(This is only the second draft of the book Worthless. Expect typos, plot holes, odd subplots and the occassionally wrongly named character, especially minor characters. It is made public only to give people a rough idea of how the final story will look)

Chapter 22

South of Nakskov. A good deal south, but still, south of it and still on the island of Lolland. Not that anyone from 2015 would even know that from just looking. Some of the best farmland in Europe was now dry chunks and dust. Withered roots of plants, the bits above the woil long ago worn away by harsh weather, stuck up here and there, but what really struck the eye was how flat it all was. Denmark was a flat country, its origins little more than sand from the Baltic Sea piling up on the northern coast of Germany. The old joke, if one could call it that, was that all you needed to see straight across the country, from one end to the other, was a stack of newspapers to stand on. Of course, that bit of proverb came from a time when newspapers, the printed kind, were still a thing. They barely were in 2015. They definitely were not in the early 2060s.
In spite of the flat terrain, the hills still seemed rolling, like giant waves of dirt frozen in place. Up and down, one soft slope giving way to the next, they were just about all the natural landscape there even was. Old rows of stone could be seen here and there, poking up through light brown dust and dry fields of mud, but they looked more like old relics drowning in the landscape than any real part of that landscape. The only thing that stuck out were Pile City.
The name was really a mockery, more than anything. Pile City, or The Piles, was never said with much love, a label given to just about any of the hastily constructed contained towns that dotted the landscape of this era. Thousands upon thousands of people running from a changing and increasingly uncaring Mother Nature, in need of any place to stay. The early Piles had been actual shipping containers refitted for temporary housing. Their success, and the constantly increasing demands, had caused the idea to run wild, and soon, mass production of containers never meant for anything else had redesigned the face of most countries. In the north and south of the globe, people escaped a new ice age, while the equator grew wild, plants overrunning nearly everything. Anyone who didn't have the money for a fortified compound or membership in a private island community went into The Piles. And the cities lucky enough to be neither too far north or south, nor too close to a Growth Zone, gladly financed more Piles to dot the surface of the planet. It allowed them to keep people from wanting part of those cities.
And like Manchester in the 70s, it was just close enough in time to make time travel bearable. Denim was too hot for the climate, but loose fabrics with some resilience to the heat of time travel did the job just as well. Cover from the burning sunlight was paramount, but dusty winds were a pest, too. The clothes that The Embassy had for trips to this time were designed to be as practical as possible, building on descriptions from refugees from around that era, and from the kind of testing that a time so close actually allowed. There was no branch office around, not yet, but that was no priority. It was practically close enough to be a commute.
"Yo, straggler here!"
It took some looking, some attention, but the transport scoop was not exactly hidden in the brown dust, its bright green and pink colors clashing with the background like a flare gun at sea. Anyone willing to pay attention to their surroundings would spot it, and that was pretty much the point of it. The moment it heard the call, the striped blob changed direction and came rolling. It had no doubt been on its regular route to look for people lost in the dirt, either the weak who tried to reach The Piles or the stupid who tried to get out of there on foot. At this point, likely few were that stupid, but there were always those who believed conspiracies about Pile City being designed to hold people back, sotries that people clung to when needing to think that the world wasn't as absolute an obstacle as they had been told. People who mistook frustration for hope.
As the scoop came closer, the large wheels could soon be heard. It sounded like a processing plant for ores, like it was grounding rock to dust beneath its massive grooves and solid rubber. It was the sound of an engine fighting to deal with the harsh climate, an engine no doubt encased completely to keep out dust, but still forced to overpower the grime that crept into other parts of the machinery. It sounded angry.
"You alone?" asked a voice through a glass slit in the ceramic box that was the hull of the vehicle. The wheels stood nearly as high as a grown man, the hull more hanging between them than poised on top like a normal truck or armored vehicle would be.
"All alone, just me!"
There was a lull, nothing but the vehicle standing there in silence as someone talked to someone else and checked something on some device inside.
