The Half-Made World (66 page)

—Their numbers decline. Still far too many to fight and be sure of the outcome. It depends on what devices they carry.

—Which one’s the leader? I could kill their leader.

—Another would take his place. And you might die.

—Cowardice doesn’t suit you.

—Go, Creedmoor. Find the General.

—I will. But not for you.

—We’ll see.
Run,
Creedmoor. Stay ahead of them.

He ran through the treetops. The Linesmen did not look up. Within the hour, there was the unmistakable scent, not far off, of fires, and cut timber, and cattle, and fowl, and iron, and women and children. And soon he came to the end of the oaks, and looked out through a curtain of leaves across a wide waterless moat and high walls and beyond that the low log roofs of New Design, its fires banked, sleeping in the moonlight.

—A handsome little town! Better than I imagined.

—This place is a mistake, Creedmoor. These people belong in the past. Recover the General, and let us leave them to rot.

Guards in the sentry posts overlooking the moat; in the gatehouse at the edge of the bridge; standing in the streets, leaning against the log walls, holding shuttered candles . . . for a place so utterly remote in both time and space from all the violence of the world, New Design was remarkably conscious of its own security. Old habits died hard, it seemed.

Creedmoor slipped past the guards soundlessly.

—That building’s the largest, yes, my friend? Oh, I’ve been too long in the wilderness, that shabby thing looks like a palace. I’ll bet that’s where their leader is. What do you say?

—We are here to take the General back; nothing more.

—Oh, but it’s been too long since I was in a town, even such a town as this; I have an urge to raise hell, my friend.

—No, Creedmoor. Have you forgotten Kloan? And—

—Stop me, then.

—Be quick, Creedmoor.

A rusted and ancient bar-and-bolt caught Creedmoor’s eye. It was on the door to a building not far from the center of town, small, not much bigger than a shack, built so that its rough walls formed an octagon—a church? A shrine? A prison?

He snapped the bolt between his fingers and scattered the parts in the mud.

Dust, must, old paper, stale sweat—nothing living or moving. Creedmoor was wary nevertheless as he stepped inside, eyes widening to black barrel-mouths in the windowless darkness. But it was only a kind of library. Crude shelves covered each of the eight walls, in uneven and off-parallel lines. They bore texts and ledger books and heaps of old pamphlets and newspapers.

Creedmoor ran his fingers along the dusty leather spines of works of political philosophy—military history—spiritual inquiry. Oh, how pathetic, how touching, a full shelf devoted to the Smilers’ uplifting pamphlets and parables; hard to imagine who’d think that flimsy ephemera was a treasure worth spiriting away to the world’s edge. There was even, brittle and moldering, a pile of copies of the
Chain-Breaker,
organ of the Liberationists. How many years was it since he’d seen those pages—those earnest humorless passionate righteous exhortations? It was almost embarrassing to look at them.

—This is meaningless, Creedmoor. Move on.

—In a moment. I’m curious. This is a strange little town.

—Do as we
command,
Creedmoor.

Most of the shelves were worthy stuff, heavy stuff, morals and politics and high affairs, but there was a shelf near the floor stacked with old romances and boys’ adventure books. The paper was old, near as old as Creedmoor himself, but the stories promised on the covers—well, he might have picked them up just last year, back when he last passed through down the market streets in Keaton City.

—Things don’t change much, do they? Everything gets older and more worn out, but how often do we see new ideas?

—
Creedmoor
.

—Not that I’d claim that
that
was a new idea, of course.

—No. You repeat yourself. Move on.

In the center of the room stood a lectern, bearing, as if it was a relic, a thick soft-leaved book. Creedmoor stroked his finger gently down the pages, leaving a trail of grime and sweat.

—Their Charter! That takes me back. Do you recall it?

—Creedmoor, move on.

—Of course, your kind were never thinkers, or builders. This was their sacred text. This was how they ordered relations among men. . . . What do your kind care for relations among men?

—Move on, Creedmoor.

Creedmoor stood, turning the pages, shaking his gray head.

—One hardly sees it these days, back in the world. When it does surface, it’s only to be mocked. And how easily mocked it is . . . how pious its sentiments! How naïve its hopes! Oh, how worldly they thought they were being. . . . They didn’t reckon with your kind, did they, my friend?

—The Line broke the Republic. The Line drove them out of the world. We would have made allies of them.

