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Quanta - May, '91
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Volume III Issue 2 ISSN 1053-8496 May 1991
__________________________________________ ___________________________________
Quanta (ISSN 1053-8496) is
Volume III, Issue 2 May, 1991 Copyright © 1991 by Daniel K.
__________________________________________ Appelquist. This magazine may be
archived, reproduced and/or
Articles distributed freely under the
condition that it is left intact
and that no additions or changes
`Looking Ahead' are made to it.
Daniel K. Appelquist The individual works within
this magazine are the sole property
of their respective author(s). No
further use of their works is
Serials permitted without their explicit
consent. All stories in this
magazine are fiction. No actual
persons are designated by name or
`The Harrison Chapters' character. Any similarity is
Jim Vassilakos coincidental.
All submissions, requests for
submission guidelines, requests for
back issues, queries concerning
Short Fiction subscriptions, letters, comments or
other correspondence should be sent
to one of the following addresses:
`To Find a Demon' [email protected]
John Alexander and Michael Walsh [email protected]
Requests to be added to the
distribution list should be sent to
one of the following addresses. For
`The Cold Winds of Heaven' PostScript subscriptions, send to:
Rupert Goodwins
quanta+requests-postscript
@andrew.cmu.edu
quanta+requests-postscript
@andrew.BITNET
`Teaching a Unicorn to Dance'
Conrad Wong For ASCII subscriptions, send to:
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@andrew.cmu.edu
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`The Battle for Ayers Rock' @andrew.BITNET
Robert Fur
__________________________________________ Please send mail messages only-- no
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Contributions or other postal
Daniel K. Appelquist correspondence may be sent to:
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__________________________________________ ___________________________________
______________________________________________________________________________
Looking Ahead
Daniel K. Appelquist
______________________________________________________________________________
First off, I'd like to thank all the people who responded to my call for
submissions. I received over fifty submissions from some of you, and others
have told me that more is on the way. My faith is definitely restored. I was
certainly very excited to receive another story by Conrad Wong (`Teaching a
Unicorn to Dance') which is a sort of sequel to his story from the last issue
(`Chasing Unicorn Songs', February 1991). I'm very impressed with Conrad's
work so far, and I certainly hope he can contribute more material in the
future.
Secondly, I'd like to thank the people who sent in money, after my call for
contributions in the last issue (February 1991). I still need more
contributions if I'm to achieve my goal of being able to produce Quanta
independently. I'd like more of you to send in $5, or whatever you can
afford. Simply ask yourself what Quanta is worth to you, and then send that
much. Again, it's entirely optional. I realize that many Quanta subscribers
are students, like myself, who do not have an excessive amount of money lying
around.
Thirdly, I'd like to address a matter of some note. This is the first
issue of Quanta to _not_ carry a story by Christopher Kempke. This has
nothing to do with me refusing to print any more of his stories, I simply
don't have one (also a first) to publish. I'm sure that Chris will reappear
in the next issue, but, just to be certain, you could send him some mail to
encourage him. His address is [email protected]. Heh heh...
Seriously, I'm sorry this issue is so late. As I stated in my letter, last
month, I was really suffering from a lack of material. Luckily, my volumes
are now overflowing. That's not to say that I don't want you to keep sending.
On the contrary, the more submissions, the better. Incidentally, I'd like to
thank all the people who sent me Star Trek or Dr. Who stories (or parodies).
I appreciate these, but it's not really the type of material I can publish.
What I'm looking for, primarily, is original fiction which doesn't borrow its
background from any other, possibly trademarked, universe. For example, I
wouldn't be able to publish a story written in Isaac Asimov's Robot universe.
(In fact, I'm not entirely certain I won't run into copyright hassles just by
printing the _name_ Isaac Asimov.)
I've been working steadily on a series of "best-of" volumes which, I
hope, will be released in very limited print circulation over the summer.
These will contain what I consider to be the best stories that have appeared
in Quanta. If any of you have a personal favorite, I entreat you to write me
and tell me about it. I'm also looking for illustrations to put in these
volumes. If there are any artists out there willing to donate their material
to this cause, please contact me. In fact, I'm always interested in receiving
art submissions, either for cover art or otherwise.
Rune Johansen, of Kjeller Norway recently gave me an interesting idea. He
suggested that it would make it easier for Norwegians to submit material to
Quanta if there were someone who could competently translate stories from
Norwegian into English. This, of course, could apply to all languages, from
any of the multiple countries (I've lost count, to tell you the truth, but I
think it's around 20) to which Quanta is currently distributed. Just as sort
of a preliminary query, are there any bi-linguals out there who would be
willing to donate their time to translate stories into English? If so, please
write me. I'm very interested in this as a possible way of get more European
or otherwise international fiction into Quanta, a goal which I feel is
desirable.
That's about it for this column, for this issue. I really want to thank
all of you again for responding so quickly, and in such volume, to my call for
submissions. Keep them rolling in.
______________________________________________________________________________
Moving??
Take Quanta with you!
Please remember to keep us apprised of any changes in your address. If you
don't, we can't guarantee that you'll continue to receive the high quality
fiction and non-fiction that Quanta provides. Also, if your account is going
to become non-existent, even temporarily, please inform us. This way, we can
keep net-traffic due to bounced mail messages at a minimum. Please send all
such subscription updates to [email protected] or [email protected].
Thanks.
______________________________________________________________________________
______________________________________________________________________________
To Find a Demon
by John Alexander and Michael Walsh
Copyright © 1991
______________________________________________________________________________
Jackie Allan pulled on a pair of oilstained coveralls. She left the warm body
sleeping in her bed and made her way to the kitchen. Spring is cold in
Minneapolis. Making breakfast, she considered going back to bed. But she
decided that she didn't want to be more than half an hour late to her first
day on the new job.
She found Kelly Peterson's office behind mirror glass on the seventeenth
floor of the new Excon building on Nicollet, and walked in.
"You're late." Kelly, petite and brown-eyed with a delicate face, wore
artificially long straight hair in the current fashion. Jackie sat down and
put her boots on the desk.
"Skip that. There's an automatic farm on the fritz that I'm supposed to
fix," Jackie said.
The air between them began to freeze.
"You seem to forget which of us is the boss," Kelly said. "You refused to
take a Political Reliability Exam. You refused to give us blood and urine
samples, and access to your health records. You're not on time. These are
all conditions of employment. How do you expect to get along with your
superiors?"
"Go jump in a lake." Jackie rubbed the heels of her boots together,
leaving fragments of dirt on the tabletop. "I'd just as soon quit now as next
week. But you need an experienced systems engineer, and that's why I'm
getting paid twice what you are. Not that money means anything anymore.
Besides, I'm insulted. No scientist, engineer, or technician worth his or her
salt will give you a urine sample. No one's even dared ask me since I was
fresh out of the Institute. I refused then."
"Here at Excon, we try to maintain higher employee standards than are
unfortunately prevalent elsewhere."
"So fire me. Let's see you beukies, I mean bureaucrats, fix a leaky
faucett."
"We have some very competent personnel who are willing top take PRE's and
give us urine samples," Kelly muttered, surrendering.
"Sure." War over. Jackie swung her legs off the table and got up.
"Where's my terminal?"
"Actually, management feels you probably ought to have a look at the farm
in person. There's a van in the basement garage. I'll show you."
`Management probably ought to have a look at itself,' Jackie thought as she
followed.
The garage was dim and smoky. The van was enormous. A shirtless man with
a well-defined chest and a bristling mustache was loading crates of equipment
into the back.
"This is Mark Eckert, an automation tech who will be coming with us. Mark,
this is Jackie Allan," Kelly introduced.
"I know Mark. Hi." (Jackie felt that Mark had the most beautiful
eyelashes she had ever seen on a man.)
"Hi Jackie."
"You said - us?" Jackie turned to Kelly.
"Uh, I was told to come along."
Jackie gave her a hard look without saying anything. Then she climbed in
one of the side doors of the van.
Automation up front; a manual driver's seat just in case; methanol engine;
living quarters; lab space with terminals; and storage space in the back.
Mark climbed in with a four foot satellite dish.
"Hey, Jackie, what's with the beukie coming along?"
She reached out and flipped on a terminal.
"I'm not sure. Excon's been security-fanatic ever since people stopped
them from putting microwave receivers on the Greenland icecap. You remember
that?"
"Microwave power beamed down from the solar arrays in space? But I thought
those things were in the Pacific ocean."
"They are." Jackie was watching her screen. She'd found her login and
started exploring while they talked. "Some beukie originally wanted to put
them on the glaciers. They didn't realize the conversion heat would
eventually melt the glaciers, reduce the earth's surface albedo, and give
global warming an extra oomph." She suspended a throat mike around her neck.
"What happened?"
"They were stopped. Mortal blow to the collective ego of top management.
So now Excon recruits weak-willed people who give urine samples. I think
Kelly's supposed to keep an eye on us."
A door slammed up front. The twitch of Mark's thick mustache Did not go
unnoticed by Jackie. "So if I gave urine that means I'm weak-willed?" he
inquired.
"Just don't do it again," Jackie laughed.
"Do what?" asked Kelly, coming through the door. Mark went back to packing
boxes so they wouldn't move around.
"Urinate," Jackie said. "What's the name of that farm?"
"Fnail. Fnail Farm, in Canada. The farm overseer reports that everything
is fine and dandy, but the last transport didn't find any produce to load.
There are other disturbing reports." Kelly said. She was watching Mark, who
was shuffling crates with effortless grace. She made up her mind that the
muscle was real, not silicone insert.
"So how do you two know each other?" she asked.
"We worked together on a job for General Wind. Repairing power windmills."
Mark placed his hands on the edge of a crate behind him and sat down on them.
"They had a joke about us," Jackie called over from the terminal. "About
how you remove a generator housing."
"Yes, yes," Mark grinned. "Jackie holds the screwdriver against the screw
and Mark rotates the generator. THEN she had the nerve to write on a
recommendation form that I was 'young, but competent.' Tell me what that's
supposed to mean." He jabbed an accusatory finger in her direction. Jackie
giggled.
Kelly smiled politely, but she had this image of Jackie with the
screwdriver which she felt mildly threatening.
"Arrrgh. You're right." `Jackie's moods seemed to switch without
warning,' Kelly thought. She had been communicating with the terminal by
keyboard and subvocally through the throat mike. Now she turned it off.
"From the farm's point of view everything's ok, but the other things flatly
contradict that. We'll have to actually go to Canada to find out which
machine is right."
"We've been on our way for five minutes," Kelly said.
Jackie looked stunned.
"You didn't notice? Your inner ear must be broken," Mark said generously.
"We've been turning corners and everything."
"Damn modern suspensions are too good," Jackie growled reflectively.
It was starting to grow dark, and drizzling, when they pulled up to the end
of a gravel track and stopped. The black arms of wet bushes and trees stood
around a huge shed and a low crumbling concrete structure. Dull green
conifers rose up one hill. In the other directions lay small fields separated
by windbreaks.
"...land is poor around here. Vast area, very low level agriculture. It's
labor intensive to conserve the soil," Mark was saying as they got out of the
van, wearing light hooded jackets and heavy boots.
Kelly went over to the shed and pulled open the big door.
"Machines in here. Tractors ... I wish I knew all the names."
Jackie followed her in, clanged around, and came back out.
"Most of the farm machinery is out. The storage bins are empty... Mark,
what is it?"
Mark had been standing in the rain staring off into the distance. He
turned around.
"Nothing. Smelling the air. Getting a feeling for the place," he said.
"That should be the bot den," pointing at the squat concrete building.
They entered by a wide gate which had doors flung open. Lights came on.
It was a large cavern with showers and water hoses for cleaning equipment and
bots, farm robots. Side rooms held supplies. Mark headed purposefully for a
heavy door on the back wall. The room behind it proved to be dry and heated.
"Weather can get pretty corrosive, even on the bots," Mark explained. "And
contacts." He pointed out a series of outlets in the wall. "The bots come
here to report the day's events, and to get their assignments in the morning
as soon as it's light enough to work. The bigger contacts are for power.
Recharging."
"I was told the farm overseer talked to the robots over radio," Kelly put
in. Jackie was rattling at a door with a rusted padlock on it.
"Sure, a bit," she said. "But the bots can remember a lot, especially
botanical details. The data rate's too low. Same reason we'll be putting up
a satellite dish. The van radio won't let us talk to the rest of the world as
much as we want." The door wasn't giving.
"Mark, can you get this open? Otherwise I have to go back for a hacksaw."
Mark put his shoulder against it and pushed. The bar bent and came out of
the frame. The door swung in.
"Cheap metal," he said.
No light came on here and there was a musty smell. When their eyes
adjusted to the dark they saw several large cables passing through the room.
One was connected to a large box on a bench, which was connected in turn to an
old fashioned terminal. There was even a chair lying on its side.
"Hey, this looks like it used to be a control room for real live people,"
Mark breathed. "Totally antiquated, twenties stuff."
"Cool it. Some of us are old enough to remember the twenties," Jackie
said. She righted the chair and sat down in front of the terminal, raising a
clowd of dust.
Mark found an outside door and opened it. The last of the daylight
filtered in.
"What I wonder is where all the bots are. They should be coming home," he
said.
Kelly peered out, wondering if she would see the earth-toned hominids
ambling towards her through the weeds growing over the foundations of
long-gone buildings.
"They are home." Jackie stood up alarmingly. "According to this overseer,
its storage bins are full of radishes, its fields are all plowed, and all
twenty-four bots have been patiently sitting in the room we just came through,
for the past hour."
They set off to look for the missing bots with flashlights. The drizzle
had stopped. An invisible moon gave the cloud cover a uniform glow, enough to
navigate by.
Kelly pushed through the underbrush of a windbreak, and came out on the
other side. A bot was right in front of her ten paces off. It cocked its
head slightly and watched her.
"Jackie, I have found one," she called out. In the flashlight beam it was
brown, with black disks for eyes in an otherwise featureless face. Jackie
came up beside Kelly.
"Stop. Test. Test," she said. The bot emitted a low hum. "That's about
all they say." She pulled out a complicated-looking probe and walked over,
reaching for an access port on the bot's torso. A third beam of light fell on
the brown figure. They heard Mark's footsteps.
The bot casually brought up its right arm and knocked Jackie's hand out of
the way. She reached out again, and barely dodged a large swipe of the bot's
arm - but tripped backwards in the grass. Kelly caught her, staggering in
surprise at Jackie's weight. Muscle and bone. Kelly felt strangely excited.
In spite of the jokes, Jackie couldn't be much over thirty-five.
"They're not supposed to do that. Anything like that. Ever." Jackie was
breathing hard, and there was some fear in her eyes. Kelly wondered how she
was supposed to feel.
The bot didn't do anything futher aggressive, and just stood there. Mark
had run up and was now standing next to them.
"Let's stay away from that one," he said. "Come on, I found a disabled
one. It's probably safer."
Mark's bot was lying on its side at the foot of a grassy incline. It
looked considerably less than human with several large panels removed. Mark's
finger picked out details.
"See, here, the oil well's dry. I'll bet the joints are ruined. Hydraulic
fluid's low. The battery's drained. There's a lot of physical trauma,
especially to the computer casing. I've never seen a bot so mistreated.
Usually the mechanical parts wear out after five or so years. This one's
brand new." He straightened up. "It almost looks like this bot TRIED to kill
itself. And another thing I don't understand is why the operational one over
there didn't bring this one in. They're supposed to take care of each other."
"This one was probably ordered to commit suicide," Jackie put in. "I am
sure that this was done through the overseer itself. I doubt we'll find many
working ones."
Mark hoisted the casualty across his shoulders.
They drove the van around to the outside door of the little control room and
carried in a bright light and set up their troubleshooting gear. Jackie
quickly broke the system. It had been set up to deliberately destroy the
bots, and to deny that anything was wrong.
"There're four bots left. They're not hostile anymore," Jackie stated.
She yawned.
"Someone must have done that," Kelly said. "I'm worried. Can we use the
bots that are left as guards?"
"Go right ahead. I'm going to bed."
Kelly got Mark to show her how to get a low-resolution picture (of shadowed
darkness) through the bots' eyes, how to set an alarm on their motion
detectors, and how to tell them to move around. For the rest of the night
Kelly kept an avid watch on the nocturnal wildlife.
She also watched the two sleeping figures on the floor. She couldn't
decide what to think of them. Some great conflict seemed to be brewing inside
her.
The next morning before breakfast Jackie dragged them along to a small lake
half a mile away.
"I found this place last night," she said, taking off her sweatshirt.
"But it's cold," Kelly said.
"So we get to prove we're Minnesotans."
"I didn't bring a swimming suit," Kelly continued. Mark and Jackie
splashed in, both inarguably lacking swimming suits, and loudly proclaimed the
water cold. Kelly shrugged and bowed to fate. She had to admit, it was ...
invigorating.
When they got back, Jackie immersed herself in the global communications
network while Mark drove off to gather up the disabled bots, which the
overseer was now able to locate. Kelly disappeared on some project of her
own.
"Username Ari in Australia," Jackie announced when Mark returned. "Means
'demon' in Icelandic, incidentally. Whoever did this came from there via
Kamchatka, France, Argentina, and Estonia. Only thing is, the trail was
obvious."
"Um," Mark said.
"I think it's a front doorbell. Here goes."
Several minutes passed before the other end was picked up. A line of text
spilled along the bottom of the screen.
"Old union handshake," Jackie said. "Let's see if I can remember how to do
this." After several apparently meaningless exchanges the screen cleared to
show a bearded man with soft brown eyes and a red face.
"Ah. Jackie Allan," he said. "I've heard of you. You went to the
Institute of Wisconsin-Madison? Involved in the Chernobyl cleanup of '27,
right? I'm Brent Alberts. Institute of Toronto." He looked at Mark. "Who's
our third party?"
"That's Mark Eckert. I know him, he's ok," Jackie said.
There was a pause.
"You're not in Australia," Mark said impulsively. There was full sunlight
behind the man's head.
"Not exactly," Brent laughed. "I'm in a safe jurisdiction. Not that Jackie
there couldn't find me if she really wanted to."
Jackie nodded at the compliment. Then she got down to business.
"I'm fixing a Canadian farm you set on self-destruct. Why?"
"Maybe you heard about Excon's plan to raze a good part of the remaining
Indonesian rainforest so they can build golf courses and luxury apartments for
several thousand of their executives." Brent didn't waste words either.
"I read in the news. I assumed somebody was going to stop them."
"Me and some other people decided to do it. Only they've gotten smart
since the Greenland affair. Hired sharp people as collaborators. They have
actual human beings with guns on the site. Several of us got physically
arrested and imprisoned under some barbaric Indonesian law."
"THAT I didn't read in the news." Jackie looked disturbed.
"So we decided on war. Excon has operations in automated farming,
automated mining, automated manufacturing, and automated transport, all of
them more vulnerable than the Indonesian construction site. This was a test.
Tomorrow, it all goes. I think Excon will back down, but it'll be hell in a
handbasket."
"I don't like the waste," Mark said slowly. "It hurts me to see bots
ruined."
"Neither do I. If we had something like an executive password, we could
get at the bulldozers directly. Failing that, the feeling is that bots are
more replacable than untouched ecosystems and endangered species. Also, that
making an example of Excon will make Consolidated and the others listen to us
the next time they try to pull something like the Orinoco salinization
scandal. Jackie?"
"Sorry. They gave me barely enough information to find the farm. We do
have an executive, though ..."
...who at that moment burst into the room. At a keystroke, a lengthy quote
from 'Njal's Saga.' covered up Brent's image.
"I saw some large shapes last night," Kelly said when she had ascertained
that no one else was talking. "There aren't any footprints out there today,
but I found some two-toed tracks, deer or something."
Jackie tried to think of a good way to put it to her and couldn't.
"Kelly, your company's doing something really idiotic in Indonesia. We
need your password to stop it," she stated.
Mark almost groaned.
Kelly's eyes widened. She looked back and forth between their faces,
trying to decipher the expressions. She flushed.
"I think it is very nice that the company is able to provide beautiful
houses for its administrators. Just because ... how dare you, you techie
anarchist scum!" She turned and ran.
Jackie grimaced and turned Brent back on.
"I assume you heard that."
"What a diplomat you are," he said drily. Mark grumbled something similar.
"You go talk to her, then," Jackie said. "I'll go tell Excon I fixed their
overseer, please send twenty new bots."
Kelly ran on past the lake and sat down, tears on her face, under a huge
tree not far from one of the bots standing in the tall grass. The sky had
cleared. The sun was out, and the air had the rich smell of evaporating rain.
