City of Wonder

By Valerie Gaumont

When his wife died aboard The Defender in the Matrovean attack, all Michael wanted to do was join her in death. He sought oblivion but the Guild needed his skills as a cartographer as they send teams inland to survey the planet outside of the town limits of Haven. Pulled back from the edge of oblivion for one last job, Mateo promises Michael that there are plenty of things on the alien world that could kill him. Hoping for a quick death, Michael agrees, but soon finds out there is more to the survey than he expected. Will Michael find the death he craves and doom the rest of his team into the bargain?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Valerie Gaumont
• Release date: Oct 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463019023

Valerie Gaumont

Valerie Gaumont is an evil genius whose mission is to take over the world. Her latest efforts were thwarted when her flying monkey army discovered beer. Currently they are in Rehab because no one likes a drunk flying monkey. (Thank you for your cards and letters of support.) When she is taking a break from villainy she can often be found with a pen in her hand. Yes, sometimes she is doodling, other times writing fiction and discovering new and interesting ways to combine reality with the outré. She has had short stories in the Violet Ampersand Anthology, Poetry, Prose and Other Voyages to the Edge, and the online Journal, Gothic Fairytales for Melancholy Children. In 2007 she was listed as a finalist in the William Faulkner International Writing Competition in the Novel-In-Progress category.

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City of Wonder

A Channel Riders’ World Book

Valerie Gaumont

Copyright 2019 by Valerie Gaumont

License Statement

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter 1

Michael Lewis Morrison was drunk; really, really, drunk. He leaned himself back gently, head resting on the wall behind him and legs stretched out across the bed. He was in that stage of drunkenness where holding on to a thought for more than a second was next to impossible. The thoughts his mind tried to send him drifted away only half formed as his attention skimmed the vast universe behind his eyelids. It was a tenuous state at best and he knew from experience that it wouldn’t last long. It was a fine line, drinking enough so that the world’s edges became soft and blurry, but not enough to send him into unconsciousness where dreams lurked, waiting with sharp talons to tear him to shreds.

Recently he had become an expert in finding that very fine line and walking it with precision.

A sound off to his left made him frown and open his eyes. For a minute the world didn’t want to hold still and he feared he would be sick. Being sick would throw him too close to reality; he clamped his jaw shut and swallowed convulsively. To his relief, the world slowed from a rapid spin to a wobbly, but less vomit inducing, image. He frowned when he realized he was looking at a row of buttons. The buttons were blue and sewn onto a darker blue shirt in what he thought might be a straight line. At the moment it was difficult to tell.

Against his better judgment, he lifted his gaze, following the trail of buttons up to a shirt collar topped with a face. The face looked familiar. He was sure he knew it, but he was just as sure that he didn’t want to remember why he knew it. The face was scowling down at him, age lines helping to make the scowl deep and darkly forbidding, the short white hair bristling as though in a temper of its own. Deciding that looking up had been a bad idea, Michael let his gaze fall back down the shirt buttons, his head moving in sync with his eyes until his chin was resting on his own chest. He closed his eyes, smiling to himself when the scowling man disappeared.

Michael heard a heavy sigh. If I don’t see you, then you don’t exist. Michael said, or thought he said.

He wasn’t sure if he opened his mouth or merely thought the words. The thought drifted around his brain, lasting longer than it would have a few moments ago and he knew he would have to take another slug from the bottle soon to maintain the balance and not tip over into either true consciousness or complete unconsciousness. He tried to remember where he had set the bottle down and if he could find it again without opening his eyes. Despite his firmly held belief about the unreality of his visitor, he didn’t want to test the disappearance by opening his eyes again. He figured if he was still there, than Michael would have to work that much harder to erase him a second time.

He had just about decided to risk a blind grab when he heard the man’s shuffling footsteps. Michael relaxed, figuring that the man decided Michael’s version of reality was better and made himself vanish in compliance. He cracked an eye open as a wave crashed into him. Michael sputtered and wheeled his arms about as though trying to swim to shore.

