Eric Flint's Blog, page 304

Trial By Fire – Snippet 28

Trial By Fire – Snippet 28

The Arat Kur seemed to be pleased, emitting a number of trilling whistles and bobbing up and down slightly.

Caine, smiling at the Arat Kur, said sideways to Trevor, “Well, so far, so good.”

“Sure. Marvelous. And now that we’re all such good friends, I’m sure we’ll want to launch straight into a major cross-cultural dialog.”

At that moment, another carrier tone intruded on their private line and a new voice cut in. “Yes, I believe such a discussion would be beneficial to us all.”

Trevor and Caine turned to look at the alien, who had finished working with the computer. Noting that he had their attention once again, the Arat Kur bobbed up and down once. Muffled by the creature’s suit, the whistles and trills resumed. As they did, the new voice spoke again over their radios.

“My apologies for omitting an introduction. I am Darzhee Kut.”

*   *   *

What the Arat Kur said next was even more improbable than his first calm interjection.

“I wish to apologize for meeting under these circumstances. I thank you for showing me trust despite the–unexpected attack which brought me here. Your deeds sound a high and noble melody for your race.”

Caine took a deep breath and answered. “Darzhee Kut, we must apologize also. We had no way of discerning that your personal intentions might be peaceful, after our first and unfortunate encounter in this room. And of course, you had no reason to think otherwise of us. We are most happy to meet you–and through you, come to finally learn something of your race.”

“These harmonize with my own feelings, but before we may do so, we must ensure our survival.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“The weapons-fire from the ship to which your module was originally attached sheared away all my sensors and disabled my communication equipment. I would have pulsed my engines to attract attention but, being unable to enter the engineering relay room, I was unable to effect repairs to those systems. Therefore, may I inquire: do you have an intact communication system? For if you do, we could use it to summon a rescue.”

Trevor shook his head. “Not so fast. You’re expecting us to surrender to you? Even though we’ve got the gun?”

“I expect no such thing. Surrenders, and the accepting of them, are actions undertaken by what you call ‘soldiers,’ are they not?”

Caine leaned forward. “Darzhee Kut, do you mean to imply that you are not a member of your species’ military forces?”

“Not as you would mean it. Moreover, the word military does not completely harmonize with any of ours.”

Caine frowned. “This is an unusual concept for us. Before we agree to communications with your fleet, it would help for us to understand a little more about you and your species. Specifically, do you mean to say that you have no ‘military’ forces?”

Darzhee Kut buzzed lightly. “This is not quite correctly said. We have military forces when we require them, but we have no caste which specializes in conflict, particularly not in physical combat. When the nest is compelled to defend itself, we all aid it according to our best abilities and the nest’s greatest needs.”

“So your race never fought wars?”

“Long ago. But they were too destructive, and so we ceased.”

These were hardly the kind of attackers Trevor had expected. “What made your wars so destructive: the weapons? Nuclear warheads? Gas?”

“No,” said Caine, nodding, “the bodies.”

Darzhee warbled a bit before he answered. “You have sung our sad refrain without having heard it before: this is well. Indeed, the bodies. With no way to dispose of them quickly enough, disease and carrion-creatures became a worse scourge than the war itself.”

“So what did you do to stop further wars?”

“Does one need to forbid one’s own suicide? We did not need to ‘do’ anything but see what was before our eyes: to wage war upon others was, ultimately, to kill oneself and one’s nest.”

“With all due respect, then why did you make war upon us?”

Darzhee Kut made a sound like a falling trill. “Ah. This is a far more complicated matter. But I would say this: let your own history be your answer. Your behavior toward each other told us something of how we must conceive of behaving toward you.”

Caine frowned. “But we do not always make war–unlike the Hkh’Rkh who seem to be your allies.”

“And this was the great atonality in the chorus of this generation. Some of us sang the triumphs of your species’ dreams of lasting peace. Others boomed the dirge of your many wars.”

“And the dirge was the tune your race chose to focus upon?”

“Let us rather say that it drowned out the more hopeful song that I and others sang.” His front claws gestured at the walls and beyond. “And here we are, trapped in a growing crescendo that brushes aside all other melodies, tones, sounds. Such is war, it seems to me. Too much of even one’s own sounds, when made in time to war-drums, becomes chaos. It afflicts us with a temporary version of the perpetual sun-time that–it is said–afflicts your species.”

“‘Sun-time’?”

Darzhee Kut seemed to relax, raised one claw in a gesture that looked partly like the invitation of a raconteur, partly like the still, upraised finger of a didact. “To understand sun-time you must understand my race. Specifically, its reproductory habits.”

Trevor felt himself wince.

If Darzhee Kut noticed, he gave no external indication of it. “We are creatures of the earth, the rock, of close chambers that embrace us, of tunnels that caress our bellies and backs. But when the song of our birth-triad fills our hearts and quickens our blood to that point where we must sing as one in all ways, we suddenly long for a sensation which, the rest of the time, terrifies us.”

“You return to the surface, to see the sun.”

“Your voice sings true. It is just so. The rays of heat, the great brightness, the open vault above: so expansive is our passion, that, at this one time, the wide world above the rock harmonizes with what is most immediate and true in us. And so this is where we mate.”

Trevor leaned back. “And that–that ‘state of mind’ is a bad thing?” Not that I want to hear more about your orgasmic nature-walks.

“It is not bad, but it is necessarily brief.”

Caine was nodding again. “Because it’s also dangerous. You’re vulnerable on the surface, and what brings you there is an altered state of mind which compromises your self-control.”

Darzhee Kut was still for a moment. “You hear the harmonies of the Arat Kur far in advance, Spokesperson Riordan. It was our great misfortune that we did not share them with you at the Convocation.”

Trevor glanced over at Caine, who clearly had not made the connection yet, and pointed at the Arat Kur. “I’ve heard your name before. You were, were–”

Darzhee Kut’s sensors declined lightly. “I was to be the Speaker-to-Nestless for the Arat Kur Wholenest at the Convocation. It was so announced on the first day. But Zirsoo was thought more–capable.”

Caine’s eyes narrowed. “By whom?”

“By both Zirsoo Kh’n and First Delegate Hu’urs Khraam.”

“And let me guess. They were both great singers of the dirge that is humanity.”

“Among its very loudest and most accomplished soloists. So now you begin to see.”

“Possibly. It sounds as though there was much division among the Arat Kur regarding how best to interact with humanity.”

“Yes. Among those who knew enough.”

“And what knowledge was withheld from those who did not ‘know enough’?”

“Some of the answer to that question is composed of notes which I may not sing. And that imposition of silence made me question how effective I could be as the Speaker to your race.”

Trevor frowned. “So you’re not a soldier at all. You’re a–a diplomat.”

“This might be the best word for it. I would suggest ‘official liaison,’ for I have no power to propose or conclude agreements with other species or states. That is the role of a Delegate.”

Caine put out an entreating hand. “Then please forgive us for holding you prisoner. It was a consequence of our ignorance of your language, and your ways. Allow us to extend to you the courtesies and privileges of a diplomatic attaché. However, we must impose certain limits upon these, since our governments are currently at war.”

Again, the scrunch-bow of the Arat Kur. “I graciously accept, and extend the same to you. And because of this, may I further suggest that we signal my fleet directly, so that they may extend a more suitable and complete measure of hospitality to you?”

Trevor frowned. “You mean, take us prisoners.”

“Mr. Corcoran, I see no uniform, so I presume that, as was true at the Convocation, you are either off-duty or discharged from military service?”

“Well–yes.”

“Then your last status so far as I am concerned is as the military expert of your species’ diplomatic delegation to the Convocation. Therefore, it would be incorrect and illegal to hold you prisoner. You, too, are entitled to diplomatic status.”

Well, this Darzhee Kut may be an overgrown cockroach–but he’s a damn mannerly one. Trevor looked at Caine. “What do you think?”

“I think making a contact which just might allow us to curtail bloodshed is a whole hell of a lot better than simultaneously dying of rads, asphyxiation, thirst, and starvation.”