"Name?" the voice finally asked.
"Marie."
"Full name?"
"Marie Hansen."
Last names were harder than first names. Every culture had their own way of building last names. The right first name, however, never caught much attention, at least not in most parts of the world, or the timeline.
"Origins?"
"None. Roaming."
"Looking for?"
They had realized that it was no emergency. That gave them the rare opportunity to actually go through the required questions. It was mostly a matter of waiting until they got bored.
"Housing. I pay,"
Letting the system think there was a bit of money to be made never hurt anyone. Except people who lied and were found out. False information was always penalized. The world had run out of trust long before it ran out of good living space.
Another second or three passed, and then a deep metal clunk rang out as some bolt inside the monster of a vehicle was unbolted. The heavy door on the vehicle's side opened, first with a quick jerk, then a slow descent, the built in stairs unfolding unevenly, but in the end, correctly. There was no voice giving instructions, and even though the stairs indicated quite clearly how to proceed, there was the threat hanging in the air of what might happen from a single wrong move.
The inside of the vehicle smelled like old sweat and rubber, a foul heat trapped inside the metal beast for who knew how long. It billowed out of the open door and was harsh to pass through to get inside, but it seemed that as this stale air came flooding out, the outside air came rushing in. As the stair folded up and door closed, the new mix of inside and outside air was sealed up tight. Another clunk rang out, as the bolt locked the door, but hearing it from inside the vehicle was like sticking your head inside a church bell as someone threw a rock at it. And still, it was quickly drowned out by the crunching of engine and parts, and wheels against the dry outside, as the transport began rolling again.
Light inside was dim, and a weird shade of green and yellow, like a cartoon choice for the skin of a sick person. Two other figures could be seen inside, although mostly because of the added light flowing in through slits in the hull, slits filled with thick, probably armored glass. There were no visible weapons, nor had there been on the outside, but the military feel of the thing was solid and clear. There were different theories back at The Embassy as to why scoops of this period were so heavily armored, from governments and military factions wanting them on hand for actual military action, to the fear of raiders and terrorists, to simply a psychological need to look as intimidating as possible in a world that was, in itself, more hostile by the day.
"Where did you come from?" one of the figures shouted. A large man, skin looking like badly handled leather, wearing an old baseball cap and what could best be described as a double leather jacket combo, one jacket clearly meant to cover the holes in the other and vice versa. Quite likely the most basic of homemade repairs.
"Just badland. Nowhere special."
The man nodded, grinning, then gave the other figure a glance. It was a young person, gender impossible to tell with shaved head and thick, dirty clothes. He or she shyed away from eye contact with the man, but apparently only with him. It didn't look like fear, more discomfort at a loud person in close quarters.
"Stockholm!" the man almost shouted, looking very proud of himself. "Seven months on the move. No more transports up there!" As he shouted, for some reason, he pointed upwards, perhaps to clumsily indicate that he meant north of Denmark, which roughly matched. "Everybodys dead now. It's all froen over. #*@!ing ice caps," he finshed, his voice dropping a bit in volume and his face dropping a bit of the enthusiastic expression.
"That's awful."
It was a weak answer, but the guy seemed less than right in his head, and something about him screamed to not agitate him. He nodded, looking as if he was cooling down a bit. Then, for no apparent reason, he shot up from his seat along the inner wall of the hull!
"We're all going to die, you know that, right?" he yelled, not in an angry way but still very intensely! Then, all of a sudden, his eyes became a little unfocused and he started to look at the wall.
"Stay in your seat," came the previously heard voice from the vehicle, a voice with no face to see. The front end of the vehicle, as seen from inside, was just another wall, hinting that whoever was driving the thing had no desire to mingle.Whatever the details, the man just mumbled some quickl reply and stayed in his seat, not moving another muscle. He made no indication of what had changed his mood, but the young person next to him looked at something on his leg with nervous eyes, then looked at the man's blank facial expression. The thing on the leg was just some plastic wrapped around the ankle, little more than a fancy belt. But it certainly did not match with the man's general outfit, and might have been the source of his sudden calm, somehow.