Suddenly, he realized there was no more water. He stopped flailing and opened his eyes again, realizing as he did that he pinched them shut as the water hit. As his eyes opened, he saw the scowling man standing in front of him, holding an empty bucket.

What was that for? Michael sputtered. This time he was nearly certain the words came out of his mouth.

You stink, the older man said.

Michael wondered if that was a general statement or an answer to his question. Before he could decide, the man turned the bucket upside down and sat on it as though it were a stool. This put the man slightly lower than Michael, who straightened up in reaction to his dousing.

Do you know why I’m here, Michael? the man asked.

It sounded more like a statement and less like a question. Michael stared into the icy blue of the older man’s eyes and couldn’t formulate a response.

I’m here, the man continued granting Michael’s overheated brain the relief from finding an answer on his own. Because everyone else has run out of options. In fact about an hour ago, I was sent for because they thought you might have actually managed to kill yourself. I can see why the mistake was made. God knows you certainly smell like something three days dead.

I’d be better off dead, Michael said softly. He was drifting from the line of oblivion and coming dangerously close to reality, he could feel it, lurking, waiting.

Allie wouldn’t have wanted that, the older man said.

The name hit like a punch to his gut and Michael felt the air whoosh out of him, felt the pain so deep it left him a hollow, brittle shell. He gasped for air, felt it scorch his insides like damnation. Why was he still breathing? Why was he still moving when life had already left him?

A flash of light blazed behind the older man, and for a moment Michael thought it was the end, the bright white tunnel all near death survivors spoke about and he almost wept for the joy of relief, only to have the hope torn away as he realized it was merely the door opening, letting in the morning light. It was morning, he hadn’t known.

Another day without Allie.

Would his torment never end?

The man who opened the door stepped inside. With the light behind him, Michael could only make out the general outline of the newcomer. Commander McLaughlin, the shadow man said. You asked for assistance?

The older man nodded and stood. Yes. Help him to the bath house. The cold water might help sober him up a bit, but get him clean regardless. Have a couple of the others clear this place out while you do. The bedding goes along with any drink you find. See if you can get him to eat anything and then let him come back and sleep the rest of it off. I need him sober.

Yes, Commander, the shadow man said. He stepped forward a little and Michael could see the contempt in the man’s eyes. McLaughlin caught the look too and placed a hand on the man’s arm.

"His wife was the pilot of The Defender," McLaughlin told him.

Michael watched the man’s eyes soften with pity and he slumped. At least with the contempt he could hope that the man would let him drown in one of the large communal baths that were the standard in Haven before he could actually manage to get sober. Michael hadn’t been sober since the day of the memorial. It was not an experience he wished to endure.

The commander left the circular, one room cottage and Michael watched the pity in his new caretaker’s eyes harden into determination. Michael sighed, realizing that he would be helped no matter how much he didn’t want it. Apparently for now, it had been decided that he would live.

This is going to hurt, he decided. The thought stayed stamped in his brain, solid as stone and Michael realized he had lost his grasp on that thin line of oblivion. Sober, he said resignedly. If that doesn’t kill me nothing will.

Chapter 2

After being stripped, scrubbed, fed and returned to his newly clean quarters, Michael fell upon the fresh sheets and was claimed by the demons of his dreams. He awoke sometime later, twisted in linens soaked with sour sweat, his head feeling as though it were about to split open and the realization that Allie was gone and nothing would bring her back. He leaned over the side of the bed, spotted a bucket some helpful soul had left behind and leaned over as the contents of his stomach erupted from his mouth.

He set the bucket down and noticed a large pitcher of water, an empty glass and a bottle of aspirin placed on his small nightstand. Ignoring the glass, he lifted the pitcher to his lips and drank deeply. After several gulps he set the pitcher down, fumbled the aspirin bottle open and tossed a couple down his throat. He then set the aspirin bottle down and guzzled the reminder of the water. Feeling slightly less desiccated, he rolled over and fell back into a mercifully dreamless sleep.