“Okay. And Darzhee Kut, I want to apologize for what happened regarding your craft,” Trevor said.

“It was war. Sadly, that is explanation enough.”

“It’s a little worse than that. We are concerned that you saw our diplomatic transponder code and thought it safe to approach.”

“This is so. But tell me, was this incorrect signal a mistake, or a ruse?”

“A mistake.”

“Then you shall not be held accountable for it. We need discuss it no further. Shall we summon my rock-siblings?”

Caine nodded, handed him his collarcom. “With this, you can control our communications array with verbal commands. Tell me when you are ready to send your message.”

Darzhee Kut accepted the delicate silver device in two careful claws, turned away to begin composing a message.

“Darzhee Kut,” Caine asked, “may I interrupt?”

“Certainly.”

“Will we be traveling with your fleet?”

“Yes.”

“So can you tell us where we are going next?”

“I can.” He turned. “We are going home.”

“To Sigma Draconis.”

“My apologies: I was not clear. We are not going to my home. We are going to yours.” His eyes seemed to lower, almost as if he were embarrassed. “We are going to Earth.”

 

The Savior – Snippet 11

The Savior – Snippet 11

It hadn’t surprised Mahaut when Loreilei and Frel had been drawn together once again. After their ordeal in the desert, though, they’d been hurt in ways that only the other might understand. But now here they were together holding hands as they approached her across the courtyard.

Mahaut smiled at them both, but she felt foreboding in her heart.

This is going to be trouble, she thought. Of course they love each other.

“It’s wonderful to see you both,” she said to them as they approached. They both laughed, as if this were funny. She considered, removed the bow from the bench, and sat down herself. The two walked up and stood before her.

“You look very well, Aunt,” Loreilei replied.

“‘Aunt,’ is it?” Mahaut said. “You only call me that when you want something from me, Loreilei. And how are you, Frel?”

“Very well, Land-heiress,” the boy replied, using her formal First Family title. “Your grace, we come to ask you for some advice.”

“‘Your grace’ from you, Frel. Alaha Zentrum. All right, then,” said Mahaut.

Suddenly Loreilei reached out and took Mahaut’s hands in hers. “Oh, Mahaut, Frel and I are in love. We want to get married. He’s asked me.”

Mahaut didn’t say anything for a moment. “I see,” she finally said. “I would have thought he might ask your father and mother first.”

“You know what my father would have done if we had talked to him, especially if Frel had gone alone to see him.”

“But I want to, your grace,” said Frel earnestly. “That’s why we’ve come to see you. Could you put in a word?”

“Pave the way, you mean?”

“Yes, Land-heiress. Please.”

Loreilei’s father was Edgar’s brother, Hammond. He was the youngest of the Jacobson sons. He’d traveled all the way to Lindron to find a wife from a First Family, which he had in Loreilei’s mother, Adele, and to receive Zentrum’s blessing on the match. This was how things were supposed to be done among the Firsts. Mahaut had always considered that it was the fact that, as third brother, he would inherit very little that made Hammond such a stickler for society protocol. Position was his greatest possession. Yet she knew the marriage between Hammond and Adele had turned out to be a happy one, and Hammond, for all his stuffiness, had a good heart — unlike his brother, her own husband, Edgar. Edgar might seem to be a good-natured man, or at least an entertaining man, on the outside, but anyone who knew him well would soon conclude that there was little more than a void of petulance and malice on the interior.

“No, we couldn’t do it, Auntie,” Loreilei replied. “We talked about it, and we couldn’t do it.”

“Loreilei, child, have you even considered what this would do to your status?” Mahaut said.

“I don’t care about that,” Loreilei answered defiantly.

“Well, you ought to,” she said. “For Frel’s sake.”

“You married in from a military family, Aunt.”

If only you knew how much I regretted that moment of bad judgment, she thought.

“That’s true,” she said. “But there’s a difference. Do I have to tell you?”

“Because you were a woman marrying a Jacobson man?

“Yes, Loreilei, that’s what I mean,” she said. “But it isn’t just that.”

“She means that I’m a barbarian, I suppose,” Frel said, his face reddening in a blush — all except the scar upon his forehead, which now stood out lily white.

“No,” Mahaut replied. “Josiah Weldletter has formally adopted you, hasn’t he?”

“He has,” Frel said. “And I adopted him,” he added defiantly. “I’ve made him an honorary Remlap.”

Mahaut smiled. “And you did him an honor. He knows what that means to you.”

“Then why can’t we –”

“Because you’re both fifteen,” Mahaut said.

“I could get married at twelve!” said Loreilei.

“But you can’t receive a dowry until you’re sixteen,” Mahaut said patiently. “It’s right there in the Edicts for First Families.”

Perhaps you should listen better in Thursday school, niece. What else is there to do there? It’s not as if you can decide not to attend.

“Do you think my father wouldn’t –”

“Child, he can’t,” she said. She rose and reached out to take both their hands in hers. “I know how it feels. It seems like you’ll die if you have to wait, that you’ll explode like a rocket. You’ve probably been together by now?”

Loreilei’s skin coloring was too dark to show a blush, but her quick intake of breath told Mahaut all she needed to know. “Lots,” she said weakly.

“And you’re being careful?”

“Of course,” Frel said, a trace of indignation in his voice. “I get the best riverdak skins from the Delta. The apothecary in Hestinga stocks them special.”

“Perhaps more than I needed to know,” Mahaut continued.

“Yes, your grace.”

“But a marriage isn’t sleeping together. Bones and Blood, sometimes it doesn’t have anything to do with that. You have to look out for each other. And you have to be able to look out for each other. Look, you love each other, don’t you?”

“Yes, very much, Aunt.”

“Then it won’t hurt to wait. Give it a year. Turn sixteen, both of you. Loreilei will be able to legally receive her dowry. What are you thinking of doing, Frel?”

“I don’t know,” the boy answered sheepishly. “I like civil engineering. My father’s friend Reidel might give me a start.”

“I’m familiar with Reidel,” Mahaut said. “And Colonel Dashian, who ought to know, says he’s the best.”

“So you see, we could make do if –”

“Frel, engineering is all about glyphs and numbers. You can’t do that kind of work without finishing school.”

Neither replied for a moment, and Mahaut was beginning to think she’d won her point.

Then Loreilei spoke up in a disappointed tone. “We thought you’d be on our side, Mahaut.”

“But I am, child. You know that.”

“You won’t breathe a word of this to Father or Mother?”

Do you know what you are asking me? Do you know how much such a promise might cost me? Of course not. You’re both fifteen.

“You have my word.”

“Good.”

“Loreilei, please don’t be angry.”

“I’m not,” said the girl. “Never at you.” She pulled Frel’s hand away from Mahaut’s. “Come on, let’s let my aunt get back to her archery practice. Thank you, Aunt.”

“Your Gracious Excellency, Land-heiress Jacobson,” Frel said with a formal bow. It was all Mahaut could do to keep from giggling at his seriousness.

The two of them took a few steps down the pathway through the courtyard flower garden. Loreilei turned among the desert sunflower, still in bloom thought it was late summer. She caught Mahaut’s eye and spoke in a firm and measured voice.

“I was a slave, you know,” she said. “Look at me. Look at this, Aunt.” She ran a finger along her scar. “I can never forget.”

Mahaut stood silent. She blinked a tear from her eye that had suddenly welled up.

Your being take a slave was my fault, she thought. I will never forget, either.

“It made me…different inside,” she said. “I won’t be told what to do. Not ever again. Because if I let anybody tell me what to do, it will all come back. I know it will. I can feel it.”

Mahaut took a step forward. “Loreilei, as long as I breathe, I will do everything I can to see that you are free.”

“We’ll be together,” her niece said. “You’ll see.”

She spun quickly, and the two left the courtyard.

Mahaut stood thinking a long time after they were gone. Then she turned and picked up her bow and arrow once again.

Everything could end badly, she thought. Best to be prepared.

She picked up her arrow and took the arrow from the quiver. These were Scout arrows she had brought in from Hestinga. She ran her thumb along the arrow’s fletching. Two notches.