—But that, too, would have destroyed them—your touch is poison, my friend. Oh, but look here! I confess in my old age I grow sentimental myself, and I find these folk charming. Remember their recruiters, coming red-coated through town? In the open streets outside, disdaining the low dives in which I skulked! How different things might have been had I sobered up and paid my bills and gone blinking into the light to join them! I joined stupider causes, no doubt of that. But they were so . . . so
sheep
like. And I wanted to be a wolf. Somehow they sickened me. And the girls, though kind, though decent, were so plain. . . . But I, too, was young, then.

—They’d have no use for you now, Creedmoor.

—To their credit! To their credit.

—You know what you are.

—What you
made
me, my friend.

—You came to us, Creedmoor.

—Did I? I don’t recall.

—They would drive you out like a rabid dog. We love you, Creedmoor. Move on or we will put the Goad to you again.

A shiver of rain passed across the town. Two watchmen splashed through the mud, lanterns drawing a soft golden haze across the night. Creedmoor held still and let them pass. He turned east. He stopped and sniffed the air.

—I smell him.

—Yes, Creedmoor. The General is here.

—They’ve taken good care of him, bless ’em.

—He’s
ours
.

—So you say . . . There, in that building; and I smell blood, and medicines . . . a hospital?

—We spend too much time in hospitals.

—We surely do. Our war is no longer young or fresh.

—Go, then, take him back.

—Not just yet. I detect the scent of our mutual friend, the Doctor, young Mrs. Alverhuysen, poor Liv—she’s not too far away, over there. . . .

—Yes, Creedmoor. We know. We no longer need her.

—We owe her a visit, I think, and a warning. . . .

—Are you mad? She may raise the alarm. Go to the General.

—I think not, not just yet.

—Creedmoor, do as we command.

—No.

—Have you forgotten the Goad, Creedmoor?

—I have neither forgotten nor forgiven the Goad. But I do not fear it, not just at this very peculiar moment. You need me. There is no one else. You dare not touch me. I will act as I choose. You are only a voice in my head now. You are only a
passenger
. You are only a bad conscience, and I have long practice ignoring the voice of conscience.

—If you will not serve us, then we do not need you and we
will
destroy you.

—I know. And so I will serve you. But not just yet. The woman, first.

—One day things will be different.

—One day everything will be different. One day even you may be dead.

—Careful, Creedmoor.

. . . all this taking place in an instant, between one raindrop and the next, with the fleeting of a single black rain cloud across the moon. Moonlight fell again on Creedmoor’s lined face. The rain was slackening, uncertain—a squall of wind blew cold spray past him, and that seemed nearly the last of it.

—But not today, I suppose, and not by my hand. Someday a better man than me may do it.

BOOK FIVE

THE BATTLE OF NEW DESIGN

CHAPTER 47

RAISING THE ALARM

Liv sat upright in bed, her back against the cold wooden wall, her knees pulled up under the thin old bedsheet. She listened to the Mortons making love in their bedroom, a muffled anxious occasionally high-pitched noise that had kept her awake; and she watched Creedmoor climb silently in through the window. She was only briefly surprised.

He put a finger to his lips, nodded his head in the direction of the Mortons’ bedroom, and smiled.

She said, “Good evening, Mr. Creedmoor.”

“Hello again, Liv.”

“I’ve been wondering where you were. What now?”

He moved away from the window and leaned against the wall. She saw that his clothes were ragged and bloody, and his hair was matted, and he looked appallingly tired. He stank of blood, oil, acids.

“Who have you killed, Creedmoor?”

“A very hideous monster, Liv. No one in town. How did you come here, by the way? Have they mistreated you?”

“How
dare
you ask me that, Creedmoor.”

He shrugged.

“I spoke to their President, Creedmoor. I suggested they ally themselves with you, against the Line. I said that you could be reasoned with. They did not believe me. Was I right?”

Creedmoor shook his head and sighed. He rubbed his lined forehead with two fingers of his left hand. He gave her a strange sly sad smile, willful and resigned at once, like the smile of a storybook poisoner as it dawns on him too late that he’s drunk from the wrong cup, that he’s finally outwitted himself, that his time and his options are suddenly closed off, that it’s too late for cunning, that at last therefore he’s free. . . .

She felt sickened, suddenly close to tears. “Creedmoor—you went back to your masters. Didn’t you?”

“They found me, Liv. There was no choice. There’s never been any choice; we are the kind of creatures we are. In its way, it’s a relief.”

“You’re a
coward,
Creedmoor.”