Maker

By N.H. Luedke

When Zander Collins, a level three legal tech, meets Bethany Wilks, a no-tech coffin maker of no account, he decides to be civil, considering they are at a funeral. It soon becomes apparent that Bethany is far more complex than her humble station in life indicates. She is an intelligent, mysterious, worldly-wise yet quiet woman capable of crafting the final resting place of a human without the slightest bit of qualm. She is also one of the fabled tech killers the State fears, and yet produces a different type of technology the State would kill to acquire. It is enough to make the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The more Zander interacts with her, the more he is exposed to an exciting, disturbing, and much more intense way of living than he ever knew existed while working behind a desk. By the time he realizes the city they live in is under an assault by the very governing forces that should protect it, Zander also learns the lowly Bethany is the one person who stands between the city and total chaos. And when the assault becomes a physical war, one in which no human will likely survive, who better to put his faith in than a coffin maker? After all, they don’t fear death, they deal with it - oftentimes the hard way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: N.H. Luedke
• Release date: Sep 13, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301990337

N.H. Luedke

I was born and raised in Houston, and currently reside in a much smaller city in central Texas. Encouraged to read at a very young age, I voraciously devour books when time permits and write my own books when it doesn't. My favorite authors include Connie Willis, P.D. James, Jim Butcher, and Craig Johnson.

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Maker

N.H. Luedke

Published by N.H. Luedke at Smashwords

Copyright 2010 N.H. Luedke

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This material is a work of fiction. Since it is based entirely upon imagination, any resemblance of any character within it to any persons living or dead would be extremely coincidental and highly unlikely.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Prologue

"Years ago, on May 31, 2013, this country celebrated the 100th anniversary of the adoption of the 17th Amendment to the Constitution of the United States. Before that time, members of the Senate were chosen by state legislators, and oftentimes the appointments made by the states were based on favoritism. The 17th Amendment was designed to move this country away from such corruption and put the power of choosing Senators into the hands of the people. Even so, corruption followed, for in that same year we celebrated its anniversary, a study was published regarding the long-range effect of the amendment on the composition of our Senate. The results were chilling. Not only had the 17th Amendment failed to deliver our country from a corrupt indirect election system of years past, the dynamics of the then current directly-elected Senate revealed special interest interference, questionable funding practices, and a body of government even less responsive to the voters and the states than ever before. In simplest terms, the idea that political corruption can be easily solved led to a reform that put power further into the hands of those who would misuse it.

"Reform, it seems, must be tempered with the harsh reality of accountability.

"Such is the case today, for today we celebrate a much different anniversary, one where the Senate is held accountable to the people and their states, and where the people have a definite voice in their representative democracy. Bills are made known, posted for all to see. Procedures are transparent, aired for all to watch. People of voting age send in their registered electronic votes to congress. Congressional members use the favorable or unfavorable tally of their constituents as the basis of their vote. If they do not, there must be a compelling reason, explained in full. If there are arguments, the people watch the proceedings and let their representatives know if their vote has changed. Gone are the days of lobbyists and riders, pork and posturing. If special interest groups wish to sway the public, they must advertise to the people, not to Congress.

In the Declaration of Independence we find the words, Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient Causes. The reforms we celebrate today were neither light nor transient, but filled with the spirit of our Founding Fathers to guarantee that our government does indeed derive its power from the consent of the governed, and its workings are tempered with a responsibility to the people. Let us hope that 94 years from now, when people celebrate the 100th anniversary of this reform, any studies published will reveal progress and responsibility without any hint of the corruption that often plagues the political process.

Excerpt from Presidential Address to the Senate

Date: unknown

President: unknown

Congress: unknown

Classification: dangerous – not for human dissemination

Chapter One

It was a beautiful day. The sun was high in the sky, the clouds were few and fluffy, and the nearby trees rustled pleasantly in the seasonal breeze. On the other side of the low metal fence, traffic moved briskly by, though silently, as if respectful of the situation but not honorable enough to stop for it. And nothing would stop, Bethany decided. It didn’t have to. The world was still functioning. Only her life was crumbling away.