Shorter range. More damage in the barbed metal point.

She nocked the arrow, pulled the string back with a practiced strength, took aim.

She let the arrow fly.

It entered the straw bale somewhere to the left of the bull’s-eye. Close enough to pierce a lung if not the heart.

 

Trial By Fire – Snippet 27

Trial By Fire – Snippet 27

Chapter Thirteen

Adrift off Barnard’s Star 2 C

“Trevor.”

White lights. Modular bulkheads. His limbs heavy with exhaustion and the dense materials comprising an emergency suit. And everywhere, the dissolving image of Opal’s face, like a shadow dispelled by a sudden ray of light, or a faint aroma dispersed by a breeze. Trevor swam up out of his dream, felt the door against his back, checked it: still closed.

Caine’s voice was back in his helmet. “Are you awake?”

“I–uh, yeah, yes.” And dreaming of the woman you’ve been sleeping with. The guilt sent a throb into his head.

“There’s movement in life support.”

“What kind of movement?” Trevor asked warily.

“About an hour ago, some motion started in the Arat Kur’s limbs and front claws. Just a minute ago, it scooted under the filtration intakes and the osmotic scrubbers.”

“How are his zero-gee skills?”

“Pretty fair. Better than mine. His respiration seems to have resumed a normal rate.”

Well, the Arat Kur was either recovering from his catatonic withdrawal or readying himself for an orgy of sabotage and destruction. Trevor thumbed the handgun’s safety to the off position. “Do I go in?”

“Not yet. I’ll relay live feed to your HUD.”

A black and white image flickered on about two inches above and away from Trevor’s left eye. The creature seemed to be simply surveying its surroundings. It was moving slowly through the maze of life-support equipment, occasionally stopping to study a component here, a readout there.

It completed its tour directly in front of the sealed door. It approached the door, inspected it thoroughly and then sat/laid down directly in front of it. Trevor activated the laser aimpoint on the handgun, commented, “I’m ready for him.”

Caine did not answer immediately. “I don’t think he intends any threat. In fact, I think–”

Over the carrier tone in the communication system, Trevor heard a series of atonal whistles, clicks, and buzzes. “What was that? Are we losing communications?”

“No, we’re gaining communications. That was the Arat Kur.”

“Singing for its supper?”

“Maybe, maybe not. I–” More whines, clacks and fluttering whistles. “I’d say he’s interested in making contact, now.”

“Probably wants to know where the plumbing is.”

“Yeah, well I really don’t care what he wants to talk about. I just care that he wants to talk.”

Trevor heard a change in the comm channel’s carrier tone; Caine’s voice was now in stereo, half coming from Trevor’s collar communicator, the other half emerging muffled and muted from the intercom behind the door into life support. “Hello. Can you understand this language?”

A wild mélange of whistles, squeals, and grunts answered.

Trevor sighed. “Does that mean ‘yes’ or ‘no’?”

“Damned if I know.”

“Sounds like a dolphin playing a bagpipe filled with rocks.”

More squawking, but slower and repetitive. The Arat scuttled forward and pushed its nose against the door. Trevor heard–and felt–the thump behind him. He raised his handgun. “I have the door covered.”

“He’s not trying to escape.”

“Oh? Then what’s he doing? Trying to scratch his back against the door jamb?”

“No, but it’s not ramming the door. It’s simply approaching it, bumping it, and then backing off again. No running starts, no attempts to pry it open. It just wants out.”

“What a surprise.”

There was no answer.

“Caine?”

Another moment of silence, and then Caine’s voice answered–but not over the radio. He reappeared in the corridor, heading for the door Trevor was covering with the ten-millimeter. “I’m going in. Cover me.”

“What? Wait a–”

Caine pressed the control stud on the wall; the door slid back. Just fucking great. Trevor brought up the gun quickly. The Arat Kur scuttled backwards about a meter and then stopped. Caine stretched out his empty hands. The Arat Kur’s front claws scissored the air once: a nervous, twitchy motion.

“It could be preparing to attack,” muttered Trevor.

“It could be the Arat Kur equivalent of wringing its hands,” Caine muttered back. He took a floating step into the room.

The Arat Kur retreated about the same distance, then edged back toward Caine.

“Seems friendly,” said Caine.

“Or hungry.”

The Arat Kur “sat” down and launched into a long series of repetitive squawks, wheezings, and whispers.

Trevor listened. “What do you figure it’s saying?”

“Probably trying to do the same thing I did. Keep repeating basic phrases again and again, hoping that we’ll hear something we recognize.”

“And when he realizes that’s pointless? Then what?”

The alien stopped cacophonizing abruptly. Trevor tightened his grip on the handgun. The Arat Kur’s front claw began rising slowly, carefully. It stopped when it was pointing at the open door. Then the arm bent until the claw was pointing at the Arat Kur. Then back out the door.

“He’s asking to leave the room,” murmured Caine. “Politely.”

“Right. So he can kill us. Politely.”

“No, I don’t think that’s what he has in mind. We’ve got to take a chance and let him out.”

Madness, complete madness. But Trevor pushed against the deck with his left toe and drifted slowly to the right, leaving the doorway unobstructed.

The alien went through its pointing sequence again: the door, itself, the door. Caine pointed at the Arat Kur and out the door, ending with an exaggerated nod. The alien rose up, its claws outstretched. With a single coordinated kick from all four rear legs, it launched forward.

And out the door. Caine somersaulted and swam after it. Trevor did his best to match their pace, but, still unable to use his left arm, lost sight of Caine as he entered the inter-deck access tube.

“Caine, slow down. I can’t keep up. I can’t help you if that little bastard turns on you.”

Caine either didn’t hear or didn’t care. “He’s heading back for his first prison.”

“What the hell for?”

“Damned if I know. Just keep following me.” A pause, then. “Turn around. Return to the upper deck.” Which meant that Trevor had to back himself up the inter-deck access tube; there wasn’t enough room to turn around.

“Go back? What the hell for?”

“To make room for our guest.”

At the bottom of the tube, Trevor saw motion. The Arat Kur had reentered the tube, carrying a bulky load. He was starting to swim up. Straight toward Trevor.

As Trevor reverse-pushed awkwardly up the tube, the Arat Kur seemed to take notice of him and slow down. There was almost a sense of patient waiting. If the alien had had thumbs, Trevor would have expected to see the Arat Kur twiddling them.

Once the way was clear, the Arat Kur shot up and out the tube, giving Trevor a better look at the bundle it had retrieved from its first prison: its spacesuit. Caine came sidewinding up after the alien.

“Grab your helmet. I think we’re going EVA.”

“Caine, with our current whole body dose, this is probably the last time we’re going to be able to take a stroll around the neighborhood.”

“I know it, but what choice do we really have?”

Trevor sighed. “I’ll suit up.” He did, and just in time. A few seconds after establishing a seal, the alien led them into the airlock. It pointed to the outer door, itself, each of them, and then back at the outer door. Caine cycled the airlock and opened the door.

Obviously, the alien had not been unconscious during its trip over to the command module. It swam outside and directly toward the boarding tether. After securing itself to the line with its own suit lanyard, it began towing itself back over to its wrecked ship.

Caine’s skill and Trevor’s condition had both improved enough that they made a fast transit and a good jump down to the wreck. The Arat Kur, its front legs waving in something that looked very much like glad excitation, lead them inside the wreck and directly to the door surrounded by scorch marks. It grasped the door “knob,” moored itself by grasping a handle protruding from the wall, and tugged. Then it stopped and looked at the two humans. Still looking at them, it mimicked the tug again.

Caine took hold of another handle. “I think we’re supposed to lend a hand here.”

“Or a claw.”

“Just pull.”

After a few coordinated heaves, the door opened a crack, allowing the humans to finish the job with their pry bars. As soon as the way was clear, the Arat Kur darted in, almost disappearing into a dense thicket of burnt circuitry and warped cables. Trevor peered–and aimed–over Caine’s shoulder to watch the alien’s speedy rerouting work. Caine nodded toward the ruined rainforest of wiring. “What do you think? His engineering section?”

