An Excerpt from The Master’s Compass
Keep in mind this is not fully polished and reviewed yet, but the second edit is ahead of schedule and an October release date is still viable.
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The Master was dying.
The Circle were claiming that he was merely gravely ill but few believed them; the Master’s impending death was now accepted as fact and because of that fact the narrow, illogical world the People knew was changing fast and not for the better.
Everyone was talking about crews; it was all the rage, and topics raged hard on the Anvil in these troubled days. Usually they raged and then faded like a summer storm rolling in off the sea, but this one wasn’t going away. This wasn’t who was sleeping with whom, or who was pushing the rules, or even how close to a cult Bricktorian was taking his adoration of Dolph Lundgren. This was becoming very important.
Romero bounded up the steel stairs, which Mohabin insisted were to be called a ladder, just like he wanted the floors to be called decks, the ceilings overheads, and all the other titles he said applied to ships. Romero tried to get along with everyone but he just couldn’t get all the nautical stuff locked in as a habit. The Anvil hadn’t sailed or even moved with the waves in generations, so the terminology seemed moot.
Emerging on the top deck, he spotted Oracle taking the morning sun and paused to catch his breath as Oracle preferred a bit of dignity when she was consulted. She was leaning against the rusting rail, he saw, bundled in a heavy canvas cloak, her long white hair blowing freely in the cool winter breeze. He knew that she bleached her hair to add the wisdom of age to her pronouncements. Given that she was a year younger than his twenty-four-odd years and everyone had known her all their lives he thought it was a pretty crazy affection, but what was even crazier was that others were starting to show her deference.
“Oracle,” he said respectfully as he drew near.
“Approach, my child.”
Romero rolled his eyes at the ‘my child’, but had a suitably serious look on his face when he stepped up to the rail. Life had been much easier when she had just been Becky, the first girl he had ever kissed. “I need to seek your council.”
“Speak.” He had to admit that the white hair did complement her pale blue eyes, and went well with the slight gauntness of her fine-boned face.
“Bricktorian has officially created a Crew, and several others have as well, Gunnitt and Cristor for certain, Mohabin probably. Bricktorian has offered me a position, but I am uncertain of whether I should take it.”
Oracle continued to stare straight forward. Five years ago she had found a cache of soft over-sized books in a recess of the Anvil, books (she called them ‘magazines’) which dealt with nothing but the royalty of the Old World and their dealings with the masses, each other, and accounts of their lives. Somehow Oracle (then Becky) had parlayed these books into a position of some influence within the People. She had devised a theory that which member of the Royalty (she always pronounced it so the capitalization could be heard) a person most resembled had a significant impact on their life.
The Master had curtailed her theory when Bricktorian started edging his resemblance to (and adoration of) Dolph Lundgren into a cult status. Nevertheless Oracle was willing to advise people of what portents their affiliation to Royalty, cross-referenced to the phase of the moon, held for them, and what was amazing was that a lot of people listened to her. If nothing else she was a virtual clearinghouse of gossip.
“Bricktorian wants war,” Oracle observed somberly. “He wants you for your healing abilities. He seeks out warriors, healers, and inventors.”
“War with whom?”
“There is an entire world out there. He’ll find someone.”
“With the Master…well, soon there may be a new Master, and I think Bricktorian means to assume that role. If he does not have men of faith to advise him things could be very poorly run.”
“Bricktorian listens only to the spirit of Dolph Lundgren.”
“Well, Dolph Lundgren was a great hero who fought always on the side of the right…”
Oracle sighed. “Bricktorian is Bricktorian. He thinks with his fists and listens to his penis.”
Romero was startled, as Oracle normally couched her advice in obscure terms. “All right. I was thinking…well, I could form a crew. There are needs that need to be met, the People are facing desperate times. A crew dedicated to solving the problems we face as a group will be necessary. Those forming crews now have…strong but limited ideas.”
Oracle turned and laid her hand against his cheek. “Romero, don’t leave the Anvil. Those that are joining crews do not understand what is coming, and those who are forming crews lack your nobility of spirit. You will find yourself caught between crushing stones.”
He tried to smile. “I have to try, Oracle. It is my duty.”
She looked long and hard into his eyes before turning back to the rail. “You are a Johnny Lee Miller of the second degree, strong in appearance but with a far kinder heart.” She sighed. “Get Alfred and his brother, and Jerryknot as well. They will bolster your chances. Ragman, too, as you will need an Inventor.”
