The Fall of Icarus (Cyberpunk)

The first week in our new place went relatively smoothly for everyone. We fully understood what we were up against, and none of the kids showed any visible discontent, which I considered a good sign. Even the perpetually grumbling Kiwi seemed happier, though she made a point of pretending she didn't care. Initially, we were met with neutrality, which was about what I had expected. We were still strangers, known only by our skills, if anything.

John, as the current leader of the nomad clan, held significant authority within the community, and this became a key factor in our rapid integration into the "family." The Bakker clan had 92 people, not counting us. A decent number at first glance, but there was still more than enough work to go around. The first few days, we weren't burdened with much and just silently observed the intricate interactions of the nomads in their daily lives. Sitting idle was unbearable, so I immediately offered my help to the local technician, asking for some light work.

Rick Donovan, the local craftsman, was quite the grumbler. When I first approached him, to put it mildly, I was told to get lost. Not in those exact words, but the sentiment was clear enough to anyone. I didn't like that, so I began to annoy him with my persistent presence. Not everyone appreciates being silently watched from the sidelines, feeling like someone's drilling holes into them with their gaze. Rick was no exception. Surprisingly stubborn, the nomad endured my "annoying" presence for two whole days before finally giving in.

When he lost his patience, he irritably pointed at a pile of electronic devices without giving me any specific instructions. Shrugging, I decided to do nothing special with them, just clean off some dust and corrosion. I did this so quietly and calmly that my disgruntled overseer couldn't help but be surprised. He clearly expected a different reaction, but as they say - tough luck!

By this time, the entire camp had heard about our little conflict. Entertainment was scarce among the nomads, so it was no surprise that any unusual event would spread like wildfire through the community gossip. It seems Donovan's decision was greatly influenced by the fact that his name was being mentioned too often in jest, which only irritated him further, if that were possible.

I finished the job quickly. Hearing that I had completed the task, Rick looked at me skeptically and silently approached the neatly stacked pile of what was almost shining trash after my careful attention. The local technician scrutinized each item, disassembling some, but eventually, he reluctantly admitted that I indeed had some skills. To me, it was a lackluster test, but I won't complain.

The other kids also found ways to keep busy. Han and Shiro dove into working on cars with the others, while Kiwi, due to her shyness, couldn't bring herself to approach Mike Roosevelt, the local doctor. I had to give her a little push, or more accurately, tow Kiwi along to the doctor.

According to John, the man had graduated from a medical university in San Francisco, but due to certain circumstances, he had to leave his clinic. Many nomads who have joined over the years have their reasons for roaming the wastelands, but not all are ready to talk about it. There are various stories, and some are better left unmentioned.

Overall, everyone was engaged in some useful activity, occasionally learning something new. The children in the clan were mostly given minor tasks suited to their abilities. They wouldn't be taken on missions or, more so, raids, which makes sense. No one wanted to overburden Susan either, so she was paired with me and the ever-grumbling Rick. Their personalities clearly didn't match, constantly looking for reasons to needle each other, but they never crossed the line, which was a relief. Susan herself was no easy character and never minced her words.

We lived in tents, one per family. We were given a spare one, which was a bit cramped, but after a few days spent together, I got used to the closeness. The overwhelming silence, occasionally broken by the howling of the wind, and the sand crunching between teeth, which took some getting used to in the morning, were unusual for me.

The problem was solved with a stretchy mask that fit snugly over the face, preventing sand grains from getting inside. It was relatively easy to make with the industrial printer, though it didn't work on the first try. Luckily, no one saw my failed attempts, or they might have hesitated to let me near this marvel of technology again. When it came to saving resources and avoiding waste, the nomads were particularly meticulous, thankfully not to the point of absurdity or, worse, obsession.

In the evenings, the Bakkers gathered around the fire and shared stories from their lives. They weren't always joyful, but I enjoyed listening to the local tales. In those moments, you really feel the weight of life and learn to appreciate the little things you have here and now.