Trevor nodded. “Probably had multiple short-outs when the ship was hit. Just like the cutter did. It’s also why he couldn’t use his engines or restart his power plant: he couldn’t get in to reroute the command circuitry or power supplies.”

Apparently finished, the Arat Kur turned, dove back into the corridor and motioned toward the bridge. Once the humans had followed him into that new location, the alien pointed at what they had conjectured was the main computer, itself, and then the computer again. Trevor and Caine exchanged resigned looks, and then nodded at the Arat Kur in unison.

The alien slid into its acceleration couch, powered up the computer and began manipulating a set of touch screens with extraordinary speed. The deck began to vibrate faintly. A moment later, large metal panels sealed off the shattered cockpit blister and the tumbling star field beyond. A gentle hiss indicated that the chamber was repressurizing.

A few more taps on the touchscreen and the bridge lit up, ringing the humans in holographic displays and dynamically reconfigurable control panels. About half of them were dark or malfunctioning, but that did not seem to impede the Arat Kur. Trevor felt a new vibration through the soles of his feet and simultaneously watched half of the orange lights on the control panels change to green. Evidently, the power plant was online. A moment later, he felt a sideways tug: thrust. The Arat Kur was starting to correct the wreck’s tumble.

Whether it was a matter of fine piloting or extraordinarily powerful computing technology, the alien successfully stabilized and mated the wreckage of his ship with the Auxiliary Command module in less than ten minutes. Then he pointed to a hologram of the space near The Pearl. He zoomed in. At the extreme edge of the field of view was a red mote. He pointed at the mote and then swept his arm in a wide circle, indicating the craft they were in. Caine did the same and nodded.

 

The Savior – Snippet 10

The Savior – Snippet 10

PART TWO

The Penance

Six years previously

1

Treville District

The Village of Lilleheim

470 Post Tercium

Mahaut DeArmanville Jacobson had come to love Lilleheim. Ten years ago, she would never have predicted this would happen in a thousand lifetimes. Yet the little village three quarters of the way up the Escarpment had become her home. At first, she’d thought there was nothing that changed here, the same day just like the next. She’d come from Hestinga, which could at least call itself a town, maybe even a small city. Worse, she’d stepped, of her own free will — even if it had been the will of a rather naïve nineteen-year-old girl — into a marriage of epic awfulness.

For months she pined for Hestinga and her family’s little cottage of stuccoed wattle. She’d been raised in a mid-level military officer’s home, which meant, in Mahaut’s case, lots of love, lots of off-the-cuff training in weapons and tussling (especially with her brother, who was two years younger than she), but not very much prosperity. Yet, in so many ways, living in the town made up for this.

Hestinga had riches of its own: merchants, inns, a large temple, and a military garrison. Lilleheim had none of that. It was a farming center, a place to collect olives and olive oil, wine — and grain. Lilleheim owed its very existence to the enormous Jacobson granaries at its center.

Here there were hardly any tradesmen. Yes, there was a cobbler, old Tomy Biteberg, a bakery run by the family Krakauer with its twelve children. People bought their lamp oil from the olive farm run by Jurgen Danziger, the son of Horst Danziger, a man who’d been killed by the Blaskoye when they’d sacked Lilleheim two years ago.

And that was it. There was no store. For that, you had to travel to Hestinga, over a league and a half away. And of course, everyone in Lilleheim, everyone in Hestinga, and people throughout the Land, bought their grain from the Jacobsons. This was now Mahaut’s clan.

The Jacobsons were ancient First Family blood. They had settled the village and had ruled it for generations. A Jacobson ran the mill. A Jacobson owned the gargantuan granaries and silos. Her father-in-law, Benjamin Jacobson, held the land around the village for fifty leagues and more. Anyone who farmed it worked for Jacobson as a sharecropper. Anyone who owned their own plot and produced something beyond enough to feed a family had to deal with the Jacobson mill and granary.

Mahaut was married to Benjamin Jacobson’s second-oldest son, Edgar. Now she was a Jacobson herself, a land-heiress, as the title went, to be addressed by “your grace.”

She’d found that Lilleheim did change. There was the season of blossoms: figs, dates, pricklebrush, sage, columbines, and hyssop. There was the growing season with green grain yellowing to ripeness. And then the brown season after harvest, when the Escarpment had its own variations in color and texture when she finally took the time to look.

There were variations among the people, too. There was the surge of the children into the fields during harvest and planting, back to the Thursday schools each week, back into the village when not required at home, the more well-to-do into the school, the poor children learning a trade, or — more often — running wild through the village lanes.

Before, she’d made a weekly, sometimes daily, trip to Hestinga, where she’d led the Women’s Auxiliary to the Treville Militia. She had been a natural selection, growing up as she did in a military family, and also being First Family now by marriage. This had been her excuse to get away from Lilleheim, and she’d blazed a path like few women before her. She’d transformed those mothers, sisters, and wives into a true auxiliary that had done well in the Battle of the Canal. More than just well. They had used rocketry to trap the Blaskoye horde and push them into annihilation of breechloader rate of fire.

She’d kept her position and captain’s rank, but in the past few years had slowly allowed the leadership to pass on to others. She’d done this willingly. They were her lieutenants. They would do a fair job, and not let the Auxiliary fall back into its former sewing-circle ways. The Blaskoye raiders were still about, after all, even if they dared not show their faces in Treville.

Truth to tell, she had grown tired of the trek into Hestinga. As Edgar was more and more horrible to her, the other Jacobsons had rallied around her. Old Benjamin, who was a widower, and Edgar’s sisters, had come to depend on her first as the de facto mistress of the house, and now as one of the managers of the vast network of grain shipping and trading concerns throughout the land run by House Jacobson. To her surprise, she’d discovered a talent for the task. It was like commanding the Women’s Auxiliary, but on a vastly grander scale.

Otherwise, her future was limited. A musket ball had torn into her womb during the Blaskoye siege. She could not have children. But she adored her nieces and nephews, and there were plenty of them tearing around the Jacobson compound. At first, it had surprised her when they came to her with their hopes, their dreams — and their problems. Not any longer.

So she was not taken off guard when Loreilei Jacobson and Frel Weldletter came with the expectant look of those seeking advice into the Jacobson compound’s inner garden one afternoon.

Normally no one used the courtyard this time of day. Mahaut knew this well, which was the reason that this was when she usually got in her archery and knife-throwing practice. She liked to do this within the compound so that she could walk the two blocks from her office and be sure to get practice in daily. Her target practice with musket pistol and derringer she conducted a short distance from the village within a dry hammock. Sometimes she did not get to her range for a whole month at a time, although usually she did so weekly.

Within the Jacobson compound, she’d set a target up across the courtyard and was notching the arrow when Loreilei and Frel came bursting through a side door.

The two were trailed by a servant who was trying to stop them — and simultaneously to announce them — perhaps afraid the young people might step in front of a flying arrow. There was no chance of that. She had placed the target cattycorner to the side door, and there was no line of flight that would catch someone near an entranceway. She would have been able to hold up in any case. Now she removed her notched arrow, set the bow down on a bench, and went to greet her niece.

Loreilei and Frel were each a little over fifteen years old now. They were two years away from a terrible ordeal that had almost thrown them into slavery for life. Both had been rescued from the heart of the Blaskoye sheikdom in the Redlands oasis called Awul-alwaha. Loreilei and Frel both bore the scars of their captivity. On each of their faces, cut across their foreheads, was a ragged scar. This was the mark of slavery among the Blaskoye clans.

Loreilei had been abducted from Lilleheim. Frel came from a very different place. He’d been born in the Redlands, the son of the chief of the Remlap clan. It was a clan that had not given in to the Blaskoye when all other tribes were capitulating. They’d taken the chief’s son and nearly destroyed his small clan as punishment. That same headman had died in the rescue of Frel. The boy had watched his father’s throat being slit before his eyes.