Perhaps working on a plan to fill the passenger bay up entirely, the scoop kept roaming the area for what felt like an eternity. The man never spoke again, and, in fact, never really looked away from the other at all. The young person was not talkative, either, but at least seemed alive. He or she had what looked like a rough tan, but not the same leathery hide as the man. A few cuts and scrapes adorned the young face, but he or she seemed to become very nervous when being looked over by strangers. In all, the rest of the ride was less than eventful.
That all changed the moment the vehicle came to a final stop. The walls insulated the bay from any and all sound from the outside, and as it finally opened, sounds came rushing in much the same as air had the last time it opened! As if a thousand people were excitedly waiting for any passengers to disembark, the city, The Piles, buzzed with life. Stepping out into the scolding sunlinght again was like being suddenly dropped into the middle of a busy bazar, the one exception being the heavily armed welcoming committe that stood by the door as the stairs again unfolded. Four of them, full face helmet and light body armor, two of them with small hand weapons drawn. The other two waited calmly until everyone was out, at which point they grabbed the man, who still seemed fairly dazed. Nobody else from inside the vehicle was even approached, and the young person immediately walked off, disappearing in the mass of people that somehow knew not to get too close to the scoop. It seemed like the right thing to do.
The Piles, the actual stacks of container homes, were not very tall near the unloading zone, but they made up for that quite quickly, reaching five or six stories high within a minute's walk. In the distance, in two directions, tall walls around the place could be seen, themselves perhaps three stories or so in height. Like so many other things, it had always been unclear wether the walls were to keep trouble out or in, to protect the inhabitants of The Piles or to keep them from roaming free. Odds were mostly the latter, but a bit of the former, as well. Still, the walls were unguared, making it look much less like a prison than it could have.
"Looking for work?" asked someone in the crowd, and it actually took a few seconds to spot the older woman holding a small device in her hand, a small square that could easily have been a 2015 model cell phone of some sort. It looked banged up, while she looked a little less damaged. Other than clothe that looked a bit nicer than everyone else's, she had a bit of body armor, too, a simple chest patch, itself full of scrapes that looked more like wear and tear than any old attack damage. She had no other armor, though, except some knee pads that looked more like standard safety gear, clear out of a junior league hockey outfit. She did, however, have a funny little half helmet, basically just a set of sloghtly tinted glasses with slightly excessive straps to hold them in place. The way people kept bumping in to her, though, suggested that the excessive look was not quite as excessive in practice.
"Looking for work?" she asked again, trying to make eye contact.
"Uhm, no, I'm looking for..."
She said nothing, but simply walked by. Seconds later, she could be heard asking someone else the same question not that far away.
"Don't mind the rude ones, just admin drones, really," said another voice, a man trying to get through the crowd nearby.
"Sorry to listen in," he said, smiling awkwardly, "I just make my way by connecting people with what they are, well, looking for."
Walking out of the constantly moving crowd, he tugged his loose jacket close in, apparently worried about people grabbing it for some unexplained reason. Then again, like the older woman's safety straps, being careful with anything not bolted onto the body seemed like a good idea!
"Guessing you're a drop, right? Fresh from the scoop?"
"Yeah, just looking for a woman."
The man stopped for a moment, looking a bit surprised.
"Not in that way, perv."
He cracked an actual smile at that remark, the startled look evaporating instantly. He wasn't a very attractive man, his face marked with what seemed like a life of nasty sunburns and his hair, like the hair of many others, kept short, but not kept well.
"A friend? Family?" he asked, letting the mean remark wash off without a comment or even a sign of hurt feelings.
"Employer. Well, hopefully."
"Ohhh," he said, actually sounding a bit interested. "Big job or small job?"
"Any job, really. Not being picky."
He let out a quick laugh that soon disappeared in the background buzz. "Good philosophy. If it's good, let a brother know, eh?"