When Michael again opened his eyes, the bucket was gone and the pitcher had been refilled. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or dismayed that someone was apparently looking out for him. He sat up and drained the water pitcher, realizing as he did, that the water was not going to be enough. He was hungry. For the first time in a long time, he was actually hungry. Realizing he was also naked, Michael looked around for some clothing. Sure enough on the other side of the small room was a pile of neatly folded clothing.

Deciding that if he didn’t make an attempt at moving, Commander McLaughlin would come looking for him, Michael swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. His legs felt like jelly and for a moment he doubted his ability to remain upright. He wondered if his skull would crack when he hit the floor, leaking his brains out and foiling the commander’s plan to make him live. As if rallying against the thought, his legs seemed to solidify and he found them carrying him over to the pile of clean clothing.

Traitors, he muttered to his legs as he began to dress.

Task complete, Michael turned towards the door deciding that if his legs were going to betray him, he might as well fill his traitorous stomach as well. At the door, Michael fumbled the banded wooden shield that served to keep predators out of what could optimistically be called his home. Michael braced himself for the light, but found it wasn’t needed.

Evening was close. It was the time his grandmother always referred to as the gloaming. Light had gone soft as if unsure whether day or night ruled and was loathe to commit one way or the other. At the sight of him, a younger man Michael vaguely recognized as one of the sailors from a patrol ship stood up. He had been sitting on a stool placed outside the door reading. He tucked the thin well-worn paperback into one of the oversized pockets of his cargo pants and looked Michael over.

I suppose I have you to thank for the water? Michael asked, resenting that someone had decided to look out for him.

Yes, sir, the man said with a smile, taking no insult from Michael’s tone. He nodded, seemingly pleased with himself. I’m Gilbert. Friends call me Gillie.

Of which I’m sure you have many, Michael said dryly. Gillie’s smile deepened and Michael shook his head at the sight of the dimples that appeared. The boy reminded him of an over grown cherub.

The Commander left word that you were to be taken to the mess tent before reporting in. He thought you might be hungry. Gillie gestured to the left. It’s this way sir.

Reporting in, Michael repeated shaking his head and taking a step in the indicated direction.

If everyone had already decided he would live, he supposed he ought to at least get something to fill his cavernously empty belly. Gillie fell into step beside him and to Michael’s relief remained silent as they walked. He found himself darkly amused when Gillie signaled another patrolman in what he was certain the boy felt was a clandestine sign.

They stepped into the mess tent and Michael braced himself for the hustle and bustle of a large crowd, hoping no familiar faces came into view. He was working very hard to focus only on the physical; his empty belly, his foul morning breath, the mosquito bite on his left arm.

‘Or the bite of whatever Haven has in place of mosquitos,’ he thought.

Anything more would bring the pain back. To his relief, the large space of the mess tent was mostly empty. He would not be forced to socialize. A few tables were occupied, but they seemed more like meetings than people eating meals.

Did we miss dinner? Michael asked as Gillie led him to an unoccupied table.

No sir, Gillie replied. Captain, I mean Councilor Calabrese has been slowly phasing out the use of the mess tent. Most folks now have the capacity to cook at home. And many of the vender carts are operating near the main square. We even have a couple of actual restaurants up and running.

I see, Michael said, realizing that the world had clearly gone on without him. He was somewhat relieved to know that his absence had caused no harm. A thought glimmered. Councilor Calabrese? he asked, thinking of the stern older man. So the channels are open and the Council has taken over Haven?

Not exactly sir, Gillie said. He signaled to someone and then sat down across from Michael. I mean the channels are open again, and the Council has arrived, but Haven is still under Elena Calabrese’s direction. She was made a councilor a few weeks ago in a special ceremony.