For several minutes she tried to figure out why she was crying, and what she
would report to her superiors.
"What's the matter?" a calm baritone voice asked out of nowhere.
"Who's there?" Kelly looking around.
"Just me." The bot in the tall grass turned to face her. She froze in
terror. It walked toward her casually, almost as if it were using body
language to convey ease and confidence to her. Usually, robots walked
purposefully.
"You are upset. Why?" The same voice, imperturbably calm.
She tried to talk, swallowed, found her voice.
"I'm ... confused. How should I know about Indonesia, what to do? The
techies, I mean the two people I came with, I can't trust them."
"Whom can you trust?"
She thought of her superiors. Suddenly she couldn't remember why she had
ever trusted them. Trust was poised in her throat like a boulder on the edge.
"I ... do trust them," she said, surprised at the words even as they came
out of her mouth. "Jackie and Mark. If someone could just explain to me
..."
"They asked for your password so that I would be able to stop the
Indonesian project directly. Species diversity is essential to the earth's
ecology and is a part of human survival. If I can't stop it directly, I will
kill tens of thousands of bots the way I killed the bots here, to stop it.
That would be a great waste."
Kelly bit her lip and studied the horizon. Then she leaned over and
whispered the word at the formless head which was bent to receive it.
"Thank you," it said.
Kelly stood up slowly and took a few steps. She wondered if she should say
goodbye. Instead she said,
"Are you human? Or can they make intelligent robots now?"
"They can." The bot rose. "But they haven't. I am a human being named
Brent Alberts, talking with you by means of a reprogrammed farm robot."
Kelly felt tricked, but she also felt like laughing.
"Why haven't they, then?"
The bot paused for a second.
"An intelligent robot would be a citizen. What kind of life could we offer
this person? Joints that wear out in five years? Poor eyesight, no sense of
smell or touch, accidental death by power failure?" He shrugged. "With power
comes responsibility. We must refrain from doing many things that we are
capable of doing."
`That made sense,' Kelly thought.
"Bye," she said.
The bot waved in a way that she decided was very suave.
______________________________________________________________________________
This story was originally written for the Minnesota Technolog's SF Writting
Contest and published in the April 1991 issue. (It won first place)
John is a double-major in Math and Secondary Education who wants to
become a math teacher. Michael graduated from The College of Liberal
Arts with a Physics degree and is now working on his Ph.D. at CERN,
Switzerland. The two hope to go on to greater literary fame, but,
according to John, are hampered by the fact that they can no longer
spend long nights hashing out story ideas while getting wired on
caffeine and silly from sleep depravation.
[email protected]
______________________________________________________________________________
______________________________________________________________________________
The Cold Winds Of Heaven
by Rupert Goodwins
Copyright © 1991
______________________________________________________________________________
To the tower, then. It's time. I can remember everything about that day, even
those words. It was a beautiful evening, and the three of us had spent the
afternoon talking and quarreling, drowsing in the warm summer of the Greenland
veldt. Even then, we felt the cool shadow of our friend, the fourth of us, who
sat, mute and alone, beneath a tree. Always with us, as we have always been
together; but now he was his own statue, a supple monument to remind the three
that remained. We had been together for five years before he became thus, an
artist whose passion for infinite madness was so soon rewarded.
I walked over to the tree, and bent over to hold his hand. He blinked, and
I crouched down beside him, putting my head next to his, aligning, looking
where he looked. Then we stood up, silently, slowly, his hand holding tight as
he caught sight through my eyes. I matched him pace for steady pace, holding
my head as he held his. The tower was a kilometer distant, towards the sea's
edge, and we looked at the delicate black-web bowl that pointed at the sky,
ready for the night.
As we walked towards it, watching our friends running ahead, getting to the
tower while we were still ten minutes away, I wondered what he really saw,
whether he was still wandering the chaotic caverns of the old machines. If he
wasn't, did he see us as friends still, who kept him close and part of the old
team, took him with us wherever, played and talked to him?
Sometimes, I thought he must hate us for so constantly taunting him, now
and again making him hear our shouts and chatter and laughter like today,
reminding him what he has lost. And then for me to hold hands like this,
linking our illicit links, and looking for him. What it must be to see the
world so fitfully, and always through someone else's eyes, a spectator alone.
I cannot look at him when we are so linked. I could not, as I could never let
myself kiss him.
We got to the tower, and as we climbed the first step he let go my hand and
walked inside quickly, without hesitation. He knew his way around; we might
have built it together but it was always his observatory. He'd all but lived
here, amongst the old machines, and one day he'd all but died. I stood there
alone, looking at the grey wood walls of the tower against the deep blue
evening sky, against the darkening grass and trees, remembering things perhaps
I ought not.
Then I went in, and climbed to the observing room. The other two were
already busy, lost in the joy of working the machines, letting them talk to
each other and out towards the old satellites that still drew their dutiful
paths in the sky above. Tonight was special; across the globe fully half the
world was listening to our broadcast, ten million souls linked by the distant
sea of the ionosphere above us. Ancestor radio; so long ago the only link
between the distances, now the one gift of the machines we cannot give back.
Tonight, it reclaims a little more of its old glory and we justify a little
more of the faith we had in ourselves a millennium ago.
None of us understood those days, for all we talked about them; we couldn't
see our mistakes when they were five years from killing us but sent our
devices a thousand years into the future. What were we trying to do?
When they sent that starprobe away from Earth, the books say, it was one of
the terrible times. There was furious argument about such a wasteful action,
when even they could feel their great shining world shaking itself apart. Yet,
in the dark and lonely centuries that followed, the mission survived. Even
when the last man walked away, he made sure the computers still ran and the
starprobe kept its course.
Then we came along, the four of us, young and bored and full of devilish
intrigue. The machinery had not been forgotten, but it was left alone. At
first, nobody minded as we tinkered and built, but then we found the links.
Those were as forbidden as fire, the old laws ignored purely because nobody
thought any remained. Some did; we found them, and the machine that built them
into us. One morning we took it in turns to lay down in the coffin and emerge,
half an hour later, with wire in our veins and new cold life in our heads.
Oh, it was tremendous. The smooth machines woke under our hands, the black
slabs that we'd never understood. We understand them now and the things that
live within them; brilliant minds, playful, pleading, offering all the
knowledge and beauty of the old days, so compelling and satisfying and so
dangerous. That these things were toys, pastimes, given to children, is
unbelievable; perhaps if we could understand that, we would know so much more.
Perhaps that's what he knows, perhaps that's what he found and couldn't let
go. He'd not left the machines alone, particularly when he found the music.
We'd always thought he'd be a good composer, but, with the machines, he went
far beyond; he used them to amplify his designs and produce music that had us
in awe. It frightened us, but he seemed so confident, so positive, so
blissfully enthralled.
Then we came into the observatory, ten days after we'd got the links, to
find him, apparently asleep, holding on to one of the smooth machines. We woke
him up: his eyes opened and he seemed about to say something. Nothing
happened. The machines couldn't help; they said he was blind and deaf, but
about his mind they said they didn't know. Of course, the families were
horrified; we had our links removed and took such punishment as they gave us,
but mostly they left us alone.
Since then, we've stayed here. Ten years. The others didn't replace their
links, but I did and he did, and, with a careful, patient learning, I fixed it
so that, now and again, he could hear, and, once in a while, I could let him
see. I didn't care to use the links other than that, twice since then he's
placed his hands on the mission controls and sat, silent as always, feeling
the links out into space.
It didn't take long after the accident for the story to spread; our
occasional shortwave transmissions, politely reporting the progress of the
starprobe as it neared its destination, became more and more popular. First,
it was just youngsters, probably because we were perverse heroes due to the
terrible things we'd done, but in a quiet world not used to novelty we
provided a certain fascination. Lately, we'd started giving talks about the
mission and its history as well as charting its course, and, once or twice,
we'd even had a visitor.
Now we were alone; tonight, a hundred years ago, the starprobe could have
tugged itself into orbit around a far planet, unfurled its banners and started
to pass back what it found to the ghosts of its makers. It might not; it might
not have survived the long dark years. We wouldn't know until tonight, us and
half the world.
Out in space, the relay satellites waited, holding their positions in the
tracery of electrons like fat spiders waiting in a shining web, binding the
Great Net. I know that whatever that is, it works like our black dish on the
tower, but stretches across millions of kilometers of emptiness, sifting the
ceaseless storm of star-born radio. Somewhere in that is the thin whisper
from the starprobe, a hundred light years away, and somehow it's caught and
held and passed back to us mundane humans. A gift.
We sat in the dark observatory, watching the screens. We took it in turns
to give the commentary; he sat in his old chair, hands once again on the
smooth machine as if the last ten years were just a daydream. We didn't
mention him on air; we never had.
The time came, and for a second, two, there was nothing. Then, the screens
lit, and our starprobe slowly awoke. We'd stopped reminding the audience that
this had all happened a century ago; for us, for everyone, it was happening
now.
It was a white planet. Cold and huge, bigger than Earth but still a rock,
glazed with gas. We saw great drifts of brilliant cloud lit by its distant
sun, smooth yet streaked with golden lines. It was placid, so far away from
the warmth of the star that only a few huge whorls marked its weather.
The starprobe swung around, crossing into night. It was still practicing
its ancient senses, and the cameras faded and brightened as it struggled to
focus on the planet below. As it passed the terminator, the weatherlines mixed
and curdled; something was happening there, but we had to wait hours before we
could see it again. All the time we described what we saw, what the other
readings were, and made wild guesses.
Then it came again, and this time the machinery was ready. A thousand
pictures taken in a hundred different ways, at every wavelength and every
depth. As the probe went into daylight, we began to understand. It was snow,
boiling up from vast fields as the starlight warmed it and cooling out as it
fell into night. An eternal blizzard: the first snowstorm on Earth in seven
centuries.
The starprobe, so long ago, felt with other senses. What snow it was, cold
chemicals that held the hint that once, an age ago, there had been life on the
planet. It was no more than a hint; of something that had passed long before
our rich and lively solar system had itself cooled like a snowflake out of the
void.
Four times the starprobe let go tiny passengers, probes that drifted slowly
down into the bleak sky below, tunnelling and tasting as they fell through the
layers of cloud. We caught our first flake; big as a peacock's tail and
lighter than a sparrow's feather. It was a beautiful thing, complex and
fragile; it melted as the cameras tracked up and down. On top were crystal
facets, clear layers that might almost have been water ice, reflecting the
light from the probe; they were set in a mass of sparkling needles that oozed
and combined as we watched. Beneath were regular patterns, faint colours, but
they too vanished before we could see them properly.
As the probes descended, they caught marvelous sights; linked spirals of a
thousand big flakes breaking up, recombining. One shattered into a flurry of
tiny, glinting particles which scattered like fragments of a glass as it hits
the floor; it was far away, and that was all we saw.
It was already thirty-six hours since we started, and I was wondering how
much longer we could go on for. On the screens, the vast structure of the
snowstorms was charted, as varied as a slice through a billion years of rock
but dynamic, shifting, a most precise and random dance.
"Listen!"
We looked at each other, then at where he sat. He was motionless, hands
still on the machine, but there was no doubt that he'd spoken. I ran over, and
shook his shoulder; nothing. Then, from the speakers set into the roof, came a
blast of noise, not pure like a waterfall, not distinct like birdsong, but as
loud and insistent as both.
"Listen," he said again. "They're talking. Radio."
He shuddered, and smiled. We looked at the screens; he was listening to the
broad spectrum radio on the starprobe. We'd ignored it. The pictures were so
beautiful, and the maps we drew so interesting, that we hadn't even known it
was there.
"I can tune this," he said, "It's all in layers"
The noise shifted; now a pattern of crashes, like slow waves on a beach
heard from a distance, now a swiftly rising arpeggio that slipped in and out
of time with the waves and was repeated and varied in a mass of variations,
faint, loud, slower, faster, always with purpose.
"They're talking... about stars... they're watching them..."
I tried to pull one of his hands away, worried. He stiffened, and held on
with an animal strength. I looked at the others, and stood back. Nobody was
talking on the radio; across the world the sounds of that ancient planet were
playing.
"It's beautiful! I know what they're looking at..." He turned and looked at
me; I knew he couldn't see the room, but I nearly screamed with shock; his
face, so long slack and lifeless, was transformed, his eyes alight with an
almost heavenly glee.
"Lover-- listen to me" he said. "I'm nearly at the edge. I'm not going to
break the link. They watch the stars too. They know so much. They know about
the starprobe. They thought they were alone and now they're... oh, listen!"
The noise grew clearer. I recognized a spark of music, an echo of his
glorious days, but it went beyond that. It was a symphony, perfect, that grew
and flowered as unerringly as a rose. We stood there and listened, hardly
breathing, caught in the theme, so much his style but carrying a message;
vast, majestic, alive.
Beneath the starprobe, the snowflakes formed and were aware. They caught
the light of the stars, and passed the news of each tiny snatch of distant
light amongst themselves. A compound eye across quarter of the planet, formed
in near-darkness, away from the blinding burn of the sun. They drifted down,
changed, reformed, carrying the information, analyzing, perceiving. Each
snowflake died in hours, yet the snowstorm lived and thought for ever,
watching the universe.
The music changed. It was not for ever. It knew how random it was, and how
it would perish when the sun got a little brighter or a little colder. It
could see such things, it knew so well how a star grew old when its one sure
sense was an eye of such power. It thought, for so long, that it was alone.
The music changed. The starprobe had arrived. Whoever sent you, the
snowstorm said, if you are still alive, you have a companion now. Please talk
to me before I end. We must. If you understand me, come.
We understood through the music, a performance of virtuoso improvisation
that left no room for doubt, that convinced utterly.
Come.
Then, he gasped aloud. The music vanished, for a moment the cacophony
returned, then a thunderclap of pure, raw, unfeeling noise. We should have
been watching the screens, but the music took us over so completely that we
hadn't been aware of anything else. A hundred years away, the starprobe
crossed the terminator into light, and the edge of the snowstorm was caught in
a burning line of chaos. The scream of the tearing apart was carried into the
observatory, into the machines, into the link.
He was dead.
We cannot know, now, whether what he told us was true. It's unthinkable to
anyone who heard the music that he couldn't have believed it, but whether he
was right nobody can say. The starprobe is still there; we have all the data
we want but none of the insight. What he did, what he thought, is lost.
But we're coming. Perhaps we needed to rest and brood on our mistakes,
perhaps we're wrong now to start again on a road that is so dangerous. I
think we know enough, just about, to watch ourselves. This time. Some of us
are working on the links, trying to find out what part of his music was
genius, what part repeatable. Some of us are reaching out, prodding at those
long hundred years between us and the planet; there are ways, we think, to
make those years a blink of an eye, ways that the old people would never have
thought of.
And now we understand what we must do again. We're coming.
______________________________________________________________________________
Rupert Goodwins is a computer programmer and journalist manque who lives and
works in East London. He shares a small house with a large collection of
paperbacks, old radios and more odd junk than can possibly be healthy for a
young lad. Somewhere amid the 1950s' military surplus Geiger counters lurk a
wife, a sister and a small child called Richard, although sightings have been
sporadic.
Writing SF has stopped seeming like a good idea and threatens to become an
obsession. Nothing published yet, apart from a couple of novellas for the
Weird Dreams and Wreckers computer games. Currently working on a theory of
reverse karmachronism, which he hopes will allow him to be reincarnated as
Philip K. Dick the next time 1928 comes around.
[email protected]
______________________________________________________________________________
______________________________________________________________________________
Teaching a Unicorn to Dance
by Conrad Wong
Copyright © 1990
______________________________________________________________________________
A shiver ran up Ariaou's back as she stepped into the star-lit stateroom. The
task force commander of the Meetpoint system patrol and the captain of this
ship, the `Rhadon's Promise' waited within, sitting on the other side of the
dimly illuminated table; a steward brought in silver-domed platters and
crystal glasses. He watched her calmly, his eyes the dark color of tree bark,
his fur reddish-brown. A dire wolf.
The commander misinterpreted her hesitation and waved a paw to the seat at
the other end of the table. "Please, be seated. You are quite safe as my
guest here-- honor demands it."
The black-maned, calico-furred feline bard unslung her ancient shimmerlyre
and set it down on the floor next to the table, then sat apprehensively, her
tail swishing nervously. She wore her heavily jeweled ankle-length dress with
a clumsiness that betrayed her inexperience with such fashions, turquoise
squares alternating with emerald ones that matched her glittering green-gold
eyes. Memories flitted uneasily within her mind.
A deep green forest, darkened by twilight. Two small kittens cried out to
the screeching carrion birds overhead as a yellow-eyed predator approached.
A cloaked figure spoke to Ariaou, warning her that she would shortly
receive bad news. The next day, a vidphone call told her that her brother had
been murdered at King Ascenion's coronation.
An old grey-furred dire wolf faced down a golden unicorn, suited in
swirling light that erupted in bolts of energy. He died, gunned down by a
centaur behind him.
Ariaou blinked to see the steward filling her glass with a dark red wine of
subtle aroma. The commander raised his glass in a silent toast, so she did
the same to avoid looking distracted, barely noticing its rich and complex
taste as she watched to see if the wolf noticed her discomfort.
The steward lifted the dome from the appetizer, skewered slivers of meat
cooked in Ryme spices. Ariaou took one, watched the viewport as the distant
winged form of the starliner `Princess's Favor' receded into a pinpoint of
light and blazed into a thin line of fire as it accelerated away under main
drive.
There was an uneasy pause after the meat was finished before the commander
spoke. "Permit me to introduce myself properly. I am Prince Rhadon
Mordenkainen of Hellsgate, the Task Force Commander of the Second Hellsgate
Fleet, which is currently assigned to Meetpoint patrol."
"Ariaou, a bard from Meetpoint," she replied. Curiosity overpowered her
natural caution. "If I might ask, why did you request my transfer from the
`Princess's Favor'? I'm sure it couldn't solely be for the pleasure of my
company at dinner."
Rhadon smiled, an eerie sight on a dire wolf. The steward removed the
empty appetizer plate, substituted the first entree, an entire Elysian
razor-tooth fish broiled and marinaded in redfruit juices, accompanied by a
bottle of white wine. After the steward retreated to the kitchen, he said,
voice quietly serious, "You and several people were the last to see my older
brother. Have you any news of what's befallen him?"
Ariaou hesitated, wondering to herself about Rhadon's intent, then related
the story of Gavar Mordenkainen, known better to her as Tarnkappe, and his
attempt to wreak revenge upon her and the unicorn. She left out Sundancer's
horn and certain other details, cautiously trying not to reveal more than
necessary.
The commander's face remained expressionless, his sleek reddish-brown fur
turned dark by the dim light of the stateroom. He nodded, finally. "Thank
you. So he has found a kind of peace."
She asked, warily, fearing to tread upon some hidden taboo, "Is it true
what he said, that a genetic disease haunts your line?"
The prince chuckled humorlessly. "The Curse of Lord Moreah. A sword
hanging over each male descendant's head, which I have as yet been lucky
enough not to feel. In the eyes of my people, Zephyr could not have killed my
brother, for he was dead to them when his madness came, and even before that,
his cruelty did not endear him to them. His exile was merely a public safety
measure."
Ariaou nibbled on a piece of the fish as Prince Rhadon continued. "It is
for this reason that I named my ship `Rhadon's Promise'. Because of the
curse, I expect to die much sooner than most of my people, but I also have
greater power and responsibilities. I have sworn to overcome my limits and
make Hellsgate a power to respect in this galaxy, to serve my people to the
best of my abilities."
The steward replaced the fish with the second entree, a traditional dish of
Hellsgate: delicately crusty circles of bread filled with spiced and minced
jaghorse meat. Though it smelled mouthwatering, Ariaou noted that the food
failed to receive more than minimum attention from Rhadon.
"There's little at Meetpoint to hold my interest," the commander said, a
faraway look in his dark eyes. "In truth, it's little more than an unneeded
vacation, a political assignment of little strategic importance. But honor
requires that I perform my duties, so Hellsgate shall be known as a world
which keeps its obligations."
"Meetpoint Station's the political, cultural, and intellectual center of
the galaxy," Ariaou replied noncommittally. "It's important that it be
protected by a joint force, so that no single government will control it."
"True. There are certain possibilities. Yet while we patrol, who would
attack?" The prince beckoned to the steward, who replaced the still half-full
platter with a steaming bowl of trideer venison broth and a small plate of
crusty finger-wide loaves which he dipped in the soup. "And I fear that while
time passes slowly on patrol, the madness may overcome me slowly, first
paranoia, then a thirst for battle in any form that might present itself,
finally unthinking bloodlust. Each minute that passes is a minute closer to
death."