He didn't seem all that imposing, looking fairly harmless with his sunken eyes and slightly strained smile. The clothes, too, made him look fairly harmless, nothing bulky or especially durable on him, really. Had he said nothing, he would have slipped by without a single notice.
"Maltheus, by the way," he added, extending, of all things, a fist, apparently expecting it bumped.
"Marie."
He smiled, a seemingly sincere smile, at getting the fistbump.
"Wait, Maltheus, isn't that..."
"Yeeeaaahh..." he quickly replied. "The guy who became famous for advocating for population control by any means possible. My dad wasn't really the timid guy with his opinions."
As the street, or whatever one might call the roughly flat stretch of compacted dirt that people were walking on, opened up a bit more, the crowd thinned, making use of the wider walking space to get a bit of personal space each. Strange shadow lines ran across the ground, coming from long, haphazardly supported containers up above that spanned across the street, forming bridges that looked very unsafe. It was pretty clear that people didn't mind the unsafe appearance, though, with small clumps of them huddling together in the shade before reluctantly moving on along the street.
"So, what kind of woman are you looking for?"
The look that his way of phrasing the question got him made him instantly flustered.
"I mean, can you describe something about the woman, the employer, that might make her easier for me to help you find."
About six words into the extended question, he began exaggerating each word, clearly just to poke fun at his need to elaborate, his hands flailing about in a way that looked as if it could slap any number of random bystanders by accident, though they never did.
"Curly hair."
He blinked a few times at that short remark, but then seemed to actually take it serious.
"I think I know who you might mean," he said, sounding very serious.
"Wait, what? Are you serious?"
"Yeah. Curly hair isn't exactly a common feature around here, you know."
He pointed around at the people in the crowd, nearly all of them with short or no hair, regardless of gender or age.
"So... you're telling me that you know the one and only woman with curly hair in the entire city? Seems unlikely."
Maltheus shrugged, looking completely unaffected by the whole thing.
"Let's make it interesting," he said, sounding disturbingly thrilled. "If my guess is right, you put in a solid word for me for one of your any jobs. Deal?"
Everything about him seemed perfectly honest and upfront. Which was very alarming.
"Right... Okay..."
He smiled, sticking out his fist again.
"Maltheus?"
"Yes?" he answered as the fists met, knuckle to knuckle.
"Are you going to kill me and sell me into slavery?"
"Nooo," he chirped. "Makes no sense to sell a corpse into slavery, Marie."
His ensuing smile did nothing to ease the nerves.

The town spread out like the veins in a leaf, a few central streets leading to an abundance of smaller ones. Maltheus seemed to know where he wanted to go, though, and navigated them almost by instinct, it seemed. It took only a few minutes to get to the place he was somehow assuming was the right spot, with nothing more to go on than someone with curly hair. It seemed ridiculous, even with his explanation about the, very true, state of hairstyles in the age.
"I give you, The Wheel Ward," he said pointing through the dangerously leaning buildings and the rush of people darting to and fro.
At first sight, it looked like a child's idea of a fortress. A ring wall of junk had been arranged, so that here were no corners, and on every bi of it, tyres were mounted, complete with hubcaps and, in more than one case, part of an axl sticking out like a medieval pike. It had the weird appearance of, at the same time, being easy to scale by simply finding grip in axls and footing on tyres, and being absolutely lethal to even approach, things sticking out so randomly. Behind the wall, rickety buildings could be seen, too tall for their own good, but what was going on in general was obscured by the wall of wheel, no doubt the thing that gave the place its nickname.
Maltheus waited for a moment, but once the view of the place had sunk in, he began taking very confident strides towards it.
"Hold it, Maltheus."
Even with just a whisper, the remark was enough to stop him dead in his tracks. He did look back with a slightly baffled expression, though.
"You got this far, are you stopping here?" he asked, sounding oddly disappointed.