Bethany bent over and scooped up a handful of dirt from the pile, surveying it with a critical eye as she squeezed it gently. This wasn’t dirt, she realized, it was soil. Full of moisture, organic life, and sunshine, it warmed her palm with its potential. She smiled wryly as the gardener within her cried out to plant a seed in it and watch something wonderful sprout up and grow strong. The realist within made her toss the dirt where it was supposed to go – on top of the beautiful oak box at the bottom of the six-foot hole where something weak and frail now rested.

Janet, my friend and cohort, I will miss you, she whispered.

Wait!

She turned in surprise at the interruption. The well-dressed young man who had called out now huffed his way toward her, loping awkwardly across the damp cemetery lawn with his lanky legs shod in slick-soled dress shoes. He slid to a stop, swiped at the pile, and let fly with his contribution. Then he beamed at her, his world-winning smile plainly stating that he was pleased he had made it in time. Bethany frowned. He seemed happy to know he wasn’t truly tardy in seeing Janet off, as if Janet was actually still around to care about someone being late to her funeral.

Bethany smoothed her brow with effort and tried to smile back at him. If Janet didn’t care, she shouldn’t. After all, he was much better suited, literally, for the occasion than she was in her mother’s old dress and shoes – the only appropriate things she could find in the closet. The sleeves were tight on her muscular arms and the hem uncomfortably short on her long, strong legs, and Janet was laughing somewhere, Bethany was sure, at the sight of her in anything other than her usual T-shirt, overalls and boots.

Is this it? the man asked hesitantly. I sort of expected more people.

Bethany glanced around. The cemetery was empty, save for George, who stood fifty feet away in front of his backhoe, hat in hand while he waited. George nodded slightly and Bethany answered in kind. The funeral tech had long since left, once the coffin had been lowered and his equipment and green carpeting were no longer needed.

Yes, she finally answered. This is it. I’m sorry. I have to go now.

Hey, wait!

Bethany strode away quickly, focused on the old battered pick-up truck just ahead of her rather than the huffing and thudding noises catching up from behind. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw George lift his hat slightly in a question. She nodded in response and a few seconds later she heard his backhoe start up. George and his ‘baby’ would bury Janet gently, well as gently as they could, she was sure. A hand grabbed the door handle before she could, and she looked the well-dressed man in the eye, willing him to move aside.

Four days. Janet had gone downhill quickly. Too quickly. It had been a terrible shock. Bethany had called on her to say the box was ready and had then spent the rest of that afternoon, evening, and morning not taking Janet to the hospital, as she had been forced to promise. She’d finally had no choice but to act. By the time Janet was unconscious and a passerby had been begged into summoning help, the emergency med techs had little to work with when they arrived. Which, in the end, hadn’t mattered, as Janet had died shortly after. Four days from Janet’s last laugh to this cemetery. Four days.

The man pulled the truck door open. His face was full of questions but his tongue was silent. It wasn’t until Bethany drove out of the cemetery that she caught a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror. Four days. It had been hell and it showed in her eyes. She decided she wouldn’t have questioned herself either.

-*-

She should be working, Bethany thought, but she didn’t feel like it. She wanted a break away from her responsibilities, and her Talent, in the worst kind of way. So instead of feeling the smooth grace of wood under her calloused fingers, she sat in Uncle’s old chair and wallowed in darkness, which was why she was quick to notice the perimeter light blink its warning on the old panel in the kitchen. The clock on the wall glowed brightly enough to let her know the time – several hours after the funeral now – and she wondered why someone would be activating the gate screen when the posted notice stated she was closed for the rest of the day. She rose and touched the panel so it would display. Dimly lit features captured by the solar-powered light revealed the man with the slick-soled shoes from the funeral. Curious, she tapped the switch that allowed her to listen in as he ranted at the entrance to her property.

Hello? Hello! Are you even listening to me? Are you there? He cleared his throat and tried for calm. Is this Janet Windom’s friend Elizabeth Wilks, or not? I need to know if you are and if you are there. It’s very important! I’m her lawyer! I need to speak with you. Tonight. There’s a time restriction and I must speak with you now! It’s about Ms. Windom’s will.

How do I know that? she asked reasonably. Who are you? You had your chance to talk to me at the service.

Finally! Elizabeth Wilks? Was that you at the funeral? I should have known it was, but you were not attired as you are represented in your file.

That would have been inappropriate for the situation.