***

A month later - the temporary camp of the Bakker clan

Another morning stretched across the endless Mojave wastelands. My body clamored for hydration, and without much thought, I reached for the water bottle on the floor. To my delight, the water had cooled overnight, which was quite timely. After a few greedy sips, I decided it was time to crawl out from under Kiwi, who lay on top of me. The nights here are quite cold, so it's no surprise she sought warmth in her sleep. My body temperature is slightly above the human norm, but it doesn't bother me.

Finally feeling the solid ground beneath my feet, I stretched contentedly. It was nearly six in the morning, and the camp would soon begin to wake up gradually. Stepping out of the tent, I approached the communal fire, where a couple of our guards were roasting marshmallows on sticks. Chad and Kirk - a colorful pair of veterans from the fourth corporate war, found themselves, like many others, sidelined by life's harsh realities. Greeting the sleepy brethren, I happily extended my hands toward the glowing embers, enjoying the warmth.

"Alex is up before everyone else again," Kirk lazily poked at the coals with a stick, leaning back on the couch near the fire.

"Early bird," Chad remarked with a yawn, handing me a stick with marshmallows on it.

"Thanks," I nodded gratefully, slowly chewing on the offered treat. "Any news?" I asked curiously, glancing briefly at the turned-off radio.

"Quiet as usual, except for the news about another case of cyberpsychosis in Night City. Always some trouble there, and the police are completely useless. A bunch of freeloaders," Kirk grumbled discontentedly.

"The cops there are totally corrupt. No wonder they only show up when things are completely out of hand," I shrugged, stating a truth known to every resident of that city. "They'll send in MaxTac, who quickly sorts everything out, and then news of the valiant Night City police spreads far and wide. Of course, any dissenters are swiftly silenced to avoid extra chatter."

"After your story, I definitely don't want to live in that city," Kirk said as he pulled another marshmallow off the stick.

"Many would agree with you, but not everyone has the chance to escape that 'shining cage,'" I said, finishing off the last marshmallow and looking sadly at the empty stick in my hand. "By the way, is everything okay with your electronics? I can tweak something for you if you'd like."

"No, old man Rick serviced me recently, so don't worry. If you want, you can check out the weapon calibration process in the car. We could even shoot at cactuses while we're at it," the guy winked, knowing what would interest me.

"I do love to shoot," I nodded in agreement, already anticipating the moment.

"That's the right attitude. In the wastelands, it's important and necessary to be able to accurately shoot your enemy in the forehead," Chad solemnly nodded to his own words, once again warming his hands by the fire...

"You're up early, and already bothering our guards," John yawned long, emerging from his tent.

"They didn't resist much," I shrugged, looking at the man's sleepy face. "When are you planning your next trip to the city for supplies?"

"I'm thinking by the end of the week. Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about your order." John attempted to tousle my hair, but I dodged again, letting his hand pass a few inches from my head. Susan's constant meddling in my hair is more than enough for me.

"Oh, yes! I need something else from you..." The nomad raised an eyebrow in surprise, waiting for my unexpected request. "Are there any old nuclear batteries still usable?"

"What are you planning to do with them?" John leaned in slightly, trying to understand my train of thought.

"I'll try to create a reactor that can power the active elements of my armor. I think I managed to design a kinetic field in the simulation that can stop projectiles flying at me, but I need to create a prototype first and then move on to other parts. If it works out, I could fit a similar gadget on the cars as well. It would be useful, you understand..."

"You little extortionist. Fine, I'll see what I have left in the old storerooms." The leader of the nomads sat opposite me, crossing one leg over the other. "By the way, Chad, ghosts have been lingering around our area more frequently. They might soon want to attack." O'Brian suddenly became serious.

"Ghosts? Didn't Militech thin them out recently in one of their raids? Could they really recover so quickly and resume their raids?" I turned to Kirk in surprise, whose face had darkened.