There was a buzz to the place, even without looking inside to see what was going on. The town around it kept a little too clear of the wall of wheels, staying a certain distance from it at all times. They seemed scared of it.
"I don't think it's safe. I think..."
There was no hole or even a dip in the wall, no spot to sneak a look from. In spite of the sloppy look of it, someone had taken great care to conceal everything behind it. That was usually not a good sign.
"Is there a vantage point nearby?"
Maltheus seemed utterly confused by the question.
"A high spot, where I can look inside the place?"
He hesitated, seeming very eager to just march on in, knowing nothing. He didn't look unusually young, but he had a young man's attitude, a young man's impatience.
Finally, after mulling it over for a little bit, he reluctantly nodded, pointing towards another building, this one looking just as much like a haphazard collection of poorly balanced parts just bolted together, much like what could be seen from inside the wall.
Although his idea seemed just fine, actually standing by the foot of the building put everything in a different perspective. The thing looked like an accident waiting to happen, each thing bolted unto it looking more misplaced than the last, each piece looking like just another bad decision.
Maltheus didn't wait. With the same confident steps as before, he walked over to a row of metal bars fastened to the side of the lowest wall of the building, placed so randomly they could have been put there by a drunk man with a powertool. What they were meant for was impossible to tell, but they were clearly useful for climbing the wall a few floors up. It seemed suicidal, but when Maltheus started scaling the thing, it started looking deceptively easy.
The last bit required a push up from Maltheus, but in the end, the view was worth it. Not only The Wheel Ward but the entire part of town sprawled out underneath the roof of that one building like a very detailed map. In a few places, other tall buildings, some even a floor or two taller, would block the amazing view, but in all, the spot was excellent. And there was only one thing that it really needed to show.
From above, the wall of wheels seemed rather silly. Suddenly, it was no more than a raised line in the sand, a marker of where The Wheel Ward ended and the town began. Everything inside was clearly visible. Old remains of vehicles, some big, some small, were placed in a patternt hat seemed random at first, but upon closer inspection was to let people walk from one to the next with speed and ease. There were four, each in a different state of being stripped of parts, and a fifth that was all but gone, everything useful having been torn off it and used for god knows what. A bit away from them, two other vehicles stood, both in far better condition. Parts were carefully laid out around them, some covered in dirty tarps, and a few people were fiddling with things on the vehicle too small to see at a distance.
"A repair yard?"
Maltheus nodded. "One of the best in this district of town. They even do GEM work."
"GEM?"
Maltheus fell silent. Even looking at him made it no easier to see precisely why, his face been almost blank, apart from a slight frown.
"Global Emergency Management." he said in a tense voice, sounding borderline angry at the question. "How come you don't know that?"
There was no easy way to get out of that, so ignoring the mistake and continuing seemed more practical.
As luck would have it, a person sporting bright curly hair was walking amongst the people tampering with the vehicles. She was every bit as confident in her steps as Maltheus was, but she seemed even less patient than him, moving quickly from person to person in a never ending routine of checking up on them. But something was wrong.
"Isn't that her?" asked Maltheus, having apparently forgotten the question from before.
"Yes, but... she looks young."
"How is that an issue?" he commented, sounding a bit insulted on the woman's behalf.
She was young. Even from the top of the building, she looked barely in her twenties, and her skin stood out against the surrounding people's sundarkened, worn hides.
"This is too early."
"Too early for what?" asked Maltheus.
"Too early."
The way down was a bit more unsettling than the climb up, the random placement of the improvised steps making it hard to know where to place one's feet. Maltheus had an easier time of it, looking like he had done it many times before. But he clearly wasn't satisfied with the situation, saying nothing on the way down, and staying silent even when on the ground. He kept looking, though, maintaining a bit of a frown.
"Thanks for everything, Maltheus. You sure you don't want something in return?"
He just shook his head, still staring with an odd skepticism in his eyes.
It didn't matter. The first tingling sensation of the return was starting. It would not be long, now.