The rescue party had been made up of Scouts of Treville led by Abel Dashian. Among Abel’s men was a cartographer named Josiah Weldletter. He had befriended the old headman, named Gaspar, as much as anyone could, and had taken in the boy after his father’s death. Weldletter had kept his word, and raised Frel in his house. Weldletter and his wife had not been able to have a child, and over the past year, the couple’s pity for the orphan boy had turned to love of someone they now considered a son.

 

Paradigms Lost – Chapter 14

Paradigms Lost – Chapter 14

Chapter 14: A Sudden Trip Downstate

I opened the trunk and helped Sky get out his portfolio. Innocent that I was, I thought a “portfolio” would be a notebook-sized collection of pictures — reproductions, etc. Artists, of course, do not do things that way. Reproductions are often used, but they’re done as near as possible to full size as can be managed, and Sky had a lot of samples. He was trying to show a number of things about his work (most of which I could only vaguely understand) and accordingly had put together a very large collection of material.

Morgan bowed us in the door, and Verne came forward. “Mr. Hashima, it is a great pleasure to meet you.”

Sky smiled back and shook his hand. “The pleasure’s all mine.”

I nodded at Verne. “I’ll be off, then. I know you people have plenty to discuss and I won’t have a clue as to what you’re talking about.”

“Of course, Jason. Thank you for bringing Sky over; Morgan will arrange his transport home once we are done here, so do not trouble yourself further.”

I waved, said “Good luck!” to Sky, and got back into Mjölnir, turned down the driveway and headed home.

It was only when I turned the key in the office lock that something bothered me. I felt it click… but at the wrong time. The door had already been opened. Not having expected any trouble, I wasn’t carrying, either. Then again, I supposed it was possible, though unlikely, that I’d forgotten to lock it in all the confusion. I pushed it open, letting the door swing all the way around and bump the wall to make sure no one was hiding behind it. Nothing seemed out of place. I went in and locked the door behind me.

With the lights switched on, I still didn’t see anything disturbed in the office — which was what I’d be mainly concerned with. I checked the secure room at the back; nothing. That left only my living quarters upstairs. I went through the connecting door.

Something exploded against my head. I went down, almost completely unconscious, unable to see anything except vague pain-inducing blurs. Rough hands grabbed me, dragged me out the back door, threw me into a car, and then shoved something over my mouth and nose.

By then I was focused enough to fight back, but these people were stronger than me and had the advantage. Eventually I had to breathe, and whatever they’d put in that cloth finished ringing down the curtain.

* * *

I came slowly awake, my head pounding like a pie-pan in the hands of a toddler. With difficulty I concentrated on evaluating myself. I could feel a focused ache on the side of my skull, where I’d been conked on the head. My stomach was protesting, an interesting but unpleasant combination of hunger and nausea; some hours had gone by, I figured. There was the generalized headache, of course. Chloroform? Halothane? I supposed that the specific chemical didn’t matter, though it had felt too fast for classic chloroform. I’d been in too much pain to notice the smell clearly, if there’d been one. I was sitting upright — obviously tied up in a chair or something similar, because I could feel some kind of bindings on my arms, legs, and chest.

Now, if this was a proper adventure novel or TV episode, they’d have left me my Swiss Army knife or something for me to attempt an escape by, but I could in fact feel that, while I was still dressed, there wasn’t a damn thing left in my pockets except possibly some lint. Not being an escape expert or martial artist or superhero, I decided I’d gotten about all I could out of just sitting and thinking, so I slowly raised my head and opened my eyes.

The pain only increased slightly and then started to ebb. Leaving aside the niceties of being tied up with a knot on my head, I was in a rather pleasant room, large and airy, with a big picture window looking out on a driveway somewhat reminiscent of Verne’s own, although this one was a wide drive that turned into a circle at the end, rather than a drive shaped like a teardrop. The landscaping was also different, more sculpted and controlled, less wild; Verne liked a more natural look, while whoever owned this clearly preferred symmetry and precision. The trees and fountains and bushes were all laid out in a smoothly rolling but still almost mathematically precise manner.

I was facing the picture window; off to my left were some cases of books — which I was fairly sure were chosen for show, rather than actual reading material, judging from what I could see — some pictures, an in-wall television screen, and some chairs and low tables. Looking off to my left, I saw a very large desk. The person behind the desk, however, made the desk look small. He was as blond as I was, but tanned, wearing a suit that had to be custom made because he was large enough to be a pro wrestler — six foot eight standing was my guess, maybe even bigger — but the suit fit him perfectly, making him look simply like a well-dressed adult in a room made for twelve-year-olds. His hair was fairly long, pulled back in a smooth ponytail, and his face had the same square, rough look that many boxers get, complete with a slightly broken nose.

He had been reading a newspaper, but when I turned my head to look at him the movement apparently caught his eye. “He’s awake,” he said in a deep, slightly rough voice.

I heard a couple chairs scrape back behind me, and heavy footsteps approached. Twisting my neck around, I was able to see two large men — though neither of them quite the size of the guy behind the desk — walk over. They picked up my chair and turned it to face the desk.

“Good morning,” I said. “Mr. Carmichael, I’d presume?”

He didn’t exactly smile, but something in his expression acknowledged my feeble sally. “That’s right.”

“I was afraid of that. As far as I knew, I didn’t have anyone who disliked me enough to use a blackjack to introduce themselves, and I haven’t been on any really nasty cases lately.”

“Since you know who I am, we can get to business.” He nodded, and one of the silent thugs pulled up one of the small tables with a telephone on it. “I’m going to call Domingo. You’ll listen in on that extension. You say nothing — and I mean nothing — until I tell you. When I tell you, you will confirm to Domingo that I do indeed have you here, and that I’m going to have you painfully killed if he doesn’t cooperate.”

I nodded. There wasn’t much point in arguing with him; in my current position, what was I going to do?

He did give a small smile at that. “Good. I hate people who don’t cooperate. You might actually get out of this alive, if Domingo doesn’t screw up.” He punched in the numbers, and one goon picked up the extension and held the receiver to my ear.

“Domingo residence, Morgan speaking.”

“Morgan, buddy, this is Carmichael. I need to talk to Domingo right now.”

Morgan paused. I could see that it was, in fact, morning, so Verne was doubtless sleeping. “Master Verne is not available at the moment –”

“Listen up. I know for a fact he hasn’t left that mansion — my people were watching yesterday. So okay, he went to bed. Get him up. Now. I’ll guarantee you he’ll be the one regretting it if you don’t do it.”

Morgan sighed. “If you insist, sir. Please hold the line.”

Faint strains of classical music came on; apparently Verne or whoever ran the phone system agreed that dead air was no fun to listen to. Carmichael made a face. “‘Please hold the line.’ Jeez, I still can’t figure this clown. He think he’s in a goddamn Masterpiece Theatre show or something?”

I didn’t say anything; I figured silence was my best policy right now.

Several minutes later, the music cut off and Verne’s voice spoke. “Mr. Carmichael.”

“Verne! Good to hear you, buddy. Look, if you want to cut out of the business personally, I want you to know, that’s okay with me, so long as you aren’t going to rat. But your leaving like this is causing me a problem, and I’m not okay with that.”

“What you are ‘okay’ with, Mr. Carmichael, is not really much of my concern.”

Carmichael gave a nasty laugh. “I think I got an argument about why it is, Verne old buddy. Take a listen and then tell me.” He nodded at me.

“Hello, Verne,” I said. I at least managed to sound casual.

There was silence for a moment, then, “Jason? Is that you?”

“I’m afraid so. Mr. Carmichael made me an offer I couldn’t refuse and invited me to visit him. He’s instructed me to tell you that if you don’t go along with what he wants, he’s going to have me killed. Painfully.”

I could envision the offended shock on the other end. “Carmichael. What do you want?”