Agreed, but I did try and speak with you. You glared at me and I couldn’t, remember? He sighed and thumped his hand against the side of the small transport he sat in. My name is Zander Collins, legal tech, level three. He held up the small rod of metal attached to a dark cord around his neck. Read my signal. I promise I’m not tweaking. Are you going to let me in or not?

The gate isn’t locked, Mr. Collins. Lift the latch and walk on down.

She pushed a long dark lock of hair back behind one ear as the screen image faded to black, not really sure why she was letting him approach, except that he obviously had no clue who and what she was, to be flashing his personal device at her like that. That amused her, she realized, and Bethany felt the ghost of a smile flit across her lips. She went through the hall door and into the shop side of her house where she turned on the lights. Then she went through the shop exterior door to guide his approach outside, should he need help walking in the coming darkness.

Oh, Janet, she asked while she disbelievingly watched his little transport bounce harshly toward her along her drive, what are you up to now and why did you include this clueless person?

She was stunned, of course. Not only had he not heard her say ‘walk on down,’ he had ignored the old State warning sign posted on her gate and had his vehicle drive down her long infamous gravel road. He even parked right in front of her as she stood before her house on the concrete pad. She could do nothing but stare in awe at such wanton disregard for the safety of his technology.

He exited the small two-seat transport with a shocked look on his face, too, but it wasn’t directed at her old shirt, worn overalls and bare feet. Rather, he was staring at her house. That, at least, she could understand. She folded her arms across her chest as she waited for him to fully view the odd structure.

It looked like a huge corrugated metal pipe that had been half buried in the ground lengthwise. Normal things, like trees, shrubs and other buildings, were scattered around it, only drawing more attention to the ‘exposed tunnel’ as Janet used to call it. The ends were neatly capped with vertical arched walls holding traditional doors and windows, but it was still a far cry from any other house in the city. Half of it was a home with a two-bedroom loft. The other half was a shop where she worked. She had once asked her father if it had a name and he had told her ‘Quonset hut,’ but didn’t know himself whether that was the name of the odd building’s design or the person who had designed it. It definitely wasn’t the name of her great-grandfather, who had built it. But how he had built it and why in this shape was a story she would never have the chance to hear.

Bethany waited patiently while the lawyer peered at it as much as he could without moving too far from the safety of his vehicle.

Do you actually live in it? he asked.

Yes, I do. She frowned. Mr. Collins, you really should move your vehicle. This house is a known-

Yes, I saw the sign, but this is a PT. He slapped the side of the little transport with affection. This year’s models are very robust. You wouldn’t happen to have a spare charging mat, would you? He looked around hopefully, but his optimism soon faded.

The sun had already set. Still, the last dim light of day revealed most of the yard with its bushes, woodpile, and odd assortment of chairs placed here and there. It must truly look wild and dangerously unorganized to him, she thought.

Nevermind, he said bravely. I am sure it will last for the ride home.

You really have no clue, do you? she asked with a touch of wonder in her tone.

And I would love to come inside, he said, flashing her a charming smile.

She shrugged compliance. As you wish.

He still didn’t get it, she thought a few minutes later, watching as he stared at the box just outside her door with suspicion. She bent down so she was eye level with the small device around his neck.

My name is Elizabeth Wilks. I live at 5623 Hawthorne, rural Camphor, North. My address is registered as a known personal device killer. Please absolve me of this legal tech’s decision to wear his device inside this structure. I will not be responsible for the new personal device he will need, since I warned him his old one would be destroyed if he crossed my threshold with it.

Bethany straightened and glared at him. Sure enough, within a few seconds his PD began to chirrup with an incoming message. The man raised an eyebrow in surprise, but answered it anyway.

Hello? Yes, this is Zander Collins. He listened intently to a voice she could not hear. No. I don’t. Fine. If I have your permission, fine, but I don’t like it.

He pulled the cord over his head and suddenly looked lost. She had enough sympathy to open the box for him. This revealed her own rarely used device, imprisoned by a cobweb. She suppressed her smile when he shuddered.

Go ahead. Everyone who visits me has to take it off. No one ever stays long, and their device is just fine when they put it back on again. Mine could use the company, believe me, she said reassuringly.

He put his on the hook beside hers and watched her close the box.