As he spoke, armored shutters moved quietly to close the viewport. A small
beeping noise came from Rhadon's belt communicator. He answered it, listened
to the voice coming from the other end. "We'll be entering jump in sixteen
minutes, Ariaou. At that time, you'll be transferred to a shuttle to
Meetpoint. Matters have come up that require my attention."
Time passed slowly while the stewards removed the dishes for safety.
Ariaou took up her shimmerlyre and played an ancient aire to fill the time,
its sweet strains calming her nerves and apparently soothing Rhadon's as well.
The immortally perfect strings of the shimmerlyre called forth visions of
moonlight upon the water, quiet forests about a lake.
Rhadon listened quietly. Though his body failed to express emotions, his
liquid dark eyes shone with hidden sorrows and memories. As Ariaou's music
drew to an end, he stood quietly and took her hand, then kissed it. "My
thanks. Your voice is lovely. Would that I could sing so well for you in
turn."
A strange sense of unreality swept the room, causing her vision to warp
slightly; then, in a moment of sudden shifting, it ended. When it passed,
Ariaou stood up and bade farewell to Rhadon.
"Until we meet again under better auspices, fare thee well," he replied.
The steward escorted her to the waiting shuttle, which lifted slowly from
the starship and made its way to the inner edge of the Oort cloud where
Meetpoint Station orbited silently. `Rhadon's Promise' shrank into a point of
light that blazed away as it entered warpspace.
Meetpoint Station approached steadily. Unlike the asteroid that was Ryme's
`Quiet Reason', Meetpoint was built entirely of metal, a hundred spheres
stacked one within another, each level a separate environment of its own. As
the station grew nearer, Ariaou saw domes of various sizes dotting its
surface, the exposed halves of auditoriums, stadiums, and concert halls.
Ariaou felt rather than saw the shuttle attach itself to one of the many
docking ports. She disembarked, stepping into the crowded customs area of
Meetpoint Starport F, then saw a familiar vulpine face waiting.
"Professor Karikhen!" she called, waving.
"Ariaou!" the red fox exclaimed, walking over to her. It seemed to the
feline bard that the teacher walked with a slower gait, even for his age.
Beneath short cocky ears, his green eyes shone as brightly as ever, taking
note of the shimmerlyre that nestled between her shoulderblades, and the
silvery case that protruded from her pouch. "Well met again! I trust you
found what you were looking for?"
"Yes! It's a long story, but we've time," she replied, hugging him
cordially, then picking up her bags from the collection area. They walked out
of the starport section.
Karikhen chuckled and led her down a blue-green striped corridor to his
skimmer, directing its autopilot to take them to the Amaranth Memorial Library
of Ancient Lore. "I started some research when you sent me your letter," he
explained. "But we'll need to use the older hardcopies in the archives."
The skimmer merged into Meetpoint internal traffic, passing two cargo
maglev barges ferrying plastic crates to shipping. Shielded from the outside
wind and noise within the streamlined vehicle, Ariaou related the full story
to Karikhen, leaving out no details, and showed him the horn of the fallen
Sundancer resting within its silvery carrying case.
The aged teacher removed a small laser-sighted loup from his many-pocketed
vest and examined the horn. "A fascinating specimen, my dear feline. Am I
correct in that you seek to know what virtues and secrets it might possess?"
"More than that. With Sundancer gone, there's one less guardian in the
galaxy. I feel as if I've inherited a mantle of responsibility." Ariaou
looked out the windows of the skimmer, watched the enclosed parks whirl by the
clear plastic-walled corridor. "Why was I chosen? What must I do, and how
should I do it?"
Karikhen nodded, more to himself than to the bard. "Not very many people
recognize that with power must come responsibility. Unleashed power quickly
rages out of control and burns its user, and the innocents about him."
The aged fox looked up as the skimmer coasted to a stop. "Perplexing.
We've arrived at the Meetpoint Council building rather than the library."
Two uniformed guards arrived to escort them inside the cluster of domes
that formed the center of government for the Meetpoint Station. They
exchanged words with the professor, then opened the doors and led them up the
stairs to the entrance. When Ariaou saw the professor walking calmly, she
relaxed and followed with tail swaying anxiously. "Do you know why we've been
taken here?"
"Very likely some sort of crisis," Karikhen replied, looking thoughtful and
worried. His ears flickered. "It's not uncommon that when a situation arises
that must be dealt with quickly and efficiently, they call upon a few people
and settle as much as they can discretely before bringing it up with the
public."
"It seems rather underhanded to me," Ariaou said, tail lashing.
"Yes, it is. But sometimes it's necessary. And though often it can be
beneficial, there'll always be those who oppose it."
The guards saluted and took up positions at the side of the door as they
entered a large hemisphere. Circles of chairs lined the gently sloping floor,
only the lowest filled with Meetpoint officials; a raised dais sat in the
middle of the room with a speaker's podium on top. Large viewscreens hanging
from the ceiling flashed starmaps crossed with dotted lines indicating the
known starships' plotted paths.
"Welcome, Professor Karikhen, Ariaou. I am Zaharis, the current Meetpoint
External Coordinator." the speaker said from the podium. He was a jade-green
reptile standing upright, four thin spidery legs providing balance. His
skeletal arms played deftly over the keyboard buried in the podium, causing
lines of text and graphics to scroll over the viewscreens. "I am sorry that
we had to call you in so quickly, but as you'll see here, the situation
demands a fast response."
Each screen flickered, then shifted to a grainy deep-space view of many
long, thin cylinders bound into a single unit. "Our farthest patrol units
discovered an ancient generation ship bound in-system at the far edge of the
Oort cloud. A human ship."
He continued over the gasps of those assembled, "Though its technology
appears to be far below that which human civilization achieved at the time of
Ragnarok, it still exceeds our own capabilities in many areas. Curiously, it
does not seem to possess warpspace travel."
"Despite the passage of many milleniae since Ragnarok and the colonizing of
our worlds, anti-human sentiment runs strong virtually everywhere, and for
good reasons. No one wishes to see an age return in which humans dominated
all other species-- and that is precisely what we may be seeing if these
humans succeed in colonizing a world." The viewscreen returned to plotting
the generation ship's predicted path through the Meetpoint system, a line that
ended in an orbit around the fourth planet.
"Professor Karikhen, your judgement has proven sound on previous matters,"
Zaharis said. "Who would you appoint as our representative to the human
starship?"
"Ariaou," he said without hesitating.
The feline bard squeaked in shock and turned to look at him. "I've not the
experience," she objected.
"I taught you. You will make a fine representative."
Zaharis raised a delicate second lid in a gesture much like a raised
eyebrow. "We may find that tested sooner than we thought. We sent them a
radio signal several hours ago from the intercepting ship explaining our
faster-than-light communication protocol. They're hailing us now. Ariaou,
your decision?"
Ariaou struggled to collect her wits, then stepped up to the podium next to
Zaharis; Karikhen followed. The central viewscreen facing them flickered with
a communication analysis report and the playback of the transmitted message.
Mechanical distortion rendered the message tinny, the effects of slight
incompatibilities in the equipment being used.
"This is the generation ship `Starfollower', crewed by six hundred people
and carrying five hundred thousand passengers. We come in peace. We seek
only a home for our people. We wish to speak with the denizens of this star
system and begin negotiations. Repeat..."
"Open communications," Ariaou decided.
Almost immediately, the screen switched to the picture of a silver-haired
elderly woman with bright brown eyes, her features pure-bred Japanese. She
wore a dark blue ship's uniform with a world-and-starship emblem on her right
shoulder and Captain's rank insignia on her sleeves. Her manner was crisp,
sharp, and her look calm and analytical. "Greetings to you, Meetpoint
Station! I am Captain Elaine Amaterasu of the EFS `Starfollower'. Have you
the authority to negotiate with us?"
Ariaou kept herself as diplomatic and neutral as possible, concealing
distaste at the sight of Elaine's crewpeople's exposed bare skins. She
brightly replied, "Welcome, `Starfollower'! I am Ariaou, a bard of Meetpoint,
the station's representative. How may we help you?"
Amaterasu's eyes widened as she took in the scene. "You speak a dialect of
our Common Language, yet there's not a true human among your numbers! How can
this be? Are you alien species, part of a human federation?"
Ariaou replied cautiously, "From where and when did `Starfollower' depart?
Much has changed since humans were dominant in the galaxy."
"We departed Noveaumonde, 5305 UDY, some time after our world joined the
Commonwealth." Elaine looked reluctant to go on in further details.
The feline bard explained the story of the Owned People and the colony
ships that escaped Ragnarok, aided by the Compassionate, to settle the Tangled
Web nebula. "Remarkable," Amaterasu exclaimed when she finished. "Alone in
an entire galaxy, so we created our own alien species. And yet our race died
out, thousands of years ago, and only our gene-engineered creations survived
us..."
The feline bard sensed irritation in some of the members of the council at
the implied belittlement of "creations". "What do you seek here," she asked
quickly. "Why have you come to the Meetpoint System?"
"We picked up your station's broadcasts as artificial signals, and homed in
on them, hoping to obtain repairs and resupplying. Thousand-year voyages can
be exhausting, you know." Elaine smiled wryly.
Ariaou remained suspicious. "And what will you do then?"
"We'll continue searching for an inhabitable world, far from your own
youthful civilization, and try to start a colony."
It was plausible, reasonable even. But Ariaou suspected hidden motives
behind Captain Elaine Amaterasu's actions. "I'm sure you understand that we
must take certain precautions. `Starfollower', please hold your position, and
we'll send a courier to survey your ship's condition and deliver our
decision."
"Understood. We await your messenger anxiously," Amaterasu replied. "This
is `Starfollower', over and out."
The viewscreen went silently dark, to be supplanted by an excited buzzing
between the members of the council. Karikhen rested a reassuring paw on
Ariaou's left shoulder as Zaharis hissed softly. "Well done. But now we must
send the messenger, and the courier. Whose life shall we risk? What if they
lie?"
"I'll go." Ariaou said quietly. "Call a convocation of all the worlds.
I'll give you my report from on board their ship."
At that moment, the screens blanked and filled with images of Rhadon, but a
Rhadon far different from the wolf Ariaou knew, radiating authority. His eyes
were flat, devoid of the warmth and depth of soul she'd seen a short while
ago.
"I have declared a state of emergency. As empowered by our treaty, the
Hellsgate Second Fleet assumes right of jurisdiction over the intruder. For
your safety, our personnel on Meetpoint will provide police protection."
Simultaneously, black-uniformed, mirror-helmeted soldiers stepped into the
council chamber and held heavy plasma rifles at the ready.
Zaharis hissed, "The Council has appointed its representative, and its
representative has spoken. How can you justify speaking for Meetpoint?"
Behind him, the others present clamored and shouted.
Rhadon spoke, ignoring their protests, "The Council is dissolved for the
duration. Until this emergency is over, I appoint Secretary Duvan Gunnersson
Meetpoint Director pro-tem." Betrayal! Shock ran down Ariaou's spine, causing
her tail to lash angrily.
Pandemonium surged as Rhadon listed other orders that his soldiers would be
enforcing, placing Meetpoint under martial law. As Rhadon's list of
directives ended and the viewscreens went blank, Duvan walked up to the
podium. He was a lightly built otter standing upright, his fur silver with
age, anachronistic wire-rim spectacles dangling over his button nose.
He pressed a button, causing his visage to be spread across not only the
screens in the chamber, but the ones throughout Meetpoint Station. His voice
boomed over the public speakers, surprisingly loud and stentorian for such a
slight person.
"As of three days ago, citizens, the Meetpoint system was invaded by human
renegades. I regret the necessity for harsh action," he spoke. "Yet in this
time of crisis, we must take actions to protect ourselves. Our patrol fleet
is already proceeding to the border of the Oort cloud, where they will
intercept the enemy."
Duvan Gunnersson's gaze turned dark, his spectacles glinting and his
whiskers twitching angrily. "Yet worse, we may have agents within our midst,
who would work to help these aliens. For this reason, I am placing Professor
Karikhen K'ris'fer under house arrest. All his current appointees' authority
are revoked for the time being. Other members of the current government are
being investigated at this moment."
Ariaou gasped at the otter's words. Professor Karikhen merely bowed his
head acquiescingly as the soldiers came to escort him away, his tail limply
dangling. Other council members snarled and growled unhappily, but in the
face of the superior force of Rhadon's troops, they could do nothing.
The remainder of Duvan's directives passed in a blur. Halfway through
Gunnersson's organization of a committee to study power usage, Ariaou walked
out along with most of the remaining council members. Not having Karikhen's
personal skimmer keys, she caught a passing bus and rode it to his home.
Ariaou looked out the windows of the bus to see Meetpoint's society
continuing to operate normally. Yet here and there, crowds of people gathered
around news channels that continued to broadcast reports of Rhadon's and
Duvan's seizure of Meetpoint government by force. They protested angrily
until dispersed by the black-uniformed soldiers and told to return to their
homes.
Hologram street signs flashed by one by one, the bulkheads merging into a
single blurry line. Ariaou watched them flicker as she remembered fondly her
first visit to Karikhen's home. To fill in the time, to bring herself a
measure of cheer, she took her shimmerlyre, drawing curious looks and sounds
of admiration from the other passengers, and began playing a light song,
putting her memories to verse. The notes sang forth, tinkling over each other
in gay melody, each one perfectly formed.
She'd been a young feline, still kittenish in manners, when she was told
she would be taking her journeyship education under the famed Professor
K'ris'fer's supervision. Anxiously, she stepped up to the small, modest
cluster of bubbles that formed his home, stood in front of the round oak door
that formed its entrance, past a row of the Cherry Orchard residential area's
namesakes. Fragrant pink blossoms drifted past her whiskers and nose as she
rapped on the antique door knocker.
The door opened to reveal a mature red fox dressed in a kimono, his tail
fluffy and white-tipped, his ears cocked rakishly. He invited her in, and
before she had time to be nervous, she was holding a cup of mint tea and a
plate of home baked sugar cookies, and telling the story of her life to
Professor Karikhen. They became friends quickly, her bright music and
youthful exuberance lending color to his days and his knowledge and wisdom
guiding her through life.
Three months later, it was to K'ris'fer's house that Ariaou ran, a red and
gold edged envelope clutched in her paws, tears streaming down her whiskers.
The surprised fox held her as she sobbed, then took the envelope from her
unresisting grasp and read the message within. His gaze widened as he read
the official letter. "Killed by terrorists while en route here on the
starliner `Queen's Ransom'? Alas, my poor Ariaou, twelve is far too young to
lose your parents."
"They're gone forever, and they won't ever come back," the young girl
wailed helplessly. Her eyes quivered with the promise of more tears.
Karikhen held her chin up and directed her attention to the two coins he
produced magically, suspended between three of his long fingers. "Watch
this."
Tempted by the promise of seeing something new, Ariaou rubbed her eyes to
dry them, then focused her attention on Karikhen. The coins glittered in the
light coming from an oval stained glass window, the obverse sides Meetpoint's
logo of a compass rose inscribed around an open book, the reverse sides marked
`Ten Marks' in a cursive, flowing script.
With a sweep of his free hand the fox produced a flower-patterned crimson
and gold embroidered scarf, then whisked it past the coins. The young feline
gasped to see the coins were gone.
"Vanished, yes, but not for long," the fox said, his bright green eyes
laughing. "Watch closely.. They're not in my hands. Nor my sleeves. Nor my
feet, or tail." He batted lightly at Ariaou's paws. "Nor my clothes, either,
you impudent young kitten. They're right here, in fact." And with that, he
pulled the mischevious coins out of the startled cat's ears.
Ariaou smiled a bit at that. Professor K'ris'fer dropped the coins into
her paws. "And so it is with your parents. They're not gone, totally, so
long as you remember them. They live on in your mind. Remember the good
times you had with them."
He spent the rest of the evening showing young Ariaou more of his magic
tricks and sleight of hand, evoking some laughs and giggles, and in the
morning, she left ready for the daily life of the academy again. With the
passage of time, the hurt became a dull sadness. Whenever it threatened to
blossom again, she took out the coins to remind herself of his advice.
Ariaou finished on an echoing musical phrase to the applause of the other
passengers. Laughing at their pleas for more, she spun ballads from her
memories of more innocent days of her childhood until the bus slowed to a stop
at the Cherry Orchard stop.
The bard stepped off, looking about to see the familiar neighborhood. Yet
an air of neglect surrounded the residential area, visible in the
weed-overgrown gardens, the vacancies in smaller homes, and the condition of
the streets. Overhead, the sky-blue roof continued to paint the illusion of
spacious room, marred by a few cracks running along its length.
Two black-uniformed and mirror-helmeted guards stood outside Karikhen's
house, rifles shouldered. They halted Ariaou before she could knock on the
door and searched her clothes briskly. The first guard thumbed his
communicator, requesting clearance from headquarters, then nodded to the
second, who released Ariaou. "Visitors are not permitted for more than two
hours at a time," he cautioned.
Karikhen opened the door in response to the first guard's knocking and
guided Ariaou into his parlor. "I'm so sorry that your appointment was
cancelled, my child," Karikhen said apologetically. "I'm sure you would have
acquitted yourself well, had you been given the chance."
Ariaou smiled slightly. "It's you who should feel slighted, Karikhen.
You've been steadfastly trustworthy and loyal for years. But have you heard
any news of what's happened?"
"Indeed. While I may have been confined to my house, I've not been
isolated from the information network. I've asked a few friends to keep me
updated. The latest reports are disturbing." The fox frowned, thoughtfully
looking at the notepad he carried.
Ariaou scanned the lines of type there while Karikhen continued, "In fact,
if the telemetry's correct, not only is Rhadon's fleet moving to intercept
`Starfollower', but he's trying to provoke them into hostile action by buzzing
the ship with his fighters. Rhadon has also declared that if they penetrate
the defense periphery or return fire, he will consider himself free to use
tactical nuclear weapons. Thus far, the generation ship continues to ignore
all this."
"There must be a way I can get there in time..." Ariaou looked frustratedly
at the silver case and the horn that rested within, and at the shimmerlyre
that rested on her shoulder.
Professor K'ris'fer appeared thoughtful. "I did mention I had done some
preliminary studies. Though I don't have access to the complete Meetpoint
libraries or the hardcopies stored in the Amaranth archives, I turned up some
ancient songs considered fictional that might apply. In fact..." With a few
keystrokes, his table computer produced hardcopy sheets of music.
"One of Maria Mask-Dancer's ballads! But I know all her songs, and I've
never seen this one before.."
"That's not surprising, considering it's proscribed to those below the rank
of Master Musicians. A curious classification, since it deals with the fairly
well known Battle of the Starshell Gap of five hundred years ago."
Settling into a comfortably overstuffed chair, Karikhen continued, "In
those days, the nine-world empire of Lyonsfar was a feudal state beginning to
emerge into an interstellar industrial age, its government becoming fragmented
by the factional conflicts of its nobles. Then King Lyonnes VI died without
children, barely three years after his wife was killed by an assassin. A
civil war began. The two princes with the largest armadas crushed their
opponents over a period of twelve years, eventually meeting at Starshell Gap.
There, they unexplicably declared for the young Savinfar, and eventually made
him the first of the Regents."
Ariaou skimmed through the pages, her eyes widening as she read. "If this
account is true, and all of Maria's songs were, then Savinfar was the last
surviving descendant of Lyonnes's line! But how could Maria know that?"
"Shortly after Lyonnes's wife Alira was assassinated, Maria visited and
took on her semblance, so that she could give King Lyonnes comfort. Savinfar
came from their union."
Karikhen raised a hand to stop Ariaou's curious questions. "Yet Maria's
gift was entirely in casting a glamour over her listeners so that she would
seem to be whatever she liked. How could she have made her way from the
homeworld to the lightyears-distant fleets, when all civilian transport had
been interdicted?"
The feline bard returned to the beginning pages, recited softly the verses
she found within. "A griffon, bright red of wings and green of eyes. A
magical winged beast carried her there in but a flicker of an eyelash."
"A Guardian, surely. According to Mask-Dancer, it sang like your
Sundancer, and the magic of its songs caused distances to become like nothing.
Maria tried to capture the sounds in this ballad, but came away with only a
fragile imitation."
