in Canaan for months, kid. You ever see anyone get into more than a shoving match? Besid
es, my people aren’t stupid. We might not like the Protectorate much, but that’s because we recognize how closed off your citizens have been. I know there’s going to be a learning curve, and folks who’ve had lifetimes of constraints will go wild once they’re gone.”

  Eshton was impressed. “So if we take the kid gloves off, it won’t ruin what we’re trying to build with your people?”

  “It won’t necessarily do that, no,” Scott said, putting hard emphasis on the word. “I’m not saying you should go out there and start breaking heads open with abandon. Things might get to that point, but you have a good opportunity here.”

  Eshton frowned. “We had riots across half the nation less than a day ago. How’s that an opportunity?”

  “You folks don’t have much experience with this kind of group psychology,” Scott said, sounding as much like he was reminding himself as stating a fact. “You’re not equipped to really understand the subtleties of how people react to what happened yesterday. You probably think the riots will just stoke the fires even more, and in the medium term that’s probably right. But right now? Even the most bloodthirsty on both sides will be licking their wounds. Not looking for a fight. In my experience that means they’re more open to conversation.”

  Eshton belted out a bitter laugh. “Oh, yeah. They’ll listen to us for sure. We’ve tried it. No one wants to put stock in the things a Watchman says, even the High Commander.”

  Scott gave him a wink. “I never said you should be the one doing the talking. Maybe they need to hear it from somebody who isn’t part of their system.”

  *

  It took a few days to manage the logistics of the meeting. Eshton stood in his uniform in front of a crowd of at least three hundred faces, most of them angry.

  “Some of you are asking yourselves why you’re here,” he said. “By now others have figured out you were all arrested during last week’s…unpleasantness.”

  A few fearful looks passed between clusters of people in the audience. A low murmur broke out. Eshton raised his hand for quiet and got it remarkably fast.

  Even now they’re still prone to obey the Watch, he thought. It was something he’d file away. Scott was right that few of the people in charge of the madhouse the Protectorate had become were experienced in how people reacted to society-wide changes, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t learn.

  “Here’s how this is going to go,” Eshton continued, trying to find a tone between domineering and compromising. He needed to be firm but fair. “You’re going to listen to what the speaker here has to say, and then you’ll be released.” This produced a far more widespread reaction, mostly surprise. Eshton raised a finger. “On a personal note, I hope you’re smart enough to stay afterward and talk to this man. He can give you perspective no one else in the Protectorate can. Scott?”

  Scott stood and took center stage—really, it was just a platform about a foot tall, but with a seated audience this was plenty—with a fluidity to his movements Eshton knew came from long years out in the badlands. His outfit played to that expectation as well. Most of the time Scott wore clothing provided for him, as what was available in a Rez was more comfortable and rugged than his homespun clothing. Today he was in full Remnant regalia, clean but clearly having seen hard days and numerous repairs.

  “Good morning,” Scott said in a pleasant voice that managed to carry across the hall without feeling loud. He waited patiently as the room took him in with stoic silence. “Sorry, do you not say that here? Where I come from, someone says a greeting and you return it.”

  Eshton saw quite a few people in the crowd blush or otherwise look embarrassed and had to hold back the urge to grin. He had worked out the details of this meeting with Scott and knew the older man was playing with the crowd’s expectations. The savage Remnant was not supposed to be the one lecturing anyone on manners, however gently he did it.

  “Good morning,” Scott said again a few seconds later. This time about half the audience returned the greeting.

  Scott nodded. “There, that wasn’t so hard, was it? What we just did was open a dialog, which seems to be the one thing everyone in this room has a problem with. At least you have that in common.”

  He let the irritated mutters build up and fade away before starting the real lesson.

  “The thing everyone in this room has to understand—and I mean really internalize—is that to some degree or another, you’re all wrong,” Scott told them. His eyes swept across the room. “I’ve spent a couple days learning more about your positions. You Traditionalists in the room think the best and safest thing to do is carry on the way you have for a hundred years. Because it worked, right?”

  A few people nodded, but most didn’t walk into the trap. Eshton didn’t bother trying to note them. The rest of the team was watching and recording everything anyway.