The nasty laugh again, combined with a nastier grin. “I thought you might want to ask about that now. I want your contacts, Verne. You had some seriously smooth pipelines to bring stuff in from various places. No matter how hard I tried, never could quite figure out who was doing it, and you never lost a goddamn shipment. I admire that, really. That’s art. But I was depending on those pipelines, and suddenly you cut me off? Where the hell do you get off thinking you can just tell me to go screw? What is that crap? You wanna go play with your English butler in teatime land, hell, I don’t care, but without a replacement I’m eating into my reserves and I ain’t got supply for my customers to last more than a couple more weeks. And I ain’t going to go for a supplier that’s gonna cost me more or give me lower quality. So, if you ain’t doing the supply end, I’ll take your place. You just hand me your contacts, whoever ran the pipelines, and I’ll do it from there. Your friend here goes home, we all end up happy. Get stupid with me and I’ll send him to you in pieces.”

Verne’s voice, when it finally answered, was as calm as usual; but, now that I was familiar with it, I detected a hint of iron anger I’d never heard before. “Mr. Carmichael, my… contacts would be useless to you. When I stopped, they stopped. They no longer trade in the same merchandise.”

“Well, baby, that sounds just too bad. You’d better tell ‘em to start trading in it again, and give me the names double-quick. I ain’t got too much time, so my patience is totally gone.” He pointed at the other thug, who stepped up and kicked me hard in the shin.

I know I screamed or shouted something in pain, then cursed. I hadn’t been ready to try to stay quiet at that.

“Hear that? That wasn’t much, Domingo. Right now he’s just got a couple bruises.”

“I will need some time.”

“You never needed much, buddy, so don’t you even think about stalling me. I’ll give you to midnight tonight, Domingo, to start coming through. Either you start the supply back up yourself, or you hand me the people who were doing the job for you, or I’ll finish your friend here off.”

There were a few moments of silence. “Domingo, do you hear me? I need an answer, buddy, or do I have to make your friend uncomfortable again?”

“I hear you,” Verne answered. “I will have something for you before midnight, Carmichael. But if you harm Jason again, you will be exceedingly sorry. That I promise you.”

“Not another touch, Domingo, unless you try something cute. His safety’s all in your hands. I’ll call you later tonight. Be ready.” He hung up, and so did the thug holding the receiver.

“You did that good, Mr. Wood,” Carmichael said. “Now, boys, you can untie him, take him to the bathroom if he needs to go, and we’ll get him some food. You’re not going to do anything stupid, are you?” he asked me.

“Nope,” I said honestly. “I don’t know exactly where we are, and I’m sure you’ve got lots more where these guys come from.”

“Great. Y’know, I grabbed another guy once, few years ago, thought he was a frickin’ action hero. Busted up a few of my guys, tried to get out, ended up shot. Nice to see not everyone’s that stupid.”

Privately, I wondered. Verne was an honorable guy; he’d probably see it as his obligation to get me out of this, but it would really suck if a bastard like Carmichael got access to his drugs again.

But no point in worrying now. Using the bathroom sounded good, and now that my stomach was settling, so did food. I figured I’d just try to be a good Boy Scout and Be Prepared.

 

Trial By Fire – Snippet 26

Trial By Fire – Snippet 26

Marvelous. Their prisoner now had to be recategorized as a mental patient. Trevor saw where that could lead. “Caine, if the alien is psychologically withdrawn, then we have to bring it back to reality.”

“I agree.”

“Then I repeat: nothing motivates as effectively as fear. Let’s not waste any time.”

“We still don’t know how he’ll react. We might force him deeper into withdrawal.”

Trevor looked at Caine from the corner of his eye. “Exactly how much more withdrawn do you expect he can get?” Trevor saw his retort hit home. Caine frowned, looked at the alien. Time to follow up, but gently; gently! “Caine, when we came back from the wreck, I was conscious enough to watch you try every form of communication that we know of to reach the Arat Kur: voice, written language, images, sound patterns, mathematics. But there’s been no response and we’re running out of time. We’ve studied the alien and have discovered some useful facts, but now we have to try other methods.”

After about five seconds, Caine asked quietly, “What do you propose?”

“We start with something passive, something that will work by eroding the exosapient’s will and self-composure. White noise, biased toward the ultrasonic range. We can rig the intercom to produce it. We may have to play with the sound characteristics a bit, since we don’t know what audial stimuli will create discomfort.”

Caine looked disgusted, but nodded. He did not look at Trevor as he launched himself toward the door. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

*   *   *

Trevor started with a decibel level that would have been subaudible to a human subject, using sound waves in the 18,000-30,000 cycles range. It might have made the average person a bit edgy, but no more.

They seemed equally ineffectual upon the Arat Kur. The room’s emergency snoopscope–a single fiber-optic pickup hidden between the modular ceiling plates–showed the Arat Kur still suspended in midair, unmoving and apparently unaware of its surroundings.

Trevor boosted the sound, but thirty minutes later, there was still no visible effect. Trevor checked his settings: a decibel level of 80 and a top sonic range of 40,000 cycles. The machinery was probably not capable of producing higher frequencies. Trevor let his eyes drift back to the decibel level indicator. Eighty was apparently not enough. Trevor depressed the control switch and held it down.

The numbers mounted steadily.

*   *   *

“I wonder–”

Trevor looked up; it was the first sound Caine had made in over an hour. Now, with almost no warning, he was already out of his acceleration couch, swimming around toward Trevor’s computer station. “Any activity?”

“Not so far.”

Riordan nodded, leaned over to study the alien’s black and white image. “Trevor, I think I know why we haven’t been having any luck with–” His words ended abruptly. Trevor looked over, knew what he’d see. Caine was staring at the decibel indicator.

Without a word, Caine picked up his helmet, swam out the exit, headed in the direction of the Arat Kur’s prison chamber. Trevor shook his head, killed the sound, and followed, his limbs still uncooperative and awkward.

*   *   *

It was a measure of how much Caine’s zero-gee facility had improved that he was already alongside the Arat Kur by the time Trevor arrived, handgun out.

“You won’t need it,” Caine said.

“Why?”

“Because the Arat Kur is either dying or comatose. I can’t tell which. Maybe both.”

Trevor edged closer. How could Caine tell if the creature was even more withdrawn than before? There was no change in its appearance.

Upon closer inspection, Trevor revised his assessment. The movement of the respiratory ducts was less pronounced, suggesting shallower breathing. However, the rate of respiration was increased, and there was a persistent tremor in the soft tissues. The only other change was in the hairs–no, the antennae–on the creature’s back: they had all disappeared.

Caine circled the alien slowly, inspecting every centimeter. When he got to the posterior, he leaned lower, inspected a previously unnoticed cloud of liquid globules. “This is probably the worst sign of all. I think it’s voided and has made no effort to move away from its own wastes. Pretty much a sure indicator that it has lost self-awareness or has impaired motor control.”

“All right, so the sound was a bad idea.”

“No. Just before I saw how high you pushed the sound, I was starting to think that the sound was simply pointless. I’m pretty sure that the audial stimuli didn’t do this.”

“Why not?” Trevor’s attention momentarily strayed from the laser-point he was painting on the Arat Kur’s belly.

“This creature is a burrower, so much of the sound made in its environment must persist as echoes. Consequently, its natural habitat is probably noisier than ours. So to hear an individual over any distance, an Arat Kur must be able to filter out background noise. Whether it achieves that filtering by mental discrimination or special anatomical structures is immaterial. What matters is that, evolutionarily, Arat Kur physiology and psychology must be able to tolerate audial distress and confusion.”

Trevor frowned. “Let’s say you’re right. Then how do you explain the catatonia and the–?”

But Caine hardly seemed to hear him. Riordan launched himself back into the corridor, where he scooped up two of the tethers he had used to tow the Arat Kur from the wreck. He somersaulted, kicked back into the room and set about trussing the alien with the longer tether. He tossed the other to Trevor. “Tie it on as a towline. Then keep your weapon on him.”

Trevor lashed, then tugged, the towline. “Taut. Where are we–?”

“Let’s go.” Caine wrapped the end of the towline around his wrist.

“Go where?”

“Life support.”

“Life support?” The words exploded out of Trevor before he could govern the dismay or the volume behind them. “Why?”

“Just a hunch. Play along, okay?”

“All right–for now. But at least tell me what you’re doing so that if something happens to you, I can try to finish the work.”