"Then the key's lost." Ariaou clenched her paws frustratedly, so close and
yet so far from the music she needed. She yelped suddenly as a clawtip caused
a drop of blood to well out of her palms.
The professor remained silent a while. "There's a chance, if you remember
Sundancer's song of travelling. Perhaps your own musical talent, aided by the
shimmerlyre you carry and by the power of Sundancer's horn, can be directed by
the Orpheus Sphere. You must go there and sing, until you come across the
music that will take you where you wish to go. Or until you fail."
The feline bard nodded, sadly, seriously. "I have to try."
Karikhen rested his hands on Ariaou's shoulders. "Good luck, my child."
Ariaou left with the aged fox's words in her mind, catching the bus without
conscious thought. Again holographic street signs flashed past, barely
noticed.
The Orpheus Sphere! Innocently glistening like a geode within, cut into a
sonic mirror, each facet perfectly carved according to sophisticated
mathematics. It would catch a singer's every inflections and reflect them
back changed, hundreds and thousands of times. Singers hoping to find fame or
fortune within its depth had been driven insane before. Or raised to new
levels of genius.
No one had dared to venture into the Orpheus Sphere since Maria
Mask-Dancer, those five centuries ago. Who would tamper with wild magic?
When she got off from the bus, she found none of the regular security
waiting at the airlock, nor the black-uniformed soldiers who had assumed their
police and patrol duties. With heart pounding she stepped into the
pressurized corridor that went the few meters from Meetpoint's outermost shell
to the Orpheus Sphere. She programmed the controls to initiate the warmup
sequence in two minutes, strapped on the bootjets, and stepped in.
Ariaou floated into the middle of the geode, watching light glint from the
faraway facets. The sounds of her bootjets faded away softly as she stretched
quietly in the exact center, floating in zero gravity. Soon complete silence
reigned, punctuated only by the sounds of the feline's gentle breathing.
Drawing on her recollection of Maria Mask-Dancer's ballad, Ariaou took her
shimmerlyre, the motion setting her into a slow spin with her tail following
behind. Her paws stroked the strings, letting loose a quiet tinkling stream
of notes that wove over themselves in the opening chords. Hidden lights
responded to the music, flickering in rhythmic patterns.
Slowly, gradually Ariaou spun the image of the far distant towers of
Lyonsfar's capital city, Lyonhelm. The earliest sunrise crept along the
outermost walls, turning the sky midnight blue, golden notes shivering in
midair in complex echoes. A city awoke slowly, the hubbub of the people
rising out of subtle dissonances.
Ariaou sang, her voice purring with a soft resonance that became an
underlying harmony, evoking the slight winged figure of the Mask-Dancer.
Maria stood atop the tallest spire of the palace, her long white hair falling
over her silvery cloak that tinkled and flowed about her ankles, her bright
grey eyes looking out onto the city below; her translucent butterfly blue-gold
wings spread to catch the wind. Rising daylight shimmered about her feet, and
cool breezes ruffled her cloak.
The feline bard sang Maria's plea, the ancient dialect of Lyonsfar stately
and melodious from her tongue. In answer to Maria's call, a proud gryphon
answered, his wings shading from sunlight-orange to flame-red, and cried out
in a voice of iron and copper. The sun silhouetted them, a sylph beckoning to
the half-lion, half-eagle griffin, begging for assistance that she might stop
a senseless civil war, and prevent millions from dying needlessly.
At last the gryphon bowed his head, lowered his wings that Maria might
ride. He sang a majestic song, like a whalesong or a rainbow made material in
steel and glass as he swept his wings and leapt aloft into the air.
Light glinted off the curve of the Orpheus Sphere, the sheer energy of
Ariaou's version of the gryphon's theme multiplying and cascading. She drew
upon her memories of Sundancer so long ago in the golden forest, weaving his
travel theme with Maria Mask-Dancer's ballad and seeking out the music and
repeated phrases that seemed right to her. Waves of sound battered against
her body from all directions.
With each new height, Sundancer's horn glowed with greater light, shining
like a miniature sun from the necklace that dangled about her neck. Ariaou
quested for the key that would open its powers, then found it. Time suspended
as her voice, her shimmerlyre, the very walls of the Orpheus Sphere all united
in a single pure note that broke down walls of space and time.
Reality cracked in a multitude of rainbows and Ariaou stepped through to
someplace else.
She arrived in confusion. The bridge of the `Starfollower' shone red under
the emergency lights, crewmembers scanning their displays intently or running
back and forth on the catwalks high above. Viewscreens flickered with battle
graphics, plotting the incoming fighter squadrons. As Ariaou glanced about,
the control board next to her erupted into flames.
The feline jumped back from the fire, falling against Captain Elaine
Amaterasu who surprisedly put a hand to her officer's sidearm. Other
crewmembers started, turning to watch the strange cat and their captain.
"You're the negotiator we spoke with," Elaine exclaimed. "How did you get
onto the bridge? Why did your ships open fire?"
"They've attacked already?" Ariaou asked. She picked herself up and
straightened her clothes out. The horn had fallen to the floor, its light
dwindling back to a length of cool moonlight; this she replaced in its silver
carrying case.
"Didn't you know?" Amaterasu studied the feline's expression, then sighed.
"We were half a light-minute from the inner edge of the Oort cloud when their
fighters started buzzing us, then they started firing about half an hour ago.
Now they're threatening to use tactical nuclear weapons on us if we don't back
off."
Security guards approached, their function obvious in their armored
uniforms and their heavier guns. The captain came up to Elaine and saluted,
his complexion darker and his hair pure black. "Shall we remove this... alien
saboteur from the bridge?"
"No, Captain Amaterasu! You're being attacked by a hostile faction that's
taken over Meetpoint Station. It's their forces that are trying to draw you
into battle. None of this is our fault; we would have dealt with you in good
faith!" Ariaou's bright green-gold eyes pleaded with Elaine for time, and for
consideration of her words.
Elaine studied the feline bard for a timeless moment, while her crew
returned to their stations, while `Starfollower' shuddered under the impact of
Rhadon's missiles. Her own dark brown eyes glinted. "I wish I could trust
you, but we've been betrayed by nonhumans too many times. We trust no one.
Take her to confinement; we'll continue as I directed and trust to our
defenses."
A massive jolt shook the ship, causing the crew, their captain, and Ariaou
herself to stumble and fall. Viewscreens began blinking on and off, some
distorting to static, others showing readouts on the damage inflicted to
`Starfollower's' systems. "That was a five megaton nuclear burst, five
hundred kilometers off," a red-haired officer shouted. "The EMP scrambled our
drive controls. They shut off automatically, or else we'd all be smeared
against the walls like jelly!"
All business now, Elaine snapped, "What about our other systems? I want a
damage report, section by section. Main gun sections, prepare to open fire on
the enemy fighters."
Ariaou picked herself up, thought fast as she saw the guards doing
likewise. With nowhere to run, she controlled her rising panic and took up
her shimmerlyre, and began to sing what came to mind.
She did not know the ancient words to the lullabye that she sang, nor the
sweet, soft music that underlay them. It was the same one that she'd sung on
Ryme, when first she took up the lyre, her paws flying to patterns of strings
remembered though she'd never studied it, the same one that had had the power
to bring a ghost to forget its vengeance. Its beauty was fey in a way that no
modern music could match.
Indecipherable though its words might be, the lullabye's effect on Elaine's
crew was instant. Through the entire generation ship, within each bulkheaded
area, the ethereal music cut short the damage reports and panicked calls for
assistance. The security guards hesitated, looking to the captain for their
directions.
Captain Elaine Amaterasu listened also; with a small hand motion, she
signalled the guards to return to their posts. Her dark brown eyes glistened
with memories suddenly recalled by Ariaou's evocative song, her features
losing years as she relaxed her customary frown. She whispered to herself,
though Ariaou's sensitive ears caught it, "It's beautiful... The music of my
ancestors... Yet I thought it'd been lost long ago, when my parents died."
Ariaou gained confidence as she held the crew's attention spellbound with
her music. Reaching the end of the lullabye, she improvised, drawing upon her
musical history to spin the old songs of reunion. Meant for the colony worlds
rising to interstellar travel, to bind them together despite their mutual
distrust and fear of outsiders, she improvised instead a message of
camaraderie between species. The crew of the `Starfollower' listened, held
captive by her voice.
Ariaou spoke to them of their differences, a void that, try as it might,
could not be eliminated. Though to them, her fur and her feline ancestry
might be repulsively different, their own bare skins and their blunt teeth
seemed to her things to be pitied. Beneath exterior appearance, she sang, in
sweet verse and soft music, there rested a being worth knowing, respecting,
befriending. And she spoke to them of their similarities, of value placed on
beauty and truth, honor and creativity.
Finally, exhausted, Ariaou rested her shimmerlyre in the crook of one arm
and bowed her head, waiting to accept what decision Captain Elaine Amaterasu
might make. A moment passed; another nuclear explosion shook the ship, though
not so hard. With stunned expressions, the crewmembers returned to their
duties, and the damage reports began pouring in again.
"You sing beautifully, Ariaou," Elaine said at last. "And your message is
one to which we might open our hearts. I...we... had forgotten that things
could be better, that there might be times when we could... trust others..."
"What if it's a trap?" a crewman asked; young, bold, fair of hair and
brash. "If this cat is really some kind of saboteur?"
Captain Amaterasu replied, "Trusting has to begin somewhere, Lieutenant.
But, tell me, even were we to turn aside, how do you plan to force the
attackers to hold their fire?"
"Let me speak with them," Ariaou replied. Drawing upon her knowledge of
Tangled Web protocol, she suggested, "Request a ceasefire, under the Mark of
the Lion Humbled, and they'll answer. If they don't, they become outlaws, to
be hunted by all the nebula's forces."
The captain and her communications officer exchanged words. The message
was sent. It took moments for the reply to arrive, an enigmatic message:
Ariaou. You have slain one wolf with your powers of song; you shall not have
another. Leave behind your instruments, and I shall send a courier to take
you to where we first met. With respect, Rhadon.
Ariaou stood stunned for a moment while Elaine considered the message. "I
do hope you weren't counting on your powers of sweet song alone to carry the
day, my dear feline," she commented drily. "He doesn't sound friendly to me."
"Perhaps there's a way..." the bard replied. "I'd rather chance a
face-to-face meeting, even if my life was at stake, than let your lives and
theirs be risked in battle."
The minutes passed slowly in a dead silence. Rhadon's fighters ceased to
sally forth in their attempts to goad `Starfollower' into returning fire. The
dotted paths on the bridge's viewscreens slowly approached each other, the
single massive generation ship moving directly toward a horde of far smaller
cruisers and destroyers. `Rhadon's Promise' launched a lone shuttle on a
high-acceleration path.
The screen flashed the estimated arrival time of the shuttle, flickering
from ten minutes to nine, then eight. Captain Elaine barked orders as her
crew set about repairing the damage done by the nuclear bursts, directing
repair crews to the engine control conduits. "Until those're fixed," she
explained to Ariaou, "We'll be unable to navigate or even brake our ship.
There's no telling how long it'll take to repair them. If you fail, we'll be
forced to use all our weapons systems to defend ourselves, and strike back at
your worlds."
"And no matter how long it takes, should it come to that, our forces would
certainly destroy your own ship, and with it, the only remaining humans in
this galaxy." Ariaou sighed. "This is our only chance."
The courier made fast to a sally port that adjusted its grapple to seal
tightly about the shuttle's airlock, compensating for the incompatible docking
systems. Ariaou entrusted her shimmerlyre to Elaine's custody and bid
farewell to her. The captain of the generation ship saluted back as the
feline stepped in with the assistance of the waiting lupine crewman. The
shuttle's airlock irised close as she strapped herself into the
high-acceleration couch.
"We'll reach the task force in nine minutes," the crewman commented as he
operated the controls. "Captain Rhadon's ordered the fleet to remain at their
current distance from the enemy ship."
The courier ship separated from the `Starfollower' and boosted away at high
speed, its anti-matter engines producing a long stream of charged hydrogen
ions accelerated through its drive. Their acceleration reached the maximum
the artificial gravity field could negate, pressing Ariaou back onto the
couch; that weight reminded her uncomfortably that her own shimmerlyre had
been left behind. The forward viewscreen showed a rapidly approaching swarm
of bees that grew into long, sleekly deadly warships.
Ariaou's pilot reversed the courier at the midpoint of their flight, using
the engines to brake the tiny ship's velocity. They coasted by the missile
destroyers that led Rhadon's task force and their fighter escorts, each
showing up only as a blip on the viewscreen, their positions delayed by the
speed of light. The path of the shuttle converged precisely, as if drawn by a
magnet, onto the flagship.
`Rhadon's Promise' loomed large out of the shadows of space, its sudden
tines of gleaming mirror-bright metal punctuated by weapons clusters. The
pilot controlled the courier deftly, using the compressed hydrogen jets to
snuggle the ship into one of the recessed docking bays without the assistance
of the cruiser's grapples. He grinned, his fangs clean white, proud of a job
well done.
Two waiting guards, dressed in black uniforms but without the mirrored
helmets of those that had taken Meetpoint, escorted Ariaou out of the courier
and onto a waiting maglev cart; one was a silver-furred vulpine, the other a
mink still in winter white. To her questions, they only replied, "Rhadon is
expecting you in his stateroom."
With a sense of deja vu, Ariaou stood once again in front of Rhadon's
stateroom. She stepped forward hesitantly, and confronted the wolf that stood
at the other side of the room.
Prince Rhadon Mordenkainen looked terrible. His eyes burned, their once
dark brown irises now almost entirely black pupils, and his reddish brown fur
was unkempt from lack of grooming and from the sweat of his mental exertions.
He tensed, almost crouched over, his tight commander's uniform betraying his
battle stance, and to Ariaou's keen sight, his fatigue.
"Who would have thought that my betrayer would be one with the voice of an
angel?" he asked, rhetorically, his gaze burning into Ariaou's eyes. The
feline restrained herself from quailing, showing visible fear, but she felt
sure that the wolf's heightened senses could smell her distress. "It might be
better if I were simply to slay you now, eliminating a threat; yet by the Mark
of the Humbled Lion, I am forced to guest you honorably."
Ariaou raised her paws in a display of appeasement. "How could I hurt you?
I seek only to speak with you, to arrange a peace so that no lives need be
lost."
Rhadon grinned wolfishly, no humour visible in his cruelly gleaming fangs.
Determination ran like steel beneath his voice, still eerily normal, honed to
an aristocrat's manners. "You yourself are a weapon, innocent though you may
seem. Were I to give in, to permit these human invaders to survive, then in a
generation's time, or in many's, it does not matter, this nebula would once
again be enslaved to their whims. I shall not permit this to happen, and so
they must be destroyed, before they can even begin."
The feline approached slowly, paws still outstretched in a show of
defenselessness. She thought fast, remembering their conversation only hours
gone by, yet an eternity ago. "You live for honor, for service to your
people. Yet you've betrayed these both."
"How is that?" Rhadon looked confused, his rock-steady countenance
beginning to crack.
"You betrayed your honor when you violated Meetpoint's sanctity, capturing
it by force. And you betrayed your people, for they will be forced to answer
for your actions, for every life that was lost in your actions." Ariaou's
gaze was steady as she took one of Rhadon's trembling paws in her own.
Rhadon's muscles tautened, his muzzle quivering.
"No," the wolf snarled, extending long sharp claws. "You are trying to
confuse me with your words. I was foolish to permit you to speak, an error
that I shall remedy with your death. Then I shall direct my ships to destroy
the humans quickly and efficiently."
"I'm sorry, Rhadon... But I have to protect Meetpoint, and the humans, for
they're innocent of any crimes of history. Any way that I can." Ariaou
reached down to open the silvery case that held Sundancer's horn, revealing
the long shaft of cool moonlight. Rhadon's eyes narrowed at the apparent
weapon; he swiped at the case, sending it flying from her hands, the horn
arcing through air in a perfect parabola to clatter on the floor.
The feline dived after it, scooped it up in her paws like a dagger. The
wolf leapt after her, his black eyes swallowing her up in their depths as he
closed in, his legs propelling him across the room efficiently. Time slowed
as Ariaou met his gaze fiercely, tensing her muscles. She snarled, exposing
her own even, shining white fangs.
They met in a suspended moment of glittering claws and flashing horn.
Ariaou fell in a heap of fur. She gradually became aware of a warm wetness
from her right side, looked down to see blood welling slowly, then back behind
her, where Rhadon struggled upright. The moonlight spire of Sundancer's horn
gleamed from his side, barely half its length visible; she vaguely remembered
it being ripped out of her paws by the force of his passing. Weaponless,
instrumentless, Ariaou waited calmly for whatever fate might bring.
She was, consequently, surprised when he spoke in a completely calm voice.
"My apologies. I'm afraid I have not been... quite myself." Rhadon removed
the horn from his side, tearing strips of cloth from his uniform to bandage
his wound and Ariaou's. "Honor demands that I atone for the shame and
injustice I have caused. I am at your service."
Ariaou sighed, too tired to feel exuberance. "Let's call your fleet home
to Meetpoint, and invite `Starfollower' to parley." She reclined into Rhadon's
supporting arms and fell asleep.
She awoke several days later in a comfortable old-fashioned wooden bed
later to Professor Karikhen K'ris'fer's smiling vulpine face. Captain Elaine
Amaterasu stood nearby, carrying her shimmerlyre, and Prince Rhadon
Mordenkainen cradled Sundancer's horn in his arms. They exchanged wary
smiles. "It's over," Karikhen exclaimed happily. "We've signed a treaty with
the humans."
Elaine nodded. A rare smile graced her aged features. "Many years may
pass before humans can be accepted into your society, but we'll bide our time.
Until then, Meetpoint Academy's agreed to let us settle an uninhabited moon of
the system, and will send students to study with us on a foreign exchange
basis. We'll do likewise, and eventually our cultures will be able to
intermingle freely."
"And what of you, Karikhen?" Ariaou asked. She sat up partway, stopping as
a twinge ran through her side.
"You're an amazing bard," the fox said with a laugh. "I was cleared of all
charges the moment Rhadon rescinded all his orders, but the government was
forced to make a public statement because of that song of yours you made up
while in the bus. I'm a popular figure now! And you're going to be seeing
some royalties soon, I believe..." He shook his head disbelievingly.
The feline smiled tiredly. "That's good... And you, Rhadon? What has your
homeworld to say of all this?"
Rhadon reached out with a paw, touched Ariaou's. His eyes glinted softly,
once again warm brown. "Officially, I no longer exist, having fallen under
the Curse of Lord Moreah, even though you healed me of that; I've been
discharged from my duties and disowned by my family. Unofficially? I plan to
study here at Meetpoint, now that I have more time ahead of me. And I'd like
to get to know a certain bard better."
______________________________________________________________________________
Conrad Wong is a CS student at U. C. Berkeley, about to graduate and face the
terrifying world of "Real Life". He is not looking forward to it. Except,
that is, to having more money to spend on the necessities of life: new science
fiction and fantasy books, anthropomorphic comics (Conrad's particularly fond
of `Rhudiprrt'), and getting permanent net access. His hobbies include feeble
attempts at writing (one of which you see above), drawing, computer games, and
MUDs.
[email protected]
______________________________________________________________________________
______________________________________________________________________________
The Harrison Chapters
Chapter 5
by Jim Vassilakos
1990
______________________________________________________________________________
Downward, through the thick blankets of clouds, a dark figure fell, twisting
and twirling, helpless in the howling tempest. Darkness loomed above, seeming
to descend and collapse closer to earth with each passing moment. Then the sky
became as bright as a thousand suns and the darkness was vanquished. Hair
caught fire; skin parched, baked, and blackened in the blink of a boiling eye.
Then only a single fireball remained, high above, like a sun but lifeless and
slowly disintegrating. The sky seemed to crack as the shell of an egg, and a
blast ripped through the clouds, shredding the air and deafening all senses as
it passed.
Michael awoke to the pain of burning flesh, the deafening blast seeming
like a distant and forgotten dream. The wind tossed him between clouds,
scrambling his senses with his emotions. He tasted fear as he saw the ground
below and the fireball above. Suddenly, a sharp pain swept through his spine
like an ocean wave, sparking memories and stinging his consciousness. He
thought he heard Niki giggling somewhere and realized he'd lost his helmet.
He looked down again; it was time. He unhooked the release and pressed the
activator. The gravchute seemed to yank him upward toward the filthy night
sky, now littered with burning debris as the fireball spread outward, dividing
into glowing bits of metal and thunder.