She stepped aside and motioned him into her shop. The fact that he came in at her first invitation showed courage, but she still caught him sneaking glances at the doorframe, as if making sure the wall, the box, and his PD were intact. She decided not to close the door. Some people suffered true separation anxiety. He took a seat on the stool she indicated and she sat opposite, the old table saw between them serving as a makeshift desk. If he saw the huge arched ceiling above them, or all the wood on the walls and tech and tools neatly arranged in the large space around him, she doubted it registered. Not while he was suffering so much.

Now, what is all this about? she asked, hoping to distract him.

I’m not sure what to do. He fidgeted. Can we record this meeting since my PD’s outside? I just feel I need a record or something of what we say. He looked around and must have finally realized there was no hope for it. All the machines in the room were known tech killers, capable of putting out enough disturbance, even while dormant, to quash any hope he might have had for using high tech in any capacity.

I’m sorry, she confirmed. The newer the tech gets-

The more it dies around low tech devices, I know. He sighed again, deeply. So you’re a low tech.

Actually, I’m registered as a no tech. That’s why my PD doesn’t work when I try to use it. She could lie smoothly now. Years of practice. I’m hopeless, it seems.

He looked horrified, then swallowed and tried to be gracious. That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.

Don’t be. I’m not. She cocked her head. You mentioned a will? I know for certain Janet didn’t leave me anything. She promised she wouldn’t leave me that headache, just as I promised I wouldn’t make a claim upon her estate for the box I built her. She paid me many times over with her friendship. It was the least I could do for her, believe me.

Actually, Ms. Wilks, she did leave you something. She came to my office less than a week ago with a sealed codicil and a case. She then stipulated that the will not be read until she was three hours in her grave, with her family present in my office.

She didn’t have a family, Mr. Collins. Her aunt died a month ago, the last of her lineage.

Yes, I was alone when I read it. It seems – but I need some identification first, to make sure you really are who you claim to be.

Wordlessly she pointed to the licenses on the wall near the entry door, all notarized, signed, and supplied with visual identification of the practitioner. Her father’s face, her uncle’s, and now hers graced the space. Mr. Collins stood and walked over to the ones concerning her.

I see. Yes, I think this will do. Your friend did leave you something, Ms. Wilks. Something I assume she received from her aunt, who said it should eventually go to you. He turned. I’ll get it. It’s in my PT.

Personal devices and personal transports, she muttered under her breath. Why can’t people just say what they mean instead of PDs and PTs? She rested her elbows on the familiar surface in front of her and then put her chin in her hands and waited patiently.

He came back after a little while, still longing with fond fingertips for what was in the box outside the door as he passed it, this time hauling a small metallic case.

This, he said as he clanked it down on the far older metal surface of the table saw, belongs to you. He rubbed his hand along the side. It’s real metal, too. I’ve no idea what’s inside, only that I’m to give it to you tonight. No later. All I ask is that you open it in front of me. I’m dying to know what it is. She sighed heavily. Sorry. No offense meant.

Bethany looked up at him. She said she left me nothing.

It might be nothing, but the more I was around it, the more I had to know.

And how am I supposed to open it, Mr. Collins?

I’ve no idea. He rubbed his hand against his pant leg to remove any dirt he had picked up from the metal, and she noticed that his suit was still impeccable. New materials nowadays were definitely better than the stained cotton material she sported. Perhaps one of these machines could crack it?

They are designed for wood, not metal.

Wood? Did you say wood? Not REAL wood, surely.

Yes, real wood. My harvesting license is over there. She nodded her head toward her posted license absently, still studying the case. Let me think.

Janet had mentioned something over and over in her apartment, namely dates: the first date they had met, the first class they had had together, the first day they had played hooky, all back when Bethany had been so sure of her future. Bethany noticed the numbers on the old case and reached out to click the first date Janet had mentioned in place with the worn little dials. It popped open with a groan. Inside, was a small wooden box, distinctively shaped.

Zander Collins swiveled his attention from her to the box and back again.

What is it? he asked.

It’s a casket, Mr. Collins. An old-fashioned casket.

And what is it for?

She stared at him, really stared. Are you tweaking me, Mr. Collins? Do you know what I do for a living?

He looked around, and she was suddenly