“Sure. Since the sound didn’t have any effect, I started reviewing all our assumptions about its behavior, its environment. And I returned to the possibility that, if the Arat Kur was not willfully withdrawn, it might be because it was already reacting to something negative in the environment, something we don’t notice but which they find so aversive that it paralyzes them.”

Trevor scowled. “Like what?”

“Space, open space. That’s the one greatest difference between a burrower’s environment and our own.”

“Damn–yes, of course. Agoraphobia. And the answer was in front of us the moment we boarded their ship: the narrow passageways, the low-ceilinged rooms.”

“And when I shot out the cockpit blister, even before it climbed onto you, the Arat Kur starting weakening, and then went rigid, like it was in shock. Or in this case, was immobilized by fear of the greatest open area of all: free space.”

“Without a tether.”

“Right. And when we brought him back here, what did we do? Put him in a high-ceilinged room. He was okay at first because the lights were out and he couldn’t see the spaces that cause his agoraphobia.”

Trevor nodded. “But then we came in and turned on the lights and left him behind. And here he is: wholly catatonic and withdrawn. So now we take him to life support to give him as crowded an environment as we can.”

“And we see what happens.”

“Sabotage, probably.”

“Can’t rule it out, but there are enough snoopscopes in life support to monitor his activity no matter where he goes. And the control room is only a few steps away.”

“I hope you don’t mind if I remain a little closer to our prisoner than that. Like on the other side of this door.” Trevor helped navigate the inert ovoid of the Arat Kur through the hatchway and toward the clutter at the heart of the life-support section.

“Suit yourself.”

The maze of machinery reached to within a meter of the ceiling, and had less than half a meter’s clearance above the floor. Other than a narrow walkway around the outer perimeter, there was no other space wide enough to permit easy passage. A human would have to thread sideways if he wanted to move between the tubes, tanks, and centrifuges.

Caine undid the tow line, and then the restraints. The Arat Kur floated motionless. Riordan pushed himself backward gently, floating out of the room at a leisurely pace. Laser aimpoint still painted on the alien’s belly, Trevor shoved off the deck with his foot and drifted backward. As he cleared the room, the heavy vacuum-rated door slid shut.

“Let’s hope it works,” Caine said.

Trevor nodded and thought, It had better. Because we’re running out of time. All of us.

 

The Savior – Snippet 09

The Savior – Snippet 09

Yet —

Center took me inside the mind of Bara. Now I know a person is dying in agony, not just an enemy.

Of course he doubted if Bara would give a damn in cold hell if their places were reversed and it were Abel nailed to the cross.

But that wasn’t the point, was it?

Will you stop me if I do it? Abel thought-spoke, this time aloud to the presences.

A man become a brute won’t be of much use to us, said Raj. Abel realized he was speaking to Center, giving Abel the benefit of hearing their reasoning together, which must normally take place in the millionth part of an eyeblink. After all, human instincts have to be part of the plan, or we’re no better than that benighted computer in Lindron.

A moment’s pause. A long moment.

Center had once told him: I am a fifth-generation artificial intelligence running on a one hundred gigacubit quantum superimposition engine. I complete more calculations per one of your eyeblinks than all the computers of the first millennium of the Information Age could produce together if all of them ran at full power for each of those thousand years. It would be best if you took my projections seriously.

For Center, a long moment was practically an eternity.

To disregard Center was to open the future. Since he was six years old, he’d lived with Center’s plan and his own destiny within it. To step away from that plan…was it madness?

Of course it was.

In the usual future of the Land, all roads led to Stasis. Freedom was an illusion. Zentrum shaped all.

But to do this one thing on his own, to do it because it was right and not because it was a means toward an end…

Couldn’t he have that chance as a man? Shouldn’t he?

Finally, Center spoke. No. I will not stop you, Abel.

Good then.

Abel quickly left ranks, spun around, and trotted back down the road south. They’d already marched a half a league, and it was a long way back.

All of the Hurthmen were still alive when he got there. Bara’s head was two elbs above Abel. The sun was risen fully now, and Bara was attempting to squeeze his eyes shut against it.

Too far to reach if I want to make a clean cut with a knife.

As Abel stood and considered, he could tell the passing ranks of Guardians were noticing him from the corners of their eyes, considering what this major might be up to.

There is no doubt whatsoever that that is what they are doing, said Center.

Abel looked back at the youth. Bara opened his eyes, saw Abel for the first time. He tried to say something, perhaps deliver a curse, but the crossbow bolt in his tongue prevented it.

In case you are wondering, Raj said, the best method is a bayonet strike through the stomach and into the heart.

Abel unslung his rifle from the strap on his shoulder. He let his pack drop to the ground in the same motion. With practiced speed, he removed the bayonet from its stowage under the barrel, pushed it into its socket, and twisted the stop pin into the slot on the locking ring.

Fixed.

He looked at Bara. The man was watching him now. Abel considered speaking, maybe attempting to explain, but there was really nothing to say.

He either gets it, or he’ll die confused. Either way, the suffering will be over.

Abel put a hand behind the butt of his rifle, and with a hard thrust did exactly as Raj had suggested.

Slicing into the stomach was not difficult, but the bayonet lodged in the thicker muscle of the diaphragm. The crucified man attempted to writhe away from the penetrating blade, but it was no use.

Abel gave another strong push. After the blade cut through the tough muscle, the going became easier. Abel pushed through, no doubt, a lung — and into the heart. A gasp from the stabbed man, nothing more. Abel withdrew the blade. It was followed by a gush of bright arterial blood flowing from the stomach wound, and Abel knew he’d struck home.

When he looked back up, Bara’s eyes were fixed in death.

It was a terrible sight. He’d seen many terrible sights in war and skirmishes. Yet this was one that Abel knew would join the personal, hellish collection that contained the special moments of horror that he could not forget.

I knew his name, Abel thought. I don’t know the others of these Hurthmen. But, curse it, now I’ve got to do the same to them.

He didn’t fool himself into believing any of them would be grateful.

He moved down the line and one by one pierced the crucified men. Only one gave him any struggle, and that was easily dealt with by a wicked twist, then rocking his weight back and forth on the rifle handle.

Soon they were all dead. Abel stood breathing hard. He’d moved quickly, and he was winded. Exhausted.

He had not slept in over a day.

A shadow fell across his back.

Abel turned.

On a large dont with a huge crest of feathers sat Colonel Zachary von Hoff.

Von Hoff held his mount, which the men called Big Green, still, and, with a hand to his own chin, considered Abel.

“I could have you flogged, Major, and sent to ranks,” he said. “I expect you know that.”

Abel nodded.

“I would even be within my rights to have you executed.”

Abel knew military law as well as anyone. What the colonel said was true. “Yes, sir, you could.”

Again von Hoff was silent. He shook his head. “But could I do without the man who won the Battle of the Canal? That is the question.”

“That was my father, sir.”

“That’s not the way Joab Dashian tells it,” said von Hoff. “No, I think for my own purposes, I can’t you spare you, Major. Don’t be fooled. It is a selfish decision on my part.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now clean yourself off as best you can and go find a mount in the train. You look like you’re ready to collapse in that bloody dirt.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“Then you will join me at the vanguard,” he said. “I’ll require your counsel in the days to come, and any example you make by personally marching with the men is now complete.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We have more killing to do shortly, Dashian. Some in battle, but most of it is going to be pure murder.” Von Hoff glanced over at the crucified, now hanging heart-stabbed and dead. “It looks as if you’ve got a start at that.”

After another long look at Abel, the colonel spurred his dont and turned to the north.

Abel stood for a moment until his breathing was under control. He took the bayonet off his rifle, wiped it as clean as he could on one of the dead men’s thighs, and slid it back into stowed position. His tunic sleeves were bloody, but it would dry and flake away. He daubed it with a moistened handkerchief.

A thirty-six percent eventuality, said Center. Remarkable.

We roll the bones, take our chances, Raj put in with a low rumble of laughter.

Abel pulled on his pack and slung the rifle back over his shoulder.

Corpsmen marched by in their eights. More and more.