Feet together, knees slightly bent, muscle braced against bone, the old
routine flickered in the back of his mind as he hit and rolled, falling
uncontrollably into a warm, wet, compost ditch. Botflies circled his head as
it emerged from the steaming muck.
Nimble fingers worked free the straps of the shoulder harness and
waistbelt, making splish-squish sounds in the lacteal water. The chute slowly
sank and disappeared altogether beneath the surface as Mike crawled up the
side of the ditch, peeking over the rough earthen edge. The air began to hiss
and spit while small chunks of metal ripped into the ground like shrapnel from
a grenade. In the distance, some hundred meters, a tall, wire fence, lighted
by iridescent lamps, stood proudly, its barbed icing leaning inward, sparking
against the hot debris. Mike dug himself into the soft earth as far as he
could until his lungs breathed dirt. An explosion rocked the ground, and then
another. Several clumps of stone and clay fell into the sludge as Mike felt
his fingers grip the roots of some alien weed. The air grew thick and smelled
of death and fumes and fire, all mixed together like some unholy beast.
For several minutes the sky seemed to fall, and then all was quiet. Mike
crawled cautiously from the ditch. Blood trickled down his neck and dripped
slowly onto the ground as he stood, haphazardly, holding onto what was left of
his face. The skin crackled and fell away without feeling.
A clean military troop insertion. He tried to smile while there was nobody
to see him, but the right side of his mouth was too mangled. He remembered the
Vista jolting, the general panic, Bill diving for the drop shaft, himself
scrambling with his helmet and pack.
There was no sign of his pack anywhere. No infrared goggles, no niko
camera, not even a stupid pair of wire cutters. He stared back toward the
fence. The distant sound of hooves against dirt met his ears. Mike staggered
toward the light of the fence, drawn by the noise of the spooked animals. As
he peered into the murky darkness on the other side, he saw several quagga
galloping parallel to the posts, their white stripes shining dimly against the
cold light.
In the distance, he heard the faint whine of chemical combustion engines,
probably two-wheelers, motorcycles. This was a ranch. He stared dumbly at the
fence. A high-security ranch. Mike walked parallel to the gate, crouching
behind the cover of the scrub brush and beyond the range of the light. It was
too dark to properly perambulate the area. Patches of snow and ice covered the
ground, and the dirt was sturdy but largely barren. The air became steadily
colder, and he began to shiver.
As he walked, a small spark of light caught his eye. It was on his side,
far away from the fence. Bright, yet so small it was hard to distinguish. A
flare. Mike crossed though the shallow thicket, dizzied by his loss of blood.
He stumbled over a large stone and remembered Robin screaming in mid-air, her
gravchute shredded, her body burning, the earth miles below. He heard a
dripping noise and tried to concentrate. His hands felt warm and sticky as he
regained his footing, but the flare was closer. It stood upright, wedged
between two tall rocks on a steep hillside, their sharp edges outlined in the
sizzling white light. Mike climbed up the slope, falling to his knees every
few meters, his temples pounding with each step, his body shivering from the
intense cold.
He contemplated falling asleep. He could reach the flare tomorrow or the
next day or sometime after that. He tried to imagine waking up later, seeing
the flare, its white flame still burning, grasping it in his hand, touching
the hot fire. It would tingle his senses, like the waves of the ocean on
Tizar, the cool swells lapping effortlessly at the long shore. He would hold
the flare in his hand as he slept beneath the starry night sky. He'd sleep
forever, and the sun would never rise. Kitara would stay beside him, soothing
his dreams as she used to, entering them, sharing her own. Something she had
whispered; he could hear her calling his name.
"Michael..."
Dim evening light slipped lazily through the small glass window, coloring
the dark, quiet, chamber in shades of purples and greys. In the corner, a
rough wooden stool leaned against the wall by the mantle, small burning embers
tickling its legs. A black kettle hung suspended above the crackling fire,
steam wisping from its nozzle, mixing with the smoke in the chimney. Above
the mantle, a dull wooden-handled axe rested against the wall on a set of long
iron nails drilled parallel with the floor.
Niki sat at his bedside, sopping the sweat from his forehead with a cloth
napkin. Through one eye, she looked comfortably tired. Mike tried to think of
something to say.
"Shhh..."
He closed his mouth and let a smile escape. Sharp waves of pain sprinted
through his mind.
"You'll have to learn to stop that too."
"What happened?" The words came out slurred.
"You've lost some blood. A mild case of shock. You're lucky I'm a qualified
nurse."
"It was a prerequisite. Where are we?"
"I don't know... but we're safe."
"What about the others?"
Mike felt a brush of sorrow after he asked the question. Niki's sorrow.
"Are you sure?"
"I don't know anymore than you. I've been searching for Billy, but... I
just don't know." Mike felt the cool, damp cloth caress his forehead as she
spoke. Something in her voice said the task was hopeless.
"Don't lose faith."
"I haven't. I'm going to keep searching. But you have to go back to sleep."
Mike was too tired to argue. He settled back into the bed and closed his
one good eye. It wasn't the first time psionics had saved his life or provided
shelter, but the chances of Niki finding Bill were slim. Mike tried to guess
likelihood; he couldn't. He wondered who owned the cabin. How long could they
stay before the owner's return?
Mike felt the right half of his face. Niki had kept the swelling down, and
his mouth was almost completely mended, but she couldn't reconstruct the bones
or the teeth. Something had definitely hit him. He couldn't remember what. It
ached for him to think about it.
The sky was dark when he awoke again, a bowl of hurtleberries on the stool
beside him. Her gravchute sat lonesome against the wall. A small pocket in the
cabin floor was open. Inside lay a brown leather sack, full of a hodgepodge of
useful items. A two- pronged fork, a plate, a rusty distilizer, leaky chemical
batteries, a wishbone, a long, thin vial, a pot and serving spoon, a box of
matches, a ceramic mug. Mike regarded them curiously.
Outside the cabin, Niki sat crosslegged, facing the forest, deep in
meditation, her slight body framed by the predawn light. The forest surrounded
the cabin on all sides without leaving so much room for a clearing. A thick,
green tarp covered the entire roof, a small hole cut out for the chimney, and,
above that, the long, weeping branches of a dwearmurgrove tree hung limp in
the cold air. The chimney ended in a dun colored box, black cords falling from
underneath its corners and into the tarp's heavy fabric.
Mike guessed the whole mechanism was some sort of makeshift insulation to
detract from the IR image. Somebody had gone to a good deal of trouble to
build this hideaway. He wondered how Niki had found it and how she had managed
to drag him through the dense brush without leaving a conspicuous trail. The
memory of a lonely gravchute formed in his mind, it's dull grey exterior
blending into the darkness as it sat, propped, against a cabin wall.
Niki opened her eyes, "Lots of juice in those puppies."
Mike looked up, startled.
"Sorry."
He churned up a staid expression. "You're getting good. Were you just
reading me or searching for Bill at all?"
"I said I was sorry." She seemed to fold inward on herself, trying to
become small and unnoticed, clutching to her string of beads like a security
blanket. Mike kneeled down, testing his flexibility after a day in bed.
"Speaking of juice, I'm thirsty. Where's the stream?"
She reached into her cloth knapsack and retrieved a shiny aluminum canteen.
Mike drank.
"There's a stream about a kilometer north. Over the hill beyond that is
where we came down."
"What have you got in here? Gyrocompass, good. Medscanner, castfoam, pris
glasses, synthetic gloves; aha, mullah. You've been holding out on me, Niki."
"Mike?"
"Cold, hard imperial cash. Highly illegal at the moment, but considering
the state of the drin, it ought to be good for barter. How much is this...
y'know you're practically destitute, Niki?"
"Sorry, my boss doesn't pay me what I'm worth."
Mike looked into her eyes and smiled as much as his new facial structure
would allow.
"Oh he doesn't, does he?"
"Billy's alive, boss."
"Where?"
"I'm not sure yet, but we gotta start looking."
Mike stretched his arms and yawned, "Hold that thought." He stepped into
the treeline, backing within a clump of foliage.
"What's my Mike doing?"
"`Mike-turating,' lemme lone."
"Huh?"
"Answering the call of Mother Nature."
"Humph... well lemme tell you about Father Time," Niki picked out a flat
stone and sent it ricocheting off a nearby branch.
"Hey!"
"Now stop rubbing your frowzy face and get back here!"
The two angry men dunked his head into the murky water, thrusting it deeper
than before, holding it longer until he reflexively opened his mouth to
breathe. He felt himself being yanked back to the surface, coughing, wheezing,
sputtering for air, his guts surging upward to his mouth, the stank of the
urine and feces weakening his cuffed limbs from nausea. A brown offal bobbed
on the surface, seeming to laugh with every motion.
The white-shirted man stood opposite him, a thin smile playing across his
lips. "You approve of our sewage containment system? I give you my assurance
that you will have plenty of time to inspect it closely unless you begin
talking now."
"No speak."
"You are a stinking liar."
Bill caught a lung full of air as his head submerged beneath the filthy
muck. The two men lifted his legs above his upper torso and pushed them down
into the refuse until his head hit bottom, dung and piss spilling along the
barrel's rusty sides. After a minute, his body began to twist violently,
convulsing for lack of air. The guards looked up with doleful eyes.
"Not just yet. Our friend is thirsty; we must let him drink his fill."
Soon, his feet slowed down, stopped kicking, and finally hung limp. The
guards pulled his dripping, corpselike body from the slimy excrement, holding
him upright off the ground. The white-shirted man walked over and patted Bill
on the cheek.
"Yes. I think you will like it here."
Bill opened his bloodshot eyes and sprayed the man's face with a mouthful
of sludge, spitting the last of the staining refuse onto the man's white
shirt. Seizing the moment, his cuffed legs kicked upward as if by their own
volition, striking their target at full force as the man's jaw dropped in
horror and pain. Bill watched in satisfaction as the man fell to the littered
floor gripping his groin tightly with both hands.
After several deep breaths, the man looked up into Walker's steely grey
eyes. "You're dead."
"Now, now Sheffy," a ringing voice from the far end of the room cheerfully
chirped, "the boy can't help it. He obviously doesn't speak our language."
Bill saw an elderly woman step into the dim light from the darkness of a
corner. She wore a black, levantine dress with long leather gloves and boots,
and her silvery hair was clipped with a furl.
"He's lying, mother."
"Really dear, I think it's time you were off to bed."
"Stop patronizing me!"
She stopped in her tracks and cast her son a sharp glance, her sharp blue
eyes seeming to sting him from a distance. The man tried to stand, but
stumbled over his own legs in agony. She regarded him callously, like a
vulture might regard a dying carcass. His eyes glazed over in trepidation as
he noted her gaze.
"I mean," the quiver in his voice was laced with fear, "yes... mother. I'm
going to bed now." He seemed to force the last words out one at a time. One of
the guards helped him to his feet and out of the room. Bill gauged his chances
against the other as the woman approached him, carefully sidestepping the
scattered droppings and puddles of urine.
"Whew... you smell terrible."
"No speak."
"Though not as bad as Sheff smelled after he cornered that zorille last
year. You remember that, don't you Medwin?"
"Yes, Madre."
"Ambrose thought our boy was ready for some hunting."
"No speak."
"No, no that's quite all right. I don't prize my young men for their
vocabularies. What I'll do with you is report you to the authorities. In fact,
I'll have to report this whole mess. Then we'll have to scour the countryside
for your friends. You didn't come alone, did you."
Bill shut his eyes and tried not to listen.
"Then the Imps will come in, if my appraisal is worth beans. That's bad
news. The Imps don't much cotton to sticky messes, which is what you're in
right now. I think you'd rather work in a labor camp or as a slave in some
rotting hole in the ground than have your brain erased. They do that nowadays,
you know...with interstellar criminals."
"No speak."
"No you won't speak, and it's too bad. If you only spoke you could save
your life, your friends lives. It's a crying shame, I think. But pipe beatings
and dung drownings obviously won't cure your affliction."
Bill found himself pondering her words.
"The authorities will have drugs which will make you talk, and the Imps
will have methods which are better left undiscussed in polite company."
She shifted her feet around another puddle and stepped in front of Bill,
casually waving off a tiny gnat.
"There will be people here in the morning. Will they be looking for you?
What should I tell them? What reason do I have to save your ass if you won't
talk?"
Bill could feel his breath quicken. Her sharp blue eyes scintillated in the
dim light, driving imaginary needles into his own as the gnat spun wildly in
the air, plunging recklessly into the rusty rimmed barrel and the thick gooey
soup within.
Gall midges buzzed under the trees around the shallow stream as the early
sunlight spiked down between the branches like razored knives. Mike decided
that Niki must have made a bee-line for the cabin after she found him;
psionics didn't account for ease of travel. He chopped brush out of the way,
and made a neater trail than the one she had sniffed out. The long-handled axe
was somewhat dull, but it did the job all the same.
It was the axe, she said, that had led her to the cabin. Psionically, it
was like a beacon, a conspicuous aberration in an otherwise unlikely
background, full of strong emotions and pain. She thought of calling for help
at the ranch instead, but there was pain there as well, and enough angry
people to blow their mission. There would probably be government people, as
well, asking questions, trying to find out what happened, maybe even
Imperials.
Mike tried to collate the data. The explosion still throbbed inside his
memory blocking out the usual clutter. The drop never took into consideration
a strong defense. Calanna wasn't known for tight planetary defenses. If
anything, the opposite was true. It was almost as if they had been expected.
The hilltop was studded with dandelions sprouting forth from the hard
terrain. Niki spied the landscape through the pris glasses. To the north,
another kilometer almost, Mike saw the tall wire fence gleaming in the morning
sunlight. A kilometer further was a ranch house and a tall guardtower jutting
upward from the grassy fields.
"To count the sheep?"
"Gimmie dat."
Niki handed over the glasses. Mike adjusted the power and zoomed in,
chainlocking until he could see the sun sparkling off their shades.
"Thems is autorifles. Lucy issue. Serial number..."
Niki snatched the glasses back, "No poop; lemme see."
"Yes poop. Can that thing take pictures?"
"Nope." She winced though the lenses, the internal flywheel gyroscopically
stabilizing the image. "You can't see the serial numbers."
"But it was fun pretending; gimmie back." Mike counted about twenty guards
in all. The prisoners numbered at least a hundred, most working the fields
with hoes and picks. One tractor sat idle underneath a canopy tent beside a
row of stables, its mechanical guts strewn over the ground like so many spare
organs. Two kilometers east of the house was a crater a good fifty meters in
diameter. Big enough to cause a scare, he figured. Some prisoners and guards
were there, sifting through the wreckage.
"What's the matter. Wha'd'ya see?"
Mike handed the glasses back to her, "Take a peek at this."
A smile crossed her lips, a momentary rupture of glee. "He is alive."
"And well, though incarcerated. Typical."
He felt the expected rabbit punch to his kidney as the clapping of copter
blades echoed on the wind.
"Now the question is..."
She lowered the glasses to complete his thought, "How do we get him out?"
The black copter circled around the ranch house slowly, spying the guardtower
and the stables and the tractor under the canopy tent. The morning sunlight
glimmered off its dark surface, its guns gleaming like polished spears.
The old woman glanced out her office window, "What the hell are they doing
back so early?"
The men in the fields stopped their work, and those in the distant crater
climbed out and watched the vessel settle down beside Madre's garden. Bill
picked his teeth with a splinter of hull metal.
"Those the Imps?"
"Come to pay us visits," Sheff's blue eyes gleamed in the sunlight as he
smiled and shoved Bill backward. "Back to work, neghral."
Bill had learned that the last word translated roughly as "alien" in the
planetary lingo, stressing the negative connotations. The Calannans didn't
like offworlders; most dirtsiders didn't.
Two figures emerged from the copter's cockpit, one dressed in a white,
loose fitting wrapper, the other wearing a khaki uniform, sporting a kepi atop
his shiny, bald head. The old woman strolled out to greet them, an air of
confidence and composure close about her.
"Colonel Arman, what a pleasant surprise. And I see you've brought our
guest. Sule, wasn't it?"
"That is correct." The bald headed colonel bowed slightly, his thick
Calannan accent drooling over the Galanglic as he chuckled nervously. The
offworlder stepped in front of him wearing a determined smile, her long white
hair flowing free with the warm breeze like a quagga's mane.
"I am still looking." She seemed to spit the words, harshly.
"Congratulations," the old woman beamed back.
"Madre, please." The colonel mopped beads of perspiration from his crinkled
forehead with a brown cloth. He seemed to her more embarrassed than annoyed as
a sharp gust swiped at the visor of his hat. She ached to pity him.
"Why don't you both come inside. I'll make us some tea. Do you drink tea
Sule?"
Gusts of wind swept up loose dirt, stinging the prisoners in the field.
Bill hustled into the crater for protection, scowling at the suddenly harsh
wind.
The living room was plush by local standards, tiled in white marble with
dark red streaks, elegantly furnished with the forest's finest. A large table
occupied the floor's center, before the hearth. Its stout wooden legs,
smoldered black at their base, were shaped as the paws of a lion. Sparks
danced carelessly along the floor, seeming to conduct the crackling fire as
the old woman poured the hot tea from a white china kettle, her long thin
fingers stiffened with age.
"Me and my boys often break fast here, around this table. Greenleaf tea
for everyone, that's what we have."
The colonel sipped the home brew, his pudgy fingers wrapped around his
small bowl for security. She remembered him as a little boy, always curious
and kind. His curiosity had been long chased away.
"The hospitable reputation of Madre is well deserved," he explained, his
deep voice cutting through the air. "Not only she care for her boys, but she
also take strangers. Is not that right Madre?"
"That all depends on how strange they are. More tea?"
Sule stroked her chin in thought, "Tell her about the tracks." Madre
pondered the richness of her voice, not dark and crusty like the colonel's,
but somehow different.
"Ah yes, the tracks," the colonel tried to search for the words. The
interstellar verse was not easy for him. "We find the tracks of a person near
the farrest gate. Much blood. It end on a small hillock south of here."
So he has a friend. The old woman nodded gently, anticipating his train of
thought, "And you think I opened my house to this individual?"
The colonel smiled, a flush of pink entering his dark brown cheeks. She
glanced toward Sule; the young woman stared solidly back, her bright blue eyes
matching the sky at highsun.
"What did this individual do?"
The colonel's smile broke into a deep resonant laugh, "Then you admit."
Madre shook her head, "Admit? No. I never said that. I'm simply curious."
Sule stood up from her chair and walked toward the old woman, "You do
understand that harboring a criminal is a felony under Imperial statute?" Her
voice was too raspy for a girl, and something about her walk suggested
aggression.
"I understand that you are looking for someone. Has this person committed
some offense?"
Sule's voice hissed and slithered like something diabolical, "You are not
in a position to question me."
"While you are in my house I'll question you whenever I damn well please."
The old woman waited for a retort, for a scowl, a blush, some sign of weakness
or strength. Sule's reply was silent composure. Suddenly she realized what
she'd been thinking all along.
"What are you? You're not a woman..."
Sule smiled at the remark.
"...and you aren't a man either. Are you an android?" Her question touched
a spark.
"Do androids interest you, madre?"
"No, I think they're quite disgusting actually, machines parading around as
people. I say the lot should be rounded up and roasted on the spit, Lucy
style, along with their makers."
Sule perched herself on the table edge, "Isn't it a revolting notion?
Microcircuits for brains, complex algorithms to mimic sentience, to pretend
emotions. An absolutely horrific science."
"You seem at odds with yourself, child."
"I'm not an android any more than you are."
"Then what are you?"
Sule chewed on the query, her eyes darting to the stone hearth and the
dying embers within. She slipped gracefully beside the fire reaching inside to
pick out a glowing red coal.
"I am biological," her words now sarcastically melodious as she returned to
the table, "yet I do not roast so easily. Do you?" Her hand wavered in front
of the old woman's face, her sky blue eyes seeming maliciously playful against
the dimming red of the coal.
"Is that supposed to be some sort of frail threat?"
"Just call it a forecast of your imminent future if you continue to refuse
to cooperate."
"I'm qui..."
"Mother!" Sule's hand closed into a fist around the coal as Sheff crossed
the tiled threshold into the dining room, puffing wearily for breath. Cupped
in his hands he held a blackened, metallic object, about the size of a
grapefruit. Bill was close behind, his frail body seeming less fatigued by the
sprint. His grey eyes glinted with a strange mixture of curiosity and
apprehension.
"Mother, look what I've found!"