“Alfred is my cousin, but he is a hard man, not much different than Bricktorian; I expect he will be joining Bricktorian soon. Ragman already serves Bricktorian.”
“Alfred is nothing like Bricktorian save in their capacity for violence. He is a Walton Goggins of the first degree, strong in appearance and true to the heart. Like Lord Goggins he is crafty and sly, and prone to reckless impulses. He can think, however, and thus will not prosper under Bricktorian. I will advise Ragman of his new affiliation, and he will follow my instructions.”
“Bricktorian will not take that well,” Romero noted uneasily.
“Bricktorian owes me far too much to so much as frown at what I do or whom I advise. Go, be about your foolishness.” She flipped a dismissive hand.
The Master had brought all two hundred and eight of the People to the Anvil twenty years ago; back then the oldest was around six and the majority were three. They had no families as such, but there was a need for family amongst them, and over the years the terms ‘brother’, ‘sister’, and ‘cousin’ had taken on the meaning of a deep friendship without romantic influences. It had grown in strength as it was learned that the People seemed to be largely barren; only three children had been born on the Anvil, which did not even replace the four who had died since their arrival.
Romero found Alfred and his brother Uncas on the sports deck on Deck Twelve; most of the People liked to live near the main deck (Three) for the convenience, but the two brothers lived on Deck Eleven and held court on Deck Twelve. Romero had to admit that Alfred resembled the pictures Oracle had shown him of Lord Goggins: tall, rangy, with wild spiky dark hair, and grim of visage unless he smiled.
Uncas, on the other hand, was of average height, powerful of build, and very proud of his strength. He was dark-skinned and wore his inky black hair long; Uncas had originally been Bob, but eight years ago he had read a particularly difficult book on a dare, and had changed his name to Uncas after a character in the book. Uncas said the book was about Indians, great warriors and landsmen who were dark-skinned and black-haired, and thus likely his ancestors. None of the People were especially clear on what ‘Indians’ were, but none of the other dark-skinned people looked like Uncas, so they accepted his interpretation. It helped that Uncas talked very little; the People found it easiest to accept simple deviations from the norm.
“What’s up, cousin?” Alfred drawled, idly flipping his large Bowie knife and catching it by the point. Ragman had made that knife, and it was Alfred’s pride.
“I want to form a Crew,” Romero burst out.
Alfred gave a true Lord Goggins grin and even Uncas crossed his arms and smiled a bit. “You want to form a Crew? I thought you were planning on becoming a priest?”
“Well, I still hope to achieve my calling,” Romero rubbed his neck. “But that is a long-term goal. I believe that in the current crisis there needs to be crews who are steadying influences, men who will put the good of the People ahead of…narrow interests.”
“And you figure we are the three to do it?” Alfred was still amused.
“Us, Ragman, and Jerryknot, if Jerryknot will join.”
“The Ragman signed on with Bricktorian.” The smile was gone, and Romero realized with a shock that his cousin did not care for the devotee of Dolph Lundgren. How had Oracle known?
“I spoke with Oracle, and she said she will tell Ragman that he is to serve with us.”
Alfred glanced at Uncas; that was something that Romero always found strange: Alfred liked to talk, Uncas never talked, and they often just looked at each other and somehow communicated. “That will do it for Ragman. How many people do you need for a crew, anyway?”
Romero had been giving that some thought as he had made his way here. “They say crews will be going outside the Anvil to seek solutions. Ragman has a bad leg, so he can stay here and work on equipment. You two are trained to fight, and Uncas knows the ways of the wild by his nature and study,” Romero didn’t really believe that, but he was confident Uncas did. “Jerryknot is sneaky and he gets into everything, and I am a fully trained healer. I think that should cover everything to start with.”
Alfred nodded thoughtfully. “Find Jerryknot and tell him he is part of our crew,” he said to Uncas, who nodded shortly. “Romero, tell Ragman he can set up here, on the sports deck. You guys can bunk with us on Deck Eleven, there’s plenty of empty cabins. We’ll want the entire crew together.”
“What if Jerryknot doesn’t want to join?” Romero asked, a bit taken back at Alfred’s taking charge.
“Then Uncas will hit him until he changes his mind,” Alfred shrugged.
