“I need a pair of those, a shirt, some underthings, not made out of that…”
“Of course, sir,” the clerk smiled. “Might as well be leather, like the dwarves.”
“Or hair shirts like the Blood Lords,” Joel said.
They found clothes in his size and Joel picked up a selection of toiletries. He had never had his beard growth permanently stopped before the Fall. It made more sense to intermittently stop it; growing a beard always looked more natural than even the best implant. But that meant he had to either grow one permanently or shave, and of the two he preferred a clean chin.
He bought everything that he needed, including some travel food and a water bottle for the trip, and still had plenty of time before the coach was supposed to arrive. On his trip across the country he had discovered the unreliability of the service. Some people had discussed building railroads. But the explosive protocols prohibited all but low-power steam. And a low-power steam engine could only pull a couple of loaded cars, making the plan economically unviable. Canals were being built but they could only reach certain areas.
He had a plate of not particularly good food and a cup of worse ale and sincerely considered visiting one of the “barbershops.” He had not been celibate since the Fall. Before the Fall he and Dedra had maintained an open relationship and he was sure she would not begrudge him the release under the conditions. But for some reason, despite the fact that most of his relationships post-Fall had been… economic, he chose against it. Finally, he walked back to the stage office and took a seat on the porch, closing his eyes and thinking.
Sheida had as much as said that she suspected a high leak in the Council. His immediate suspicion was her aide, Harry. But just because he was peculating, that didn’t make him a traitor. Still worth checking out. Frankly, if he ever was put in a position where he could effect a change, counterintelligence would be a very high priority. That led him to wonder why so many of the agents in Ropasa had been rolled up. Some of that might have been from leaks, but he suspected that if the counterintelligence people on Sheida’s side were as oblivious to trade-craft as they seemed, the intel people were probably as bad.
Face it, he did not like this minor mission that he had been assigned. If he had his way, just about every ship and unit would have at least one covert agent in it. But that would mean a host of agents. Which meant a training program. Well, you’d need one of those for actual intel gathering, might as well combine the two to an extent.
Working out the details of the proposed plan carried the sun down and it was just before sunset when the stage pulled to a stop. There were only two passengers, both of whom got out to stretch their legs as the horses were changed.
He gave the driver his receipt and put his new bag on the back of the coach, climbing in and settling himself while the other passengers were still outside. He’d taken the front, less comfortable, seat in deference to the two people who had preceded him on the trip. When they got in he nodded his head. One was a young man in a Navy officer’s uniform and the other was older dressed in nondescript civilian clothing.
“Ensign Jonah Weilis,” the officer said, offering his hand.
“Joel Annibale,” Joel said, shaking the officer’s hand. He hoped like hell the ensign wasn’t assigned to Newfell Base and that, if he was, they wouldn’t run into each other.
“Rupert Popadiuk,” the other man said, nodding his head.
“Going to Newfell?” Jonah asked. It was clear that the two continuing passengers had used up any small talk they might have had. “I’m being assigned to headquarters there. I was at the base in Balmoran.”
“I’m on my way to live with some friends on the coast,” Joel shrugged. “Getting off at Tenerie and hiking overland. They’ve got a fishing boat over there; I’ve got some experience at fishing boats.”
“You ought to join the Navy, then,” the officer said, smiling. “It’s a hard life but a good one and very important. If you’re really experienced with small boats, you could probably buck for almost instant petty officer rank. Where were you before?”
“Flora last,” Joel said, lying glibly. “I sailed with a packet up to Washan. I looked at the base here, but… Anyway, I’ve got these friends. It’s not much of a life, but I get by. What do you do in the Navy, Ensign?”
“I’m in counterintelligence,” Jonah said as the coach started into motion.
“That’s interesting,” Joel said. “But what’s it mean?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Celine,” Chansa’s avatar said with a nod.
Most of the business of the council members was managed through avatars. The fully sentient projections had been prohibited pre-Fall, since they tended to have some bad side effects. But the council members, with myriad duties and no experience of delegation, used them to keep an eye on the various activities of their regions.
Chansa had gotten a request from Celine to attend a “demonstration” and, with reluctance, he had agreed. He admitted that the New Destiny faction had benefited by her “creations” but he often found them personally uncomfortable. The basic Changed that made up the bulk of his legions were bad enough. He had given what he thought were understandable modifications, but in Celine’s hands what had been delivered were monsters. He had considered simply overriding her; the Changed of the legions were his responsibility after all. But Celine could be particularly nasty when balked. So he tolerated hordes of half-wild beasts. He had to admit that very few groups had been able to stand up to them and, in general, simply the threat of having the hordes sent against them tended to make most resistance falter.
But some of her “specials” were simply ungodly. Abominations that turned his stomach. And while most of them required too much power, or time, to have truly become common, she had been promising a “new breakthrough” soon.
He had therefore met one of her avatars at a refugee camp in the southern Briton isles. The south had been relatively easy to overrun, but the north still held out stubbornly, holding onto small glens and highlands that were monstrously difficult to maneuver in. The ancient fortresses that dotted the landscape, many of which had been rebuilt by reenactors prior to the Fall, were an additional challenge. Then there was the stubborn nature of the defenders. They seemed to positively relish fighting all the forces he had sent against them. If he was to use Celine’s “specials” anywhere, it was to be against the damnable Gael.
The refugee camp was standard, a long curtain palisade with a collection of wooden huts. The refugees were fed and sorted out, most of the men and some of the women ending up going through the Change process. The basic process was designed to produce beings that were more suited to the post-Fall world. They were sturdier and stronger than standard humans with some innate skills. That, at least, had been the basic specifications. He had added, to his continued dismay, a suggestion for “aggression” so they would make better soldiers.
The humans in the line to be Changed had to be bound and guarded by soldiers. As he watched, a woman darted forward and tried to drag a man out of the line, only to be clubbed to the ground by the guards. One of them picked her up by her hair and dragged her down the line to a farther hut, part of the barracks complex for the guards. The man she had tried to grab slumped to his knees but was clubbed and then dragged forward by more guards.