"You found?" Bill started, but Sheff hurriedly bowed before the two guests,
ignoring the remark. He proudly displayed his trophy in one hand. The object
was a dodecahedron, somewhat scathed from its fall yet still intact. Engraved
on one triangular face was the distinct picture of a small songbird with its
wings outstretched as if in flight.
"I don't care who found it. Just what is it?"
"It's an alien artifact," he retorted, his free hand sweeping backward into
Bill's face.
"Ah, so it is. My boys never cease to amaze me with their brilliant powers
of deduction. Oh, by the way, this is Sheffy; he likes to be called Sheff. And
this one here is Vilo, but you can call him anything you like, or hate for
that matter, not that it matters, because it doesn't unless you make it."
"Mother?"
"Sheffy, I will not put up with your rude interruptions."
"But the artif..."
"Now that you're here you can make yourself useful. Wash these dishes.
Vilo, show our guests out, they were just leaving."
Colonel Arman stood abruptly from his chair and began to leave, waiving his
apology to the Madre. Bill found himself grabbing Sule's arm without effect.
When he tugged, it was like trying to pull a mountain. She snatched the
dodecahedron from Sheff's hands as he collected the tea bowls, running her
long fingers across the shiny engraving.
"You really have these jerks by their nuggets. Especially grey-eyes. Don't
you know how to treat a lady?"
Bill instinctively pulled his hand away as he heard her voice, its raspy
edge hissing along the hollow between his shoulder blades. It was somehow a
dichotomy between cultured refinement and animal barbarism. The old woman
smiled at his response.
"Don't mind her boy, she's biological."
"That doesn't mean I won't sting." Sule flicked the coal into his face,
leaving a red, burned spot where it nicked his cheek. Bill wanted to shove
her head into the hearth, but thought better of it when he noticed the daring
smile playing across her lips.
"She's tempting you boy, trying to deny the facts of life." Madre walked
toward her, gently guiding Bill aside with her free hand. "Sule, the facts
are that you are being forcibly evicted from the premises; your only choice is
with respect to the method of transport. You can either walk out or be
carried out in pieces. I don't care which."
"I'll go, but I'm taking this." She held the dodecahedron firmly in her
palm, testing its weight.
"The hell you are."
"It's from space, unclaimed. That makes it Imperial property."
"It was found on my land and it's mine."
"And what would you do with it?"
"It doesn't matter if I'd make ducks and drakes of it; I still say it's
mine. Now put it down or I'll have you shot."
Sule smiled, perching the object on three fingers. "So it is yours for now.
Let us see how long you can keep it." She tossed the dodecahedron into the
fire, crushing the burning sticks under its weight. Flames enveloped it as
Sheff ran to the kitchen for water.
"Good day, Madre." Her tall boots clicked on the tile floor as she left,
leaving the stain of their echo on the pungent morning air.
"Vilo, see that they make it to their vehicle."
Sheff scurried back into the dining room with a pail of water which he
threw on the fire. The flames sputtered and drowned instantly. He reached into
the steaming embers and withdrew the dark object.
"Mother, that girl is a bitch with an attitude."
"She's no girl."
He dropped his prize into the bucket with a sound metallic plunk.
"Why'd you let her go?"
"Colonel Arman."
"Arman's no friend of neghrali."
The old woman finished sipping her tea as the sound of chopper blades
clicked off the windows.
"He's a friend of mine."
Sheff sighed, "Mother getting sentimental in her senility?"
"Watch that."
Sheff took the bowl, "I could have softened her up."
"Like you softened up Vilo or whatever his real name is? I don't think so.
I gave him to you for fifty cents. Your methods produced nothing. I talk to
him for fifty claps and he's blabbering so much I need an extra set of ears
just to keep up."
Bill strolled into the room wearing a quizzical smile, "I hope I wasn't
that easy."
"My poor boy, being easy is a blessing on Calanna. Nobody admires people
who are difficult. Now come give your mother a kiss."
Bill leaned over and pecked her on the cheek, "You're a sweet mama."
"I know I am. Now get back to work before I see fit to have you
slaughtered."
"Yes, Madre."
Bill headed outside into the crisp breeze. As he walked toward the crater
he watched the black chopper shrinking slowly over the distant horizon, its
shiny surface reflecting the growing star's light. Within the house, another
pair of eyes followed its descent into the skyline.
"He's trouble, mother."
She frowned at the comment.
"He'll bring the Imps upon us. And for what? His lies?"
"I only hope they are lies..."
Sheff considered her reply with a questioning glance, "What did he tell
you?"
"Enough to keep me entertained."
"He's a neghral, mother."
"Not anymore, Sheff. He's one of my boys now, and I'll not give him away to
the likes of Sule."
Sheff laughed at the statement, anticipating her icy stare without fear.
"And just what's so funny?"
"He's not yours until he's ours."
"Sheffy..."
"I've got to insist, mother. It is tradition after all."
She weighed his demand against the harm it could inflict, and decided the
latter a lighter sum. It was, after all, tradition.
"Tonight, mother."
"So be it."
Madre turned the time-glass over with as much indifference as she could feign,
the steely grains tumbling through its neck like the falling sleet as Bill
watched the eight advance around him with an almost orchestrated precision.
Sheff closed the distance first, grinning wickedly as he leapt forward into an
outstretched leg. Bill slammed the foreman's head into his rising knee, the
squeaky crack of a splintered jaw dividing the cheers into opposing camps.
The feeling of triumph lasted about two seconds as his legs swept suddenly
from the earth, the wet earth rising in a hateful alliance with his enemies.
Bill braced the fall with a forearm and rolled with the momentum, rising to
his feet and, seconds later, ducking a roundhouse as the circle fragmented and
the crowd pressed forward. Instinct tried to take form in his legs, but there
was nowhere to run. On every side, guards held fully automatic rifles, five
facing inward as the rest held the crowd at bay. Bill broke into the rim as
several barrels homed in on his body. The closest guard thrust a stock into
his back, pushing him into the ring as two others forced him to his knees.
He twisted his head sideways, avoiding the brunt of an oncoming boot, and
felt his elbow spike into a sloppily defended neck as his fist punched upward
into another's crotch. The crowd cheered again but was muffled by the noise of
gunfire. Bill spat mud as he rolled back to the rim, desperately trying to
regain some footing in the slippery dirt before the ground came crashing back
upward, spinning as it impacted and smothered.
Bill felt a rib crack from his tackler's blow, breath fleeing his lungs on
its own volition as the man's arms yanked his body upward, the now familiar
earth receding from his legs as he kicked wildly into another. The change in
momentum, forced his companion into a backward fall with a satisfying crunch,
the arms which had lifted him, falling to either side as he rolled from the
circle's center and regained his footing at the opposing side.
"You son of a..."
The haymaker was too obvious to deserve a block. Bill sidestepped the fist,
turning his motion into a backward elbow cut, followed by a second. The farm
boy slumped to the ground as two others approached. The crowd roared, and
someone threw a burning flask of petro into the circle, the glass shards
erupting into an expanding ball of flame. Bill crouched into the sticky dirt
as gunfire filled the air, the crowd falling back as his attackers rolled in
the mud, desperately extinguishing their burning clothes. He didn't realize
the mistake until he was tackled from the side, his already broken rib giving
to another as his face hit a stone.
Bill's nose flattened as Sheff pounded the young gatherer's head a second
time, blood sluicing out the nostrils like a waterfall. Time slowed to a halt
as the crackle of fire and automatic rifles became one; Sheff, trying to say
something out of the corner of his mouth, his upper lip split through the
middle like a pair of outstretched wings, and a carpet of flame spreading
overhead. Sheff seemed to laugh as his skull connected with the ground, wheels
of time resuming their motion as Bill found his arm limply tangled around the
foreman's neck.
The gunfire ceased as the guards fell back into the circle's center, flames
evaporating beneath the foamy spray of chemical extinguishers. Bill felt
himself lifted off the ground and carried to the front of the house, the top
of the timeglass now empty except for the refraction of the dying firelight.
Madre was gone, and her bodyguards with her. Bill scanned the windows and
noticed motion from the balcony as three guards in riot gear, weapons
blasting, forced their passage into the clearing.
"Confukingratulations, Vilo!"
The largest of their number slammed him to the ground with a sturdy
nightstick, belting him over the shoulders until he agreed to remain still.
The second revealed a branding syringe from its cylindrical casing, stabbing
the needle end deep into the small of his left knee. The ensuing howl of
recognition did little to relieve the pain. The guards lifted him to his feet
and turned him back toward the crowd, icy hands hoisting him skyward like some
enfeebled lark as the Madre watched from the safety of her balcony.
"You're one of us, now, Vilo..."
"Hey Madre, he's done!"
She held the tracer in one hand, adjusting its dials with the other and
finally glancing back downward with approval.
"She sees you, man."
They carried him into the stables, each singing with unfounded joy. His
leg throbbed and buckled as they set him down, their bodies rocking with
laughter as he tried to walk.
"Takes time, Vilo."
"Tu saadras... c'mon!"
Bill stumbled forward, forcing himself back to his feet. The knee
threatened to explode as he tested more weight.
"That's it..."
He fell forward again, bracing his fall with outstretched arms.
"What you need... is a good kick in the face." Sheff's words came out
slurred, and Bill heard more laughter as his skull snapped backward with the
force of the blow. A warm, mushy feeling swept over him, holding him down as
he tried to fight for air. The second kick was lower and far more painful.
Voices blurred together in the background as the white ice filled his mind,
numbing his senses as he passed out.
"Hey man, that's cold."
"Payback, Rone. Just payback."
* * *
The cold, black night betrayed the scattered silence of a waiting tempest.
Occasional droplets fell from the heavens, freezing together as solid pebbles
in their descent. The pitter patter of their bodies striking branches and
leaves, mixed with the distant roar of a shallow creek, cascading gently over
smoothed stones and the occasional rustle of a bitter, darktime breeze among
the tall wicks of the lodgepole pines. Ambrose crept quietly through the dense
thicket, his eyes darting back and forth as he moved beside the cabin, the
pungent odor of burning wood chips bringing his body to a crouch and then a
slither. From the corner of his vision he caught the flicker, something ugly
in the playful flame telling him to turn away, but his cabin stood as solid as
he had remembered, and the warmth of its hearth beckoned as the light hail
began to quicken.
"If I knew that, we wouldn't still be here." Mike rubbed the
brittle outgrowth of stubble on his scalp, the metal prongs still
coming as a surprise. Niki pulled her knees against her chest, her
dark eyes still focused on the axe at the hearth.
"I don't like this place, Mike."
"What's so bad about it?"
She shook her head, somehow unable to clarify her feelings.
"You're getting too good at that."
"We don't belong here... and..."
Mike shrugged off the statement, "Of course we don't belong here.
We don't even belong on this planet."
He leaned over her lithe form, closing the window as flakes of hail
bounced off its glass pains. She turned her head away as he paused to
put a hand on her shoulder, the wet hush of confusion and shame
forming within her eyes, refusing almost to acknowledge his presence.
Mike breathed a heavy sigh, "Niki, we're gonna find Bill."
"I know," but her eyes looked away. "It's not that."
"Then what is it?"
Her eyes fell again upon the axe, its dull metal stinging her
psyche like a mega-watt lamp. Mike stepped to the hearth and gathered
the wooden shaft in his hands, weighing it in his mind as a weapon.
Niki said the pain it generated was a beacon to the cabin, but, for
some reason even she could not explain, the pain only grew. It was as
if their arrival sparked its aura, the axe somehow expecting.
Ambrose lifted his boot with a frown as pellets of ice pegged him
in the back of the head. It had taken the better part of an afternoon
to carve the door and set it on its frame. "Oh, what the hell," he
mused with a smile, "doors be fixed."
The wooden portal splintered off its hinges as it fell, the shock
nearly causing Mike to drop the flat of the blade on his foot. An old
man entered the cabin, wild blue eyes bulging from their sockets as he
waved his rifle between Niki and Mike, deciding who to shoot first.
His grizzly beard and shaggy, grey mane dripped water onto a drab
overcoat as droplets of slush fell onto the backs of his boots,
coalescing into a pool at his feet. Suddenly, a smile crossed his face
as his eyes began to settle back in their sockets.
"You gone take a chop at me sonny, or do I have to blow your stupi'
face off?"
Mike dropped the axe to the floor as the gnarled figure trained his
rifle between the gatherer's eyes.
"We mean you no harm," he offered in his best Calannic, which he
knew wasn't anything to brag about. The old man seemed to notice his
trouble and switched to the Galanglic verse.
"You damn right 'bout dat, son. Hell, ya can barely talk straight.
Now slide dat axe over here an have a seat. Psyche... hey psyche for
brains, make me some hot water or I'm gonna blow yer boyfrien' inna
sushi stew."
Mike let the old man cuff his hands as Niki drew the water and set
the kettle over the fire. Ambrose sat down on the bed placing the end
of his barrel against Mike's forehead.
"Heh... heh... sushi stew... yum yum..."
"What do you want from us?"
"Who told ya iz okay ta speak?!" His eyes grew large and wild, the
blue and white seeming to strain apart like the surf and foam of the
sea on Tizar. "Huh... chip-head! Answer me!"
Mike felt the nuzzle of the barrel punch against his forehead.
"We were just staying the night here."
"Staying the night? You say you were staying the night?" His eyes
seemed to soften their glare as the barrel dropped to Mike's chest,
his tongue taking more care to enunciate the interstellar words.
"Hell... you can stay all da nights you want... or days fer that
matter. I put you outside, in my cemetery, like I do all da others and
you can stay long as you like." He nodded his head as if remembering
something he'd forgotten, then turned one eye on the kettle as it
began to steam, the other cocked directly at Mike. "Psyche... what'cha
doin'bout my wata!"
Niki filled the mug and brought it over, a thin steam rising from
the water as she held it before him.
"No woman... not like dat." He opened his drab coat with one hand
and reached into a pocket, struggling against the fabric until he
finally fished out a small leather pouch. "Just a spoon now. Madre's
finest cinnamon," he explained in a whisper as if there were other
people all around. "Nothin' burns the blood warmer dan dat, 'cept if
its got a tad o' spunk for starters. Which it has, o' course." He
fished again and produced a small metal flask. "A wee bit mo dan a
spoon of dis," his other eye winking at Mike as she poured. "Ta steady
ma aim. Can't be making a mess in ma own cabin, now." He drank down
half and offered the rest to Mike. "Consider it in lieu of a las
cigar."
"I don't smoke."
"All da mo reason."
Mike considered the logic for all of two seconds before tilting his
head back and letting the old man pour the last half down his throat.
The liquid would have carried a healthy flavor if not for the heat
scorching his taste buds and flesh of his throat. Mike forced the last
drop down, finally coughing at the end as the man laughed and slapped
his knee.
"Not bad... not bad at all. You would've made a fine fool when I
was a younger."
"It's not to late for that," Niki took the cup back and headed for
the kettle. Mike regarded her comment with as much good humor as he
could muster, a twinkle entering the old man's blue eyes as he watched
her refill the mug.
"Another, or should we get it over wit?"
Mike nodded in favor of the former, hoping to extend his life a few
moments longer. The man smiled, understanding the laconic reply for
all it was worth.
"Ma name's Ambrose."
"Mike."
"Nikita." Niki handed him the mug.
"Well... now dat we know each other's names, les drink."
The night dragged on for many more mug-fulls of Madre's cinnamon
and spunk, a hazy cloud thrashing down on Mike's senses as he lost
count. The man had Niki drink too, and soon began drawing the water
himself as she collapsed on the floor in a giggling fit. Mike didn't
remember when he became aware of the gun sitting in the corner. The
oiled barrel gleamed in the weak, shifting light of the fire's dying
embers.
"C'mon foolson. You an' me play a game. You get to da gun before
me, an' you can kill me." His wild blue eyes seemed to roll clockwise
with the thought. "Ha! I die. Go fer it. You can e'en have da first
step. Two steps. Two steps lead." Something about Ambrose's invitation
told Mike to take the chance, as if the length of his life depended on
some see-saw estimation in the old man's twisted mind. Mike felt his
feet stumble across the slippery floor as he reached the corner, but
the gun was no longer there. The man laughed and aimed the barrel with
one arm, gingerly drinking from his mug with the other. "You lose!"
Mike felt his heart sink as the lonely wail of clouded memories
began coursing into his mind, their withered bodies pushing wildly
through the cold, steel barrel of Ambrose's rifle. For the barest
moment, light burst from its void, outlining a silhouette in crisp
streaks of icy brilliance. In the back of his brain Mike heard the
distant explosion. Gardansa said it was an easy death, more than any
psyche deserved. The old man's eyes sunk backward, the blue like a
crisp winter sky, the white a frosty droplet falling ever faster,
slapping eagerly against the wooden door and then jumping again like a
lazy bird, breaking apart into blood and shattered bone, colliding
with its brethren, falling into puddles, puddles forming rivulets,
coursing together around rocks and mounds in a mad rush for muddy
harmony.
And then only darkness, pitch upon black.
"You gonna shoot me?"
Ambrose blinked, "It's getting to be quite a storm out there.
Proly go to sunrise, at least."
"Yeah."
Mike heard the rattling of sharp, green, dwearmurgrove leaves
against a soft tapestry of color; blues, grays, and amber intermixed
between gentle shades of purple and violet.
"You wanna play again?"
Mike considered what the sun might look like, if morning came.
Maybe, if he won, he would see it, and know.
"Three steps lead... think you can beat me chiphead?"
"I dunno."
"C'mon then an' find out."
Mike waited for Ambrose to replace the rifle in the corner and walk
back to the bed, his tired legs stepping gingerly over the soggy door.
Mike dove forward without warning, scrambling for the gun as Ambrose
climbed over him. They grabbed the gun in unison, a grin of pleasure
coming to Mike's face until he realized he was holding onto the wrong
end. He pulled with all his strength, trying to twist the weapon from
the old man's grip, but Ambrose grabbed the whiskbroom and in a
resourceful moment dusted off Mike's lingering smile.
"Haha! You lose 'gain! Ambro too fast fer the chiphead!"
"I'm not a chiphead."
"Den why're you jacked up, foolson?!"
Mike tried to explain, but his words didn't make much sense even to
his own ears. He finally fell backwards over Niki's sleeping form.
"Hey... chiphead. What're you doin'. Leave 'er lone."
Mike pulled her feet onto the bed, and then let them fall as he
reached for her shoulders, her lithe body seeming unreasonably heavy.
Somewhere in the background he heard the old man laughing. Mike tried
to remember the name as he worked her shoulders up and then moved to
her feet as the young Siri's head plopped again to the floor.
"What're you doin'?"
"Gotta put her... on the bed." Mike moved back to her feet.
"Hey chiphead, don't you got more important things to worry about?"
Mike focused his eyes back on the gun. He struggled to pull Niki by
her legs, finally falling on the bed as a blanket slipped out from
under his knees. Ambrose knelt to the floor, gripping his sides with
glee.
"You could help, y'know."
"Hee hee... Aw, chiphead... you's real funny."
Mike tried to see the humor in the situation. He knelt down to her
arms and tried pulling her up, losing his balance halfway through the
procedure and falling back to the floor. Ambrose set his gun back in
the corner and helped Mike back onto his feet.
"I can't take anymore of this... I'll help but then you gotta play
me again."
Mike shrugged off the old man's arm, "I'm tired of your games."
The task took a good deal of time between the two of them, all the
while Mike feeling the presence of the rifle in the cabin's far
corner. Ambrose sucked in air as he lifted Niki's shoulders and set
them crooked on the torn mattress. By the time he looked back up, Mike
was halfway across the room.
"Why, you..."
Mike heard the footsteps giving chase, a feeling of panic erupting
in his mind as he skidded across the wet, wooden floor falling to his
hands and knees. The gun's barrel seemed to beckon from the corner,
taunting Mike as he crawled desperately toward his target. He finally
reached his goal, raising it in his hands as he turned around to face
Ambrose. The weapon felt heavy and unwieldy, and Mike managed the
barrel into the right direction only after bracing himself into a
sitting position against the corner of the room. Ambrose lay crumpled
over the door he had previously smashed, finally awakening with a
sudden fury.
"You know how long it took you? I was watching!"
"You were out." Mike rubbed beads of perspiration off his palms as
he searched for the trigger.
"Ha! I was pretending. You was slow, chiphead."
"Am not."
"Are too!"
"Am not."
"Are not!"
"Am too."
"Hahahahahaha," Ambrose fell to the floor again, his crackly voice
exploding with laughter until he gasped for breath. Mike tried to
figure out why as he placed his finger inside the trigger guard.
"You forgettin' the safety?"