When Abel turned for a last glance at the line of crucified men, the blood on the ground and on their torsos and legs was already covered by a layer of dust kicked up by the sandals and boots of the passing Guardians.

 

Polychrome – Chapter 03

Polychrome – Chapter 03

Chapter 3.

It does make sense, in a way, Polychrome thought to herself as she studied the man who had recognized her. The prophecies may be vague, but there is quite a bit in there about the lack of certainty of success, about the hero having to find himself.

She felt a slight chill that had nothing to do with her usual need for warmth, a chill running through her heart. And a lot about the possible paths of failure, starting with the first day we meet.

He wasn’t all that bad-looking, she supposed. A bit too heavy, hair unfortunately retreating – though not nearly so much as the poor Wizard’s, which had effectively given up the fight except at the perimeter of his head – but under that a square jaw, some solidity to the shoulders. The face looked nice – some small worry lines, but it looked like his face creased more often in smiles. Behind the rather thick glasses in bright silver frames, the eyes that occasionally glanced at her but were focused mostly on directing the course of this strange vehicle were a clear blue. But he was a rather great deal older than she had expected. Most people who found their way to Faerie were young; the few older ones had some connection to Faerie before they arrived – even the Wizard, though he had never guessed it; the Shaggy Man had his Love Magnet, and the other older people she knew of had been brought there in the company of, or due to the actions of, younger people.

But from what her father had said, it was utterly impossible that this man had any connection with Faerie. He couldn’t, or all their hopes would be for nothing.

Seeing that they were now moving (at a very impressive speed) steadily along some very wide roadway, she decided it should be safe to speak. “And now that we are safely away, sir, may I have your name?”

At her voice, she saw a paradox of expression; a smile, yet a tenseness, almost of fear; but she didn’t think he was afraid of her – no man she’d ever known was, unless she meant them to be. “My name is Erik Medon, Lady Polychrome.” He spoke formally, his gaze flicking to her face and then away. He’s making a very great effort, now that I think of it, to look nowhere else. Well, he’s trying to be a gentleman, even if it seems that this is rare here.

“Just Polychrome, if I may call you Erik,” she said with a small laugh. Yes, the laugh was right. Worries are not my province nor things to concern a Faerie.

“Please do… Polychrome.”

She heard the echo in his voice of the same disbelieving joy that had filled it when first he spoke her name. I like that. “Thank you for your timely arrival, Erik. I am not sure I liked the looks of all those people.” How to bring us to the right discussion… I need to understand him. But there is so little time here!

He chuckled and his smile looked more natural. “Mobs are not comfortable things to be around, and people don’t always react well to things they don’t understand,” he said, tacitly agreeing. “But, if you’ll pardon me for jumping straight to the point, you said you needed to speak with me. And you seemed to be expecting someone when I spoke, though – obviously – you weren’t expecting me.”

Well, that solves that problem. Polychrome nodded. “I was expecting you, actually… I just didn’t have any idea who you were.”

He frowned in thought for a moment, and then his brow cleared. “I see. You were following a prophecy.”

That startled her. “Well-thought, Erik! You have hit exactly upon it!”

Another surprise was the slight blush that touched his cheeks at the compliment. “Oh, that didn’t take much thinking. Seen the scenario enough in the books I’ve read. You came here with the knowledge that you needed to meet someone at a particular place… hmm… and obviously it had to be whoever it was that first recognized you, since as soon as I spoke your name you knew it had to be me.” The vehicle was crossing over a very high bridge now, and she looked down from a dizzying height at a great brown river below. Erik continued, “So… what is it you need to find me for? And of course the other question is, when am I going to wake up?”

“As to the second, you are very much awake right now. Is magic and faerie so much forgotten now that you think this could only be in a dream?”

“Forgotten? As far as people today are concerned, there never was such a thing. The few people who do believe in magic… well, they believe in something very different from anything even vaguely like the Faerie of Oz, and nowhere is there any real evidence it ever existed. To be honest… even the Oz books themselves are fading from most people’s memory. Most people who know the word associate it with a single movie that wasn’t even an accurate adaptation of the book.”

He turned them onto a ramp leading to another street. “And as far as the world I know is concerned, the Oz stories were just that, stories, no connection to any reality. With you here, of course, I now know that isn’t at all true. Baum, and possibly Neill, had to know something about the reality of Faerie. Assuming I’m not dreaming this whole thing, which is something that I am hoping is not true with a desperation you could not even begin to imagine.”

The intensity of the last words demanded a reassurance, and she laughed. “You are not dreaming, Erik Medon, and there will be no awakening to a world in which you have not met me in that strange black field of horseless carriages. Although,” she continued, more soberly, “you may well come to wish that you would awaken, for in the end this may be more nightmare than dream to you.”

“Having met you and learned that Faerie is real?” Now he laughed, loudly, a cheerful, free sound that seemed to lighten the air around her. “Polychrome, that would take something much darker than I can imagine.” He turned the wheel and brought the vehicle to a stop in a driveway next to a small white house. “And I can imagine quite a bit.” The last part sounded almost as though he was quoting something.

Erik came around to open the door and hand her out – though in a way that showed he was utterly unused to this sort of formality or courtesy. “Thank you, Erik. So this is your home?”

He nodded, looking slightly worried. “Um, realize that I live here alone, so, well, I don’t keep things very neat most of the time. Okay, just about any of the time.”

This was something of an understatement, she found, as the door opened and he turned on what appeared to be electric lights. The rooms were cluttered, mostly with books and papers piled here and there. It wasn’t, as she’d momentarily feared, a place of unhealthy litter, and as she wandered, dancing idly, through the various rooms, she suddenly recognized it as the same kind of disorganized, omnipresent clutter she’d seen in the Wizard’s private rooms on occasion, or those of other men of education and no family; the sign of a thoughtful man, though not a very organized one. Maybe the mess… isn’t a bad sign, she thought. He reads a great deal; he thinks and writes, I can see. His mind is quick. Maybe…

He blocked her entry to one room. “Definitely not.”

She giggled. “Ah, your own room. Fear not, I will not invade such a secret lair.” She danced back to what was clearly the sitting or living room; he stepped ahead of her and removed several stacks of books from a large overstuffed chair.

“Now that we’re here, Polychrome…” he said slowly, watching her sit (and still clearly keeping his eyes locked on her face, though she suspected that he had not managed such a trick while following her), “what brings you here?”

“Well…” To her surprise, for a moment Polychrome found herself speechless. How in the world do I begin?

Surprisingly, he seemed to understand. “Let me see if I can help a little,” he said. “You know I’ve read the Oz books – how else could I have known who you were? – but realize, I’m not so naïve as to believe that every detail in those books is accurate. My guess is that Baum toned some things way down – because they were children’s’ books – and a lot of other things got tweaked either for the sake of a story, or to fit his own beliefs. So don’t worry about shocking me with facts that don’t fit those books.” He stepped towards the kitchen. “I know you don’t eat much at all, but I need to grab me something.”

I just don’t know how to start. She looked at the faint shadows moving as he rummaged through the… refrigerator?… that seemed to store a lot of food. Especially when I have to eventually get to the part where I tell him…

But that wasn’t something to dwell on. When she got to that part she’d just have to go straight through and say it before she lost her nerve. Which wasn’t at all usual with her, but then, this whole thing was… very unusual.

As he came back in, eating a rather thick sandwich of some sort, she decided abruptly that it was best to go straight to the heart of things. “Oz has been destroyed.”

With a comical widening of the eyes, Erik gasped. This was unfortunate as he also had a large bite of sandwich in his mouth at the time. He gagged, tried to speak, and in a panic Polychrome ran over, pounding him on the back. Oh, by the Seven Hues, what could I tell father? “I’m sorry, I accidentally made our hero choke himself to death”??

Suddenly the food dislodged, he swallowed and took a deep breath that had a strange whistling undertone. “‘Sokay, okay,” he said, waving her back. From his pocket he took a yellow, shiny object shaped something like the letter “L” and stuck one end in his mouth, pressing with the other; there