"That's exactly what worries me. They might have spread that rumor themselves to make the other clans let their guard down, but my sources can't be lying..." After these words, Chad became even more thoughtful, gripping the stick in his hands. "Unless Militech hired them for something." The former soldier threw out an unexpected theory.

"Are you sure? What would the corporation want with a common band of outcast hunters? I don't recall the ghosts turning into 'mules'..." John folded his hands, looking through his fingers at the slowly smoldering coals.

If you think about it, I have one possible scenario... The corporation wanted to test something in real conditions and found a clan that had recently tried to attack their convoy. They got in touch with the raiders and offered them a job that fits their profile, with the payment being the very goods taken directly from the corporate storerooms.

From this angle, everything adds up, and one might even assume that the ghosts didn't perish from the Militech convoy but merely staged an appearance of an attack. This way, they have extra people for raids, which will obviously dwindle in number during the attacks, without raising suspicions among other clans. After all, no one would think the corporation would hire thugs who wanted to rob them. I voiced these thoughts to a general silence, prompting the men sitting here to seriously ponder.

"Alex, are you really ten years old?" Chad squinted suspiciously, looking into my "honest-to-goodness" eyes.

"To be precise, nine and a bit," I huffed demonstratively, folding my arms across my chest. My interlocutor just rolled his eyes but didn't continue the playful banter, focusing instead on the main topic of conversation.

"Your words could indeed be true. Damn! They almost sound like it... That explains why no bodies were found around the battle site. According to rumors, only burning machinery was left. Militech doesn't care about what happens in the wastelands, and they wouldn't bother collecting the bodies of dead raiders, just as the ghosts, who are more likely to use each other than be a family like ours.

"John, what kinds of nomad families are there?" I asked with some hesitation. Addressing an adult man by his first name still felt uncomfortable, but it's the norm in local culture.

"Didn't I tell you about them?" O'Brian awkwardly scratched his head, trying to recall that moment.

"I think now's the perfect time to share your infinite wisdom." Smirking, I leaned back on the couch, waiting for the "fauna of the Mojave wasteland" program to begin.

"You and Susan are two of a kind," the man sighed heavily and finally began to explain. "In general, there are only three main types of activities:

Mules are settled nomad families who work under the supervision of some company or corporation, guarding their territory in the wild lands. Usually, these are various kinds of farms or, on rare occasions, complexes hidden in the wasteland territories. They don't seek other contracts besides those they've received and certainly don't engage in raids.

Scouts are clans that are self-sufficient. The Bakkers belong to this type. Scouts engage in various orders across the country and are not tied to one place. Also, we sometimes raid corporate convoys, but recently we've decided to lay off that for a while. The convoy security has been strengthened, and we've already lost a few of our people on a recent raid.

Hunters are the most dangerous type of nomad in the wastelands. These scoundrels literally hunt for live goods. They don't shy away from trading in others' spare parts and trophies obtained during raids. In Night City, I've heard of a similar group, they seem to be called scavengers.

"Informative... And how many clans currently live in the wasteland?"

"That's quite complicated from an outsider's perspective..." John pondered again, but not for long. "There are seven main peoples, three of which operate in California: The Snake Nation, Aldecaldos, and The Wraiths... Peoples are divided into clans, and clans into smaller families, but there are also separate communities not belonging to any people, like ours. You can only become a people if such a community has more than 300 members..."

"Seems like you blew his mind," Kirk nudged O'Brian, who didn't stop in his insightful speech.

"Think so? I haven't even tried yet." John proudly lifted his head, clearly playing up for the audience.

"I think Han and Shiro don't ask you enough questions; need to hint to them that you'll be glad to answer them... In detail." I made the most possible haunting voice, which coming from my mouth should sound comical, but the man was clearly not in the mood for laughter.

"Alex, how about we make peace?" The nomad raised his hands in surrender, to the amusement of his companions.

"Hmm..." I pretended to ponder, making my interlocutor nervous. "Deal." Another round of laughter was interrupted by a disgruntled Susan, who had finally woken up and was now sleepily walking towards us.

"What's all the noise, loafers?"