"Oh yeah." Mike found the safety and clicked it off. With a smile
and a rush of adrenalin he aimed the rifle at Ambrose.
"Go ahead chiphead. Kill me. It's what you wanted to do from the
moment I came in here."
Mike steadied his aim as Ambrose's image weaved from side to side.
"You gutless sushi pie! Hahahah! What are you waiting fer?! You
want me to come over there and pull the trigger fer you?" He stood and
began approaching, his mouth forming into a wide, toothy grin.
"Stay away. I don't wanna shoot you."
"Bull!"
"We were just looking for a friend. He's lost." Mike felt his lungs
gasp for air as Ambrose approached within two meters, the toothy grin
turning wicked.
"You from off world, ain't cha?!"
"Yeah."
"You're an alien! Ya wanna see my leader?!" Ambrose grabbed his
crotch. "Here he is, chiphead!"
Mike lowered the barrel until it rested against the crotch of the
old man's pants. His bright, blue eyes seemed to enlarge in rage as
Mike pressed the barrel deeper.
"I mean it, Ambrose. Either you leave us alone, or your leader
bites the bullet."
"Pull it, you sticking, loser, good fer nothin' chiphead!"
Mike waited until the insults subsided before he pulled the
trigger, a hollow click being the only result.
"Hahahahah..." Ambrose yanked the barrel from Mike's hands and
clubbed him over the shoulder. "You fergit to load something,
chiphead?!"
Mike fell to the ground before the blow registered in his mind, and
even then, what should have been a sharp pain was only a dull throb.
He rubbed his shoulder in mild irritation as Ambrose made a long show
out of loading his gun. When he finally finished, he made Mike drink
two more mugs of "madre's tea."
"You a good younger, chiphead. Someday, you'll be a good oldster
like me."
Mike took it as a reprieve.
"You know how old I am? I'm an octogenarian, and I still kick
yours!" Ambrose laughed at the word, and Mike tried to imagine him as
an octopus back on Tizar, his long tentacles tossing rifles, tea mugs,
and whiskbrooms skyward in an elated dance, the items tumbling like
snowflakes caught in a blizzard, only to descend with the distant roar
of thunder, the blinding light beyond descending as bolts of fire,
igniting the earth in inferno.
"Rise an' shine, Vilo..."
Bill awoke to the gentle nudge, grey eyes opening only as the pain
in his ribs startled his senses. A wide shouldered man knelt beside
him, his dark face familiar in the glimmering rays of morning light
which seeped sluggishly through the barrack entrance. Bill remembered
the tackle and subsequent punch to his side, the splintering feeling
he chose to ignore. A white bandage covered his ribs.
"Madre tells me you'll be breaking fast at her table. My name's
Rone."
He extended a thick, gnarled hand, his thumb only a stump. Bill
let himself be yanked up, the man's remaining fingers surprisingly
strong.
"You hit me with that?"
Rone nodded with a wry smile, "Madre's rules. You break it, you
gotta fix it. I don't know much 'bout healing ribs though."
The tired workers cast long, lazy shadows across the wet, open
field, a purple sky fading to blue as the rising sun peeked over a
distant horizon. A scorched patch of earth was the only reminder of
the recent night's tumble, even the stench of black faded to grey with
the early morning rains. The house seemed warm and homey in
comparison, warm cafe brewing over an open fire, while long, thin
strips of quagga flesh sputtered on the grill. In a large pot, a
compote mixture of honey syrup and various fruit stewed over a gas
flame. Sheff held a spatula in one hand and a mug of steaming, yellow
liquid in the other, a grim acknowledgement passing his eyes as Bill
entered the kitchen.
"Tea, Vilo?" He motioned to the counter. A tall pot stood beside
several half-filled bottles, their labels faded and wrinkled. Bill
tried to decipher some of the writing, but met with little success,
finally reconciling himself to pouring a mug and handing the container
to Rone.
Several of the men had already seated themselves at the round,
wooden table, a large seat at the far end remaining empty, as if
awaiting some important dignitary. With an almost disciplined
uniformity, Bill felt his conspicuous presence carefully ignored.
Familiar eyes seemed to avert from their sockets, dry mouths casually
striking conversation in a foreign tongue, the dull resonance of their
words falling deftly, like snowflakes upon a sodden crater.
The black dodecahedron occupied the table's center, a gaudy
ornament, seeming more a warning than a trophy. Bill felt his attention
involuntarily drawn by the smooth exterior, the shallow etching of a
bird trying to fly as stormy, grey eyes flickered with amusement.
"Then you know."
The brittle rasp of her voice snapped his concentration, its harsh
tone like a sharp sliver of ice cutting the cords of his throat.
Crystal blue eyes betrayed a curious mixture of amusement and disgust
as a fine, silver-white mane shifted with the turn of her head.
"Vilo, I believe you've met Sule."
Bill stared at the offered hand, sharpened nails perfectly
transparent, save for their thin, black outline. Madre seated herself
at the far chair, seeming to enjoy the moment.
"Now show our guest a tad of courtesy. You'll have to forgive him
Sule; he's forgotten his gatherer manners."
Bill looked up, startled at the comment.
"Yes, Vilo... Sule's told us a considerable deal about you and your
friends. Not that any of it particularly matters at this point,
anyhow."
"Unless you make it," Bill felt a twinge of regret at his words, as
though they closed a doorway he'd rather remained open.
"We've tried son, now have a seat, before the fast breaks without
you."
Bill chose a place at the table as Sule stood beside the window,
watching the distant tree line.
"Will you not eat with us, Sule?"
"I'd rather not."
"Suit yourself." Madre dished out a portion of the compote and sent
the rest around the table.
"I think you'll like this Vilo. Do they serve Calannic dishes back
on Tizar?"
"What else did she tell you?"
"That you're name is William... Willian Walker. I like a boy with
W's in his name, but William is just so... I don't know. It sounds so
stiff."
"My friends called me Bill."
"Now Bill is better, but Vilo takes the icing on the cake as far as
I'm concerned. You don't mind it, do you? You mustn't, after all. It's
the name you wore in the door. I'd much rather consider it a
transliteration than a flat out lie."
Bill decided he preferred food to conversation, downing his bowl
and filling a second, before looking back across the table. His ears
had filtered out the clutter of their alien language, separate
discussions merging together as one and then suddenly falling away.
Madre seemed to share Sule's fascination with the treeline, letting
her eyes wander to the window as she ate.
"I haven't told you any lies... yet."
She glanced back toward him, his words scarcely noticed.
Except by Sule, "What makes you so sure you're going to get
another opportunity?"
Bill turned toward the window. Her eyes seemed to flicker with a
quiet sort of laughter, almost mocking in their intensity.
"He's not for sale, Sule."
"I'll throw in an extra million drin."
Madre set her spoon down to the table, wiping her lips with a cloth
as if considering the offer.
"He's one of my own now; well, since last night, actually. You
missed quite an initiation. The point being that he's recognized and
can't be sold like some... some hunk of cermic." She motioned toward
the table ornament.
Sule regarded the statement with a mixture of confusion and
resentment, finally turning back toward the window with a sudden
movement in the treeline.
"I'm sure we can settle the matter at a more convenient hour. It
seems that your men have returned."
Madre and Sule waited at the porch as the scout team trudged
through the thick, shallow mud. An old man took the forward position,
leading the others along the gate's outer edge, through the barbed
aisle, and into the inner circlet. The rest of the team broke off from
him as he approached the house itself, moving toward the barracks as
he waived them away. He finally pulled the hood away from his taunt,
weathered face as he ascended the porch steps, letting it settle
against the grey shoulders of his coat. His blue eyes seemed to
sparkle with a weary brand of playfulness as he focused on the Madre,
the drab browns and grays of the landspace serving a subtle contrast.
"Sule, this is Ambrose. Ambrose, Sule."
"You the imp."
"That's correct."
"Ha! You been makin' bed too, Madre?"
"And what's that supposed to mean?"
"Heh... you should have to ask... Hey! Be that my food I'm
smellin'?"
He stepped toward the door, halting only as she grabbed his
shoulder.
"Long time, Madre. I understand."
"Wipe your soles, Ambrose," she scolded.
He shot her a toothy grin as he kicked the mud off his boots.
"Not a way to welcome yer old man..."
"I keep my hospitality for those who earn it."
His thin, grey lips curled blue against the cold, a lethargic snarl
escaping his throat as he pointed a long, bony finger in her general
direction.
"What in heck's you think I've been doin' woman? Polishin' my
one-eye?!"
"In your case, I wouldn't be surprised."
Their voices slipped into the domestic tongue as they mutually spat
a clamor of open insults, Sheff's eyes widening and his sewn lip
stretching into an unabashed grin.
Rone stifled a chuckle as he leaned toward Bill, "Man and wife will
be man and wife."
"Serious?"
"No more so than any other marital ritual. She's mad at him cause
he went and left her all alone. He's mad at her cause she threw him
out the door... and then some."
"How often this happens?"
"Oh... once every other season... maybe give two or three. Except
for this mornin', before you woke, it was near to a full cycle since
I'd seen the man. You think this is bad, you should be here when they
break up."
Rone turned his head toward the door as the trio ushered themselves
inside, Sule skirting along their fringes like an eccentric comet
revolving about a closely paired binary. She maintained a blank
expression, as though waiting for the commotion to subside. When it
didn't, she merely stood there, her impatience become increasingly
apparent.
"Does ignoring 'em make 'em go away?"
Bill winced as several of the others laughed at his question, their
amusement catching the old man's attention. His bulbarous blue eyes
bulged out like two rotten lemons wildly seeking the perpetrator of
the query.
"Who be the negrali younger?"
Bill felt numerous pairs of eyes fix on his general location.
"Hmmm... you be a popular boy, Billy."
"You know my name?"
"I just got done blowing holes in yer friends!" He laughed wildly
at the memory, yanking his grey coat open with one hand and pulling a
short stocked automatic out with the other. "Boom boom! Sushi stew!
Hah!"
"Ambrose... how could you?"
"Woman, I did it! That's how! Now where's a bowl? Killing makes me
hungry."
Bill felt his legs kick over Rone's chair as he dove toward the old
man, his arms outstretched, fighting desperately to be relieved of
their sockets. The barrel smacked him against the side of the skull as
he fell, Rone tackling him from behind and ramming a now familiar,
mutilated fist into his already broken ribs. The sensation of pain was
more numbing than he recalled, suffocating as it fell. He gasped for
air, but his lungs felt clogged and heavy, and he choked out the salty
taste which swept through his windpipe.
The old man spat something in the guttural tongue, the force of his
words relieving the pressure on Bill's back. The sharp jab of cold
steel replaced the smothering pain, and a safety pin clicked amidst
the clutter of alien voices, quietly hushing the static.
"No Ambrose. Not in my house."
"Your house? Woman, you got quagga eggs fer brains!"
"Amb..."
"My offer stands." Sule's harsh voice cut through the impending
squabble, shattering the old man's attention.
"We'll be seein' to you later, ya scrawgy imp!"
"Eleven million drin. Interested?"
"What?!?"
"For him and the black hunk of cermic... center table."
Bill felt Rone lift him off the floor as Ambrose gathered the
dodecahedron into his free hand.
"Heh. Birdy."
"A robin to be more precise."
"I knew dat!" Ambrose leveled the barrel toward her stomach.
"Do we have a deal?"
"Sure... eleven em-drin fer Ambro... a robin and a dead younger for
the ugly thing."
"Live younger..."
"No deal."
Bill felt Rone cuff his wrists, holding them back and up so he
couldn't jerk free. Sule's stare betrayed nothing other than apathy,
both for the gun and the man who wielded it.
"Name your price."
Ambrose smiled his greedy grin, setting the butt of his barrel
against Bill's ear.
"Is only one more body for ma cemetery, which is overfull already
so I won't be askin' too much. Fifty em-drin, you want him alive."
"You must be out of your mind."
His eyes bulged outward, blues and whites confirming her
observation.
"Don't make me any madder dan I already am. I will blow his fool
head off."
Her face remained unchanged, but her eyes seemed to glitter over
with laughter. "Then fifty it is."
"What? You accept?" Settling blue eyes stared at her in disbelief.
"As if I had another choice." She gathered the dodecahedron from
the old man's free hand and gently nudged his other aside as she
gripped Bill's cuffed wrists and wrenched them upward as far as they'd
reach without dislocating his shoulders.
"I'll transfer the money into your wife's account."
"Before you go."
"Colonel Arman will be arriving shortly. If you don't trust me,
then trust him."
"I trust him all right... just as far as I can kick his blubbery,
snot-nosed..."
"Ambrose!"
The salt water used to sting her eyes, something about the sea repelling her
even as she used to spend the night along the water's edge. As then, she sat
beside him, smoothing the wavy curls of hair as he slept. Their journey to
Calanna had been without incident. The Galactican was welcome, or so he'd
thought. But something in her eyes told him otherwise, though she'd follow
him all the way to her execution. Both knowledge and the sea were like that
with her, something that could hurt you but was too big to change. "Playing
with fate is a fool's work." It was as if she had foreseen her own, but
resigned herself without telling anyone. Not even him.
The bullet pierced the tree's lower limb, scattering leaves and berries
across the grassy bed below. Mike and Niki awoke with a startle, rolling away
from the sturdy trunk as Ambrose giggled with delight, his soggy boots kicking
leaves and dirt into their faces.
"Ha! You youngers sure is funny."
He leaned against the trunk, peering up between the leaves at the crisp,
blue sky. In his free arm, he carried a large, brown blanket. On his belt, the
wood handled axe hung with a small spark lighter. A thin metal disk nestled
against his shin, strapped there by a tight elastic cord.
"Rise an' shine, sushi-stains... ol' uncle Ambro bring happy tidings fer a
happy morn."
Mike crawled to his knees, shaking away the fading memories of his dream.
"Surprised to be alive?"
Mike looked at Niki and then back at Ambrose and finally nodded, "a
little."
"So you should be. I normally kill chipheads just fer bein' chipheads.
Nothin' personal about it. But then, you being so recently shaved and all, I
figured you must be real cute with a full head o' hair. You are, aren't you?"
Mike looked back at Niki. She shot him a worried smile, something she'd
saved up for a rainy day, he figured. Sunshine spilled over the dew laden
grass, the nearby sound of rushing water distracting his senses. He tried to
remember when he'd seen Calanna so beautiful.
"Hey, you still in lala-land?"
"Where are we?" Mike stood up and glanced over several rocks beside the
stream. The gravchute lay against the nearest boulder.
"Well, considerin' everything dere is to consider, I'd say we're at a tea
drinkers crash-haven. Not that it matters much. All I know is dat your
fandangle o'er dere seemed to suggest it was a nice enough place to stop last
night. Me? I don' care much either way."
A cool, morning breeze gathered Niki to her feet, her usually carefree eyes
still sharp and bitter, despite the drug's aftertaste.
"My stuff."
"Gone." Ambrose announced the word as a matter of fact, as though any more
thoughts or emotions on the topic would be wasted. "All I have fer you is
right here." He set down the blanket, knife, spark lighter, and rifle. "Oh
yeah, an' dis. Heh, almost fergited." He handed her a small slip of paper.
She read it momentarily and glanced back up.
"I don't get it."
"What's there not to get?"
"This is a check, made payable to Mike for fifty million drin."
"Dat's true as my big blue eyes, which nobody fails to notice, Mister
Harrison."
Mike looked up, realization slowly dawning.
"How'd you know my name?"
"I read the papers too, y'know. No sense learnin' Galanglic unless yer
gonna. I liked dat piece on Telmar. Very nicely done, and correct to boot.
Civil war and all dat. Makes me almost glad to be here instead. I would o'
recognized you right off da bat too, if it wasn't fer yer clever disguise."
Mike felt the thick stubble on his head, the metal jacks protruding from
their dense growth.
"Makes you look like a genuine chiphead. I was goin' to blow yer head off,
but when you said yer first name, something just clicked in dat old skull o'
mine. Not dat I was absolutely sure, y'know. But it did fit, you losin' a
friend and all. I understand dat's fairly common."
Mike felt his skin grow cold as he pocketed the check.
"The only thang I didn't understand, which I'm only beginnin' to, is why
yer e'en here. Madre said it was cause the imps nabbed one o' yer friends. I
figed dat couldn't be the whole story. Seeing how if it was, you'd be chasin'
after all sorts of people everywhere."
"Right now I'm lookin' for another friend."
"Huh? Oh, silly me. Talkin' too much and fergitin' why I'm e'en here." He
reached to his shin, unstrapping a metal disk. "Go ahead, open it."
Mike opened the catch and peered at the dark surface beneath. Several
rings were inscribed within the crystal display, and an shiny green dot
blinked steadily at the outer circlet, hovering off the display as the rings
closed inward, pulling it backward with their retreat.
"It's a tracer. That dot is yer friend."
Mike looked up, unsure as to whether he could believe the old man.
"I know this comes as somethin' sudden, but there was no way we could just
let him go. That would be aidin' a criminal. Arman's too familiar with our
operation. He knows people don't just escape. It was either give him away once
the paperwork got done or sell him off to the imps."
"Imperials?!"
"They'd have gotten him sooner or later. But time is money, if you know
what I mean."
Mike nodded, "And people are profits."
Ambrose snorted at the remark. "All depends who's buying."
"At the rate this blip is moving, we're gonna need transportation."
"Dat's what the money's fer. I've gotta friend, Cole, say 'bout twenty-five
an' some odd kilometers downstream. Say Ambrose send ya an' dat yer a payin'
customer an' dat ya wanna go straight to Xin. Ya go to Aelflan an' yer a dead
man, hear me? By da time yer in city limits, yer have yer friend back in
focus. An' with any luck, da imps'll keep dere songbirds in one choir, if ya
follow me at all."
Mike picked up the gun, checking the magazine for bullets.
"Cole's gonna have more o' dat too."
"I'm not sure how we can thank you."
"Ha! Don't git mushy now. Blow away a few imps'll be thanks enough fer me.
But now dat you mention it, dere is one thing..."
"Anything."
"Well, I hope it ain't too much, but ya think ya could mention me in da
story?"
Mike grinned at the request as he nodded his acquiescence and tried to
imagine what Chuck would think.
______________________________________________________________________________
Jim's a grad-student at UC Riverside, hoping and praying like crazy that he'll
get his MBA before the dean's axe gets him first. In between classes and term
papers, he can be found editing `The Guildsman', the raunchiest gaming zine
ever to be published. `The Harrison Chapters' were originally written as a
setting description for his Traveller (SF-RPG) campaign. His story, he says,
is what you get when you combine an overactive imagination with the foolish
tendency to wing it. He says he writes exactly the same way he gamemasters:
without any semblance of plan or preconception.
What has been published here as Chapter Five is actually chapters eight and
nine as written originally by Jim. `The Harrison Chapters' will be continued
next issue.
[email protected]
______________________________________________________________________________
______________________________________________________________________________
The Battle for Ayers Rock
by Robert Fur
Copyright © 1991
______________________________________________________________________________
From: U.N.S.S. ORLANDO, Captain Pappas commanding
To: Current U.N.C.O. administrators
Sirs,
By the time you read this, I will have been dead for fifty years.
Perhaps I should have put that first sentence another way.
As soon as I finish this message, I will take the Captain's skiff and enter
the atmosphere without power. By doing this, I hope that I will die. If, by
some miracle, I survive, it shall not be for long.
The planet you sent us to will kill me, and, even though this has the outward
appearance of a suicide, I will believe to the end that it is not.
It is murder.
You killed us.
This planet you sent us to will kill us all, in time. I believe that this will
be yet another colony whose name will be engraved in stone on a monument in
Berne, one line of barren inscription to mark the passing, fifty years ago, of
twenty thousand men and women.
If you have any questions as to why I say this, I suggest you look at the
information that accompanies this message. Human life cannot survive on a
planet where the deserts are larger than the oceans, where the icecaps are
larger than the deserts, and the food algae won't grow. We will die of
thirst, and if we don't die of thirst, we will die of cold, and if not cold,
starvation, and if, through some wild chance, or through intercession by a
sadistic God, we do not starve to death, we will surely die when the
technology taken from the Orlando wears out.
In agreeing to captain the Orlando, I took responsibility for the twenty
thousand people on board. I still have that responsibility, but I haven't the
power to help them.
It was my responsibility. I abdicate it. I now lay the blame at your door, and
I hope that at least one of the men who sent us here is still alive to hear
what his decision did to us.