  Scott shook his head. “But you know it didn’t work. Not really. Keene and the people who came before him manipulated you. They killed tens of thousands both to control your population and to keep you afraid enough to control. Whatever peace you thought you were living in was a lie. The truth your side has to come to terms with is that cultures change. Societies have to grow or they’ll die. That isn’t me just being philosophical. It’s a fact. Your population can’t stay inside these walls indefinitely. Once you reach critical mass, won’t it be better if you’ve already made a place ready in the outside world?”

  Eshton once more saw the gut reactions play out, this time on a wider spread. More than he expected looked thoughtful, however.

  Scott crossed his arms. “You Diasporans showed up first. You’re the reason the Traditionalists even exist. They are a response to you. I bet most of you think I’m going to be on your side, right?”

  No one in the room so much as twitched a nod. Well, they were learning at least.

  “I am,” Scott said. “It would be insulting to pretend I don’t have a bias. But you’re operating under some false assumptions. You people have been preaching a need to set out and start staking claims in the badlands. Anything you can do here, you can do there. The Protectorate can provide Deathwatch armor, and supplies, pretty much everything you need to start living outside of walls. That’s the rhetoric I’ve found.”

  Scott grew solemn. “Sounds easy on paper. In reality, you haven’t got the first clue what you’re talking about. You can’t just wander into the badlands and assume everything will be okay. Even if half the Pales in the world died tomorrow, there are still dangers. Some exiles and Remnants hate the Protectorate with a fury you can’t even imagine. Ever wonder how Pales sometimes end up with tools? It’s because people out there leave them for the infected to find. What do any of you know about setting a defensive perimeter or guard rotations to defend against a raid from people who will happily murder you in your sleep?”

  As he spoke, his voice grew increasingly flat and his visage grim. “There are a thousand details and considerations you haven’t begun to worry about. What really pisses me off is that your government agrees with you, but that’s not good enough. You’re angry for what happened under Keene, and you’re lashing out. I’ll tell you this for sure: if you got your way, that impatience would get half of you killed in the first two weeks out there. I know this because I’ve lived in the wild my entire life.”

  Eshton listened as Scott laid out arguments and battered them with reasonable explanations. At no point was he bored. If anything, the question and answer session toward the end was the most interesting part of the meeting.

  There wasn’t a widespread eureka moment where the people in the room cast aside their beliefs and embraced what Scott had to say. No one expected them to, nor was it the point.

  No, this meeting was for those who could be reached most easily. To peel them away from their factions just enough to let Scott’s arguments gain purchase. They would work on the slightly more difficult cases next, and so on until a small but dedicated kernel of dissent was given life. No one expected those who found the
mselves agreeing with Scott to take the factions apart. Only to moderate them. To act as a governing force on the worse impulses.

  Eshton hoped it worked out the way Scott planned. If not, there would need to be more permanent solutions.

  7

  To Beck’s surprise, there was a quiet after the storm. Jeremy’s instincts were dead right in guessing that someone like Scott could talk some sense into the factions. There was nothing miraculous about it. Those who fostered it had perspective, time to look at their actions and their consequences, as well as gauge public reaction to them. This was helped by Stein easing up speech restrictions on the Mesh. The Trads and Dians both saw a flood of sentiment from other citizens furious about the needless violence.

  It was not a solution, only the beginning of one. Scott spent the week following that first meeting setting up new ones. Politically this was a risk, one even Beck could recognize, because it allowed him to build a base of support among the population for his own people and their positions.

  Realistically, that was what Beck wanted anyway, so she didn’t mind. Stein was comparatively more conservative, but saw no better options. She had little choice but to let it stand.

  Which was how Beck found herself with time to finish what she and the team had started. Finding a cured Pale would not be easy, but at least this time they were moving into the badlands with more preparation rather than a hasty top-up of their Bricks and a set of restraints.

  The transport was one of the largest used by the Watch, a beefy version of the smaller flatbed they took to Canaan. It was meant to carry twenty Watchmen in full kit, though today the load was lighter. Beck and Eshton stood near the back with Parker, who wore a borrowed set of armor. The rest of the team lounged at the front of the flatbed while Lin drove. They could have engaged the autonomous drive system—all of these things had them and they were used often—but Beck wanted her people to get used to managing things on their own. Her time in Canaan taught the value of sharpening those skills and relying less on technology for all things.