Ah, Michael said. Apparently the world had not only continued, it had marched on full steam ahead without him.

Most are wondering what the new change will bring, Gillie continued on eagerly. I mean, she isn’t exactly like the others, is she?

Give her time, Michael said sourly. In time, everything rots. Gillie looked confused as though Michael’s statement was so completely foreign to his world view as to be incomprehensible.

Not everything. Michael looked up to see Consuelo standing next to the table holding a tray. She set the tray in front of Michael. Occasionally something survives.

Michael gave a half smile to Consuelo. The chef was large boned and stood a little over six feet in height, a formidable presence at the best of times. As her black hair grayed, she dyed the lighter strips either green or purple. Tonight the multicolored locks were braided and wrapped around her head like a coronet. Her deep aubergine colored caftan looked almost black in the shadows of the mess tent and Michael had the fleeting thought that she looked a bit like the queen of the underworld. He wondered if she would take pity on him and drag him back into the darkness with her.

Exactly, Gillie said, agreeing with the towering chef. His dimples returned.

You may go and fetch your Commander, Consuelo said in her carefully neutral accent.

Gillie looked startled. But… he began.

I will sit with Michael and make certain he comes to no harm from his dinner fork in your absence.

The tone brooked no argument and Michael watched bemusedly as Gillie rose and practically scampered out of the tent. Consuelo slid into a seat across the table from him. She stared at Michael and he found himself unable to sustain her gaze. He looked down at the tray of food placed before him.

Eat, she commanded. You need it.

You know you probably made him violate a direct order, Michael said picking up his fork. He knew from experience that Consuelo would not relent.

Possibly, She said, not sounding terribly concerned. But he is young and will no doubt recover from the censure ordered.

Michael snorted and took a forkful of the offered stew. He frowned at the taste. This doesn’t taste like your stew. He said.

It is not, she replied. It is canned stew with Saltines.

Michael looked up and as he did he felt the years melt away. He felt the tropical heat of Haven fade and the biting cold of the snowy mountains return. It was in that place, a place whose name he was told to officially forget, where he first met Consuelo.

He remembered the desolate rage, the howling loss in her eyes. She fought against those who killed her family. Impossibly outnumbered and armed only with a bit of broken bottle, she was severely wounded and left to die. Through chance and an odd set of circumstances, he came across her, patched her wounds, at least the physical ones, and shared the only food he had; canned stew and Saltines. It was a life time ago when they were both impossibly young. It was a time long before either of them even heard of the Guild of Families.

I remember, Michael said in acknowledgement. I suppose you are expecting me to rage, he said bitterly.

No, Consuelo said. We each chose our methods of suicide. Mine was the blade of glass and yours the unbroken bottle. You never had the temper I did, but we both understand how grief can hollow one out and create a pain that seems unendurable. Consuelo took a deep breath and Michael saw her eyes darken with memory. I was away from home when my family was killed. I wished I died with them, so great was the pain in me. I picked up the only weapon I could find and did my best to follow after. She continued softly. I asked you why I survived. Do you remember what you told me?

It was a lifetime ago, Michael told her, his voice barely above a whisper.

His mind returned to that place. He could smell the wood smoke and snow on the wind and hear the wracking sobs of Consuelo as she wrestled with pain that his bandages and limited medicines could not hope to touch.

You said that perhaps the world still had use for me, She continued relentlessly. "You were right. I punched you for it. But you were right. You took your young nieces and nephews from the Docking Facility during the evacuation, seeing them safe to Haven, keeping them out of the combat zone when the others would have merely taken them aboard the patrol ships. This is why you were not aboard The Defender. Why you did not die with your wife. Perhaps the world still has use for you as well."

Michael shook his head unwilling to believe her.

Ah, Consuelo said, the edge of a dark smile tilting up the corners of her mouth. I did not believe you then either, she said understanding more than he was comfortable with. "It took quite a while