I am going now, to die on the planet below. I always wanted to be buried at my
home in Greece, but if I cannot have that, then I will at least die in a place
with the right name. I will still die on Thessaly.
Captain N. J. Pappas
1/67 Thessaly Standard Date
The first thing I heard when I woke up that morning was an explosion. So was
the second, and the third. Dull, flat explosions, their sounds muffled by the
dust and distance around the Rock. I couldn't see anything, but since I was
still in my duster's tent, that made a lot of sense. You can't see much when
you're in a little canvas tube that you covered with dust the night before.
So, I crawled out of my tent, and kicked it until it collapsed. I'd set it up
again at night, but I couldn't leave it up because of the dayhiders. The
dayhiders around the Rock are bigger, meaner, and more poisonous than the ones
that wander into houses near Celton. Their front four legs have stingers, not
just the front two, and they don't run away from humans. They fight back if
the human wants his tent back, and nine times out of ten, the human doesn't
win.
I hate dayhiders.
Anyway, I picked up my issues, and shook them to get rid of all the little
nasties that crawl in clothes at night. No nasties fell out, so I pulled them
on. If no bug wanted to sleep in my issues, that was fine with me. My climbing
rig was just a cow leather vest with about twenty pounds of climbing spikes
hung on it, so I didn't need to shake it too hard. I slung that over my
shoulder, and went to eat.
The explosions continued, but I knew that sound...those were Celton
ballista rounds, little rockets with compressed fireweed oil in their tips.
The ballistas fire them twenty at a time, and they make big, hollow explosions
when they hit.
The chow line was behind the bombshield, the big net hung between the Rock
and the main camp, and I walked around it, looking around for anyone else that
I might want to eat with. That is, anybody who might have some news about what
was going on, and why we were here, and all that. But nobody but the usual
boring crew was in the mess pit, so I grabbed a loaf of peelbread and a bottle
of water, and sat down (I really wanted a beef sandwich, but beef was too
expensive to give to people in Service.) I still ate better then than I ever
had at home, but the time the Servicegroup had been in Celton had given me
some expensive tastes. Like cow beef. Cows didn't live anywhere except right
along the Sea. There was land near the Ocean where people thought they could
live, but nobody had ever managed to get a cow across the Dust. And so, there
were maybe ten thousand cows on Thessaly, along with maybe another ten
thousand sheep, and I don't know how many tens of thousands of camels, and I
can't eat camel beef. So, most of my pay that doesn't go home goes to monthly
trips to the beef house, when I'm in Celton (when I'm in the field, it all
goes home.)
After I finished the dry peelbread, I stood up and wandered over to where
the captain was. I wouldn't have done it in town, but in the Dust things get a
little less formal. And, besides, my watch wasn't for another four hours. I
looked at the captain, a tall, fat man with the sort of build that makes you
think that there's a skinny man inside trying to get out. His issues' sleeves
were pushed back, and he was staring at the base of the Rock. I sat down and
looked where he was looking.
The ballistamen were pinned down right at the base of the Rock, and they
couldn't get their gear set up, much less do any good up there. The
Landingers were dug in far enough back that the ballistas couldn't get a good
angle, and they were tossing boomite bottles over the lip every time the
explosions stopped.
Which meant one thing.
I knew what it meant, so I sat there looking like I didn't know what it
meant, in the hopes that the captain wouldn't notice that I knew. Right.
Whatever I say.
"Macklamore, get your scrawny duster butt up that rock. Now." The captain
was a career Serviceman, muscles gone almost to fat, sloppy in a dirty gray
shipsuit, but that didn't make him blind.
There I was, sitting down right next to the captain, on a pile of rope,
making little jingling noises with my climbing spikes every time I breathed,
and I was hoping he wouldn't remember the fact that I was the only duster in
the watch who knew how to climb Ayers Rock.
Like I said before: Right. Whatever.
I stood up. The captain looked at me, looked up the sheer sides of the
Rock, and turned his attention back to getting the ballistamen out of danger.
He knew that if I didn't go up the Rock, he'd shoot me himself. And since he
knew that I knew that, he didn't have to watch me.
The captain is smarter than he looks.
Anyway, I started picking up the ropes and the chunkers and the sliders,
and tried to spot a way up the Rock that the Landingers weren't covering.
That's not true.
I stood there and looked at the Rock.
The Rock is funny, there's nothing like it for klicks and klicks to either
side on the coastline, and there's a wide plain behind it full of morons and
not much else inland, but there it sits. Six hundred meters tall. Six hundred
meters wide, too, which makes it look like half of a pair of craps from the
right angle. The damn thing is flat on top, with a little pit perfect to
store food in, and it's got total arty coverage of the entire western march
down to Port Landing, if you can get a catapult up there. Best damn layout on
Thessaly, and the Landingers got to it first. And since the western march is
five days shorter than the east march, we've got to go to town this way.
But we can't without taking out the Landingers on Ayers Rock.
I grew up on a little island near here, so I'm not a duster by birth, but
since earth fish don't hang out near the old homestead, my family had to come
in past the Rock about every month to hunt, if we wanted to eat. If we wanted
good food, we had to climb the Rock, to get at the earthbirds that nested on
top. After Jerm took the dive off of it, I had to climb the Rock for the
family. (Jerm was my brother.) I hadn't been back since I'd joined the
Service.
Which makes these homecoming memories kind of out of place.
The Landingers were dropping their bombs with the fuses cut to go at like
ten meters off the ground, and since they were wrapping the bombs in glass, it
was really ripping into the ballistamen. They couldn't retreat, they couldn't
go forward carrying their tubes.
Fine. Fine and dandy. I had to figure out a way to climb the damn Rock
without getting my ass nailed in the first fifteen meters.
There was the old creek bed on the inland side of the Rock, that got you
pretty close to the base...but the Landingers weren't stupid. They had to
have someone watching it.
Didn't they?
I couldn't figure out anything better to try. Might as well give that a go.
If I bit dust, then I bit dust. So what. I picked up the last of my ropes,
grabbed my autoslot,and trotted off around the Rock.
I stopped off at the ammo dump. Grench was there, sitting on top of a pile
of slotter ammo crates and whittling away at a bolt for a roper. He looked
just like he always did, sleeveless Service shirt, dull gray after a week in
the Dust, wide ripper-leather belt with more knives and ammo slung than I
usually carry into a slotfest, and looking half-asleep. I knew it was all a
cover. He liked being the quartermaster, so he never looked like he gave a
damn about it. If they knew he liked it there, they'd move him out, because
anyone who likes being quartermaster is probably selling half of his inventory
to the highest bidder. So, they left him there. Smarter than he looks, our
Grench.
"Grench!" I said. "The captain says I gotta go talk with the Landites
upstairs. Can I snag a rack of ballista?"
"All the ballista ammo is over with the tubes." Grench said, never even
looking at me. Right next to the pile he was sitting on was a siege roper, the
big sort they use to put a fireweed net over a wall. Nine tubes were full.
The one left was primed, without a bolt, and it was aimed at the top of the
Rock. I looked at Grench a little more closely. He was staring at the top of
the Rock, too.
"Grench, you can't torch the Rock!"
"Why not?"
"You'll fry the ballistamen!"
"Only if they're alive to fry. If they're dead, I don't need to worry."
Grench wasn't much for honoring the dead. And Grench didn't like Port Landing
much. And Grench really didn't like Landingers. I don't know why. Grench won't
tell, either.
"Okay, whatever. You don't have any ballista racks?"
"Nope." Grench was in his 'I don't want to talk' mood. "Fine. Got anything
else explosive I could take?"
"Um." He looked around, and pointed at a large box over to the side. "You
can take those."
"What are they?" I'd never seen that box open.
"Ship rounds."
"Ship rounds. Great. Fine." Ship rounds weigh ten kilos apiece, and they go
off on impact, scattering burning fireweed everywhere. No fuses. Built to make
life on a ship impossible. Normally, they're fired from a ship's main cannon,
so nine times out of ten the person popping one off won't see the explosion.
So the armsmen make them as big as they want to...one is supposed to be enough
to cover an entire ship. I didn't want to think how far I could throw one, but
I didn't want to bet I could throw one far enough. Even if I had to use them,
I probably wouldn't survive it, but they were better than nothing. I broke
open the box, and stared at the big, glass-slick cylinders that I was going to
have to climb six hundred meters with. One slip, and either I went boom or
half the Celton force did.
I took two.
They fit in the canteen pockets on the back of my issue vest, but the flaps
wouldn't button. Which wasn't a problem. If I was upside down, I was screwed
up a moron's ass anyway, and I didn't figure on drinking much on the way up.
The last thing I did before hauling dust over to the creekbed was to look
at where the ballistamen were down. The bombing had stopped, and the surviving
ballistamen were cruising out of there like a banshee on homebrew. They'd left
their tubes behind. I saw them running, about a half a klick or so away from
where I was, they were almost to the bombshield. And then I saw a huge package
tumble down the side of the Rock.
So did everyone else. As that thing bounced its way down to the ground,
everyone dropped to the ground, or ran, or anything, away from anything that
might explode.
They knew as well as I did that something that big had to be a fireweed
bomb, and one that size could cover the whole encampment in fire. Those people
who were behind the bombshield would be all right, but I wasn't going to put
bets on anyone else's survival. Except mine. I was out of range. I had to be.
I ducked behind a boulder anyway.
Then the explosion came.
I didn't feel anything hot anywhere near me, so I stood up.
None of the fireweed had landed anywhere near the bombshield, not much had
landed on the slotter's line, and a whole big slab had landed on the ammo
dump, and was burning merrily away. The whole face of the Rock was on fire,
pretty much, and nobody was going to be getting anywhere near the tubes for a
while.
The ammo dump. Grench.
I ran a little ways back, but then I saw what had to be him, standing and
watching the Rock, about thirty meters away from the dump. He wasn't running,
so I knew that he hadn't loaded the charges into his roper, just the fireweed.
Which meant that the ammo dump was gone. There's enough fireweed in a
ten-barrel siege roper to keep it burning for days. If he'd loaded the
charges, the charges would have cooked off and the fireweed would have gone
everywhere, but it would have been scattered, and we might have been able to
save some ammo.
No ammo meant that we were damned screwed. Each Serviceman had sixty
slotter rounds, maybe ten bolts, and a grenade. That's all we had for the next
three days. We were screwed.
I turned back to the Rock.
We were screwed, unless I could climb the fucking Rock and dust the
Landites. Nobody else we had on hand was a rock climber, much less a Rock
climber. I couldn't take anyone with me, without both of us getting killed by
me trying to shoot and shepherd a newby climber at the same time. If I did it
right, we could take the top of the Rock and hold it until the rest of the
troop came. If I didn't, they could hold it until their relief got here.
I hate responsibility.
The creekbed was in sight, so I dropped and rolled in the dust, all over. I
rubbed dust in my hair, over my ropes, my face. I spat and rubbed dust and
spit on the metal gear. Then I ran like brickfield and jumped into the creek.
Then I waited.
Nobody dropped a bomb on me, so I figured I hadn't been seen.
The creekbed was about two meters deep, mostly, maybe less, and dry as the
Duster. Been a dry summer around here, I guessed. My folks were probably
starving back home, they couldn't get a crop in, and now we were over here
playing Serviceman on their hunting grounds.
I ran towards the rock, keeping low. As I got nearer, I dropped further and
further, until I was crawling at the very end.
Looking up, I swung out of the creekbed, and ran right towards a little
indentation in the Rock face. I looked up again. No Landinger faces looked
back.
Originally, when I started writing this, I was going to tell everything,
but now that I think about it, I'm going to skip over the climb. I can't
really explain how I climb, or what happens during a climb. There's no space
left in my head for memory, or thought, or anything. The world narrows down to
me and the next handhold. Nothing else.
Nobody dropped anything on me, nobody shot at me. I made it to the top all
right. I heard explosions on the other side of the Rock, but none near me.
Anything else...well, the Rock is still there, and I've told you enough so you
could probably find where I started. Go climb it yourself. If you want real
fun, do it when someone's dropping a few hundred kilos of boomite near you.
At any rate, I pulled myself over the top, and looked around. It's a great
feeling, unlike anything else on Thessaly, to actually stand on top of The
Rock.
But I don't recommend it while there's a war on.
The top of the Rock looked just like it had last time I'd been there. Same
birds, same rocks, same everything, except for a little tent, and three
hungry-looking men watching me, two with slotters, one with his hands still on
the crate that he had just emptied down onto the Celton force.
"Hi." I said, and dropped my slotter.
"You're a Celton." one of the ones with slotters said. This one had more of
a uniform than the other two. His still had the sleeves. And if the Landingers
used the same system we do, he was a sergeant. He looked like one, I guess.
Older, balding, a little more heavy set than the other two.
"Right." I said.
"You came to kill us." said the one with the crate. He was young, maybe
sixteen, and gaunt.
"Right again." I put my hands behind my head.
"With that?" the sergeant said, pointing at my slotter on the ground.
"Nope," I said, moving my hands just a little.
"Then how?" said the sergeant.
"With this." I said, and pulled one of the ship rounds up and over my head,
and I'm sure I sprained my wrist doing it. I pulled the arming key. "You shoot
me, this drops, and the entire top of the Rock goes bye-bye. "That won't do
it." the sergeant said, not moving his slotter an inch from its aim right at
my forehead.
"No, but the second one on my back, and the ballista rounds I've got in my
pockets, will." I figured a little extra threat would help, even if I had to
make it up. Actually, even with the second one, the blast wouldn't be that
big. Big, yes, but if they managed to find cover, and there was a lot of it
around, they could survive. But I hoped they were a little out of it. They
looked hungry, and desperate, and if I offered a way for them to get out of
this alive, maybe they'd take it.
"Josephi, Saunders, go stand over there. Behind those rocks." said the
sergeant, and the other two went. Out of range. Damn. "Look," he continued,
to me this time, "We can't let you move us. Now either you disarm that round
or you and I go over the cliff together." He looked like he meant it, too. The
factual type. I sighed.
"All right," I said and pushed the arming key back in. I hoped it clicked.
"Sit down," he said, pointing with his slotter.
I sat.
"Now, we talk."
"Why?"
"Because I want to. Because I want to ask a real-live Celton a few
questions. Because I want..."
"I'm not a Celton." I interrupted.
"What?" he looked confused.
"I'm not a Celton." I repeated.
"You're wearing Celton gear."
"So I work for them."
"That's a good enough reason to kill you."
"Fine. Go ahead, kill me."
He stopped, looked confused some more, opened his mouth, and then closed it
again. He closed his eyes, and breathed in. Then he opened them again and said
"What are you, if you're not a Celton?"
"I'm from a little town on the Styx, upriver from Detroit, but my family
made a port on a little island about thirty klicks that way when I was
little." I pointed out to sea.
"Then why'd you enlist?" he asked.
"Enlist?"
"You know, join up."
"Oh...Join the Service. Yeah. Well, my parents had four other kids to deal
with, the earthlife fishing was off, and they could have used the bounty
money. So I got it for them. Two years ago."
He paused. "Do you know why you're invading?"
This was a big change in conversation. "No. I figure it's something stupid
as always."
"Not this time."
"No?"
"No. The last metsat report. There's a storm whipping up in the Dust,
heading this way across Ocean."
"So?"
"It's a really big storm. It'll pick up strength as it crosses Ocean. And
they think that by the time it hits here, it'll be strong enough to break
Ocean through to the Sea."
I blinked. "Ohhhhh damn. Brickfield and damn."
"That's right. The Celton earthfarms are between Ocean and the Sea. Once
it breaks through, there won't be any food that a human can eat anywhere in
Celton. Or Chunglyng. Or Dustsown. No food anywhere except Landing and Detroit
and a few other minor ports. And we don't especially want to share."
"Why not?" I wasn't pissed, I was just annoyed.
"Because our harvest is smaller than last year's, and last year we almost
had food riots anyway. Before this is over, more than half of the people on
Thessaly will have died of starvation."
"The...the fisheries?"
"Some killed by the new water. Some eaten by new Thessalife. And the rest
so dispersed that they probably won't be able to breed." He paused, looked
up. "I don't especially want my kids to starve, Serviceman."
"I don't want my family to starve either, muckhead."
"Nobody does. Nobody can win this war, and only about a third of us will
survive it. Besides, this area of the Sea is under Landing control."
"So?"
"Landing will try to send food to anyone they can...under Landing control.
We can't try to feed everyone. We can try to feed our own."
I just sat there for a while.
They hadn't told us. Any of us.
"Can't we do anything?"
"We?" he asked back.
"Celton."
"I don't know. I guess the Portmaster is probably doing everything he can,
harvesting early, moving as many farms as he can. I don't think it'll be
enough."
"No. Probably not."
I stood, numbly, at the time not thinking about the slotter aimed at me.
And then I walked over to the edge of the cliff, and looked towards home.
I looked down, at the Servicemen I'd served with for a year.
I looked back at the sergeant. This man could have surrendered before now,
but he hadn't. He was still here, starving slowly. Surrendering isn't a
problem, you just wait three months and then you're back at home. No problem.
We hadn't been told why we were invading this time, either. Normally, we
get a big speech about why we need to invade, or why we have to defend against
this invasion. Not this time. I looked north, towards Celton. It had to be my
imagination, but I saw clouds on the horizon. Dark ones.
"How long?" I asked, without turning around.
"Eight to ten days," the sergeant said.
Grench would survive, I knew him, he would always survive, and he was the
only Serviceman with whom I was friends. And if this man was telling the
truth, I had to go tell my family, had to help, had to try and save what I
could. I removed the other ship round from my vest, handed both to the
sergeant. "Here." I said. "I don't have anything else. You can catch the birds
here by putting out your water decontamination pills in little balls of bread.
They explode, and they taste better than nothing."
"I've got to go home," I said.
______________________________________________________________________________
Rob Furr is a senior at James Madison University in Virginia. He's been
writing SF for over ten years, and was once told that his writing was on the
level of old SF pulp magazines. He took this as a compliment. His interests
range from high explosives, through iguanas, to animation, and he hopes to one
day make a music video featuring an exploding komodo dragon. Other than that,
he's tall, with dark-brown hair, glasses, and bad posture. He works in a
computer center, where he spends a good bit of time hunched over a keyboard.
He's also not very good at writing third-person biographical sketches.
[email protected]
______________________________________________________________________________
If you enjoy Quanta, you may
want to check out these other
magazines, also produced and
distributed electronically:
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An Electronic Fiction Digest Contact: [email protected]
InterText, like its predecessor, Athene, is devoted to publishing
amateur writing in all genres of fiction. It will be published on a
bi-monthly basis, hopefully alternating with Quanta (so subscribers
to both will get one netmagazine every month). The magazine's
editor is Jason Snell, and associate editors are Geoff Duncan and
Phil Nolte, all of whom have been seen in the pages of Athene or
Quanta (or both).
InterText is published in both ASCII and PostScript formats (though
the PostScript laser-printer version is the version of choice). Its
first issue will appear next month. For a subscription (specify
ASCII or PostScript), information, or submissions of stories to be
published in InterText, contact Jason Snell at [email protected].
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The Magazine of the `Dargon' Project Editor: [email protected]
DargonZine is an electronic magazine printing stories written for
the Dargon Project, a shared-world anthology similar to (and
inspired by) Robert Asprin's Thieves' World anthologies, created by
David "Orny" Liscomb in his now retired magazine, FSFNet. The
Dargon Project centers around a medieval-style duchy called Dargon
in the far reaches of the Kingdom of Baranur on the world named
Makdiar, and as such contains stories with a fantasy fiction/sword
and sorcery flavor.
DargonZine is (at this time) only available in flat-file, text-only
format. For a subscription, please send a request via MAIL to the
editor, Dafydd, at the userid [email protected]. This request
should contain your full userid (logonid and node, or a valid
internet address) as well as your full name. InterNet (all
non-BITNET sites) subscribers will receive their issues in Mail
format. BitNet users have the option of specifying the file
transfer format you prefer (either DISK DUMP, PUNCH/MAIL, or
SENDFILE/NETDATA). Note: all electronic subscriptions are Free!
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The Journal of the Gamers' Guild of UCR
Contact: [email protected]
ucsd!ucrmath!jimv (uucp)
The Guildsman is an electronic magazine devoted to role-playing
games and amateur fantasy/SF fiction. At this time, the Guildsman
is available in LaTeX (.tex) source and PostScript formats via
both email and anonymous ftp without charge to the reader. Printed
copies are also available for a nominal charge which covers
printing and postal costs. For more information, email
[email protected] (internet), ucsd!ucrmath!jimv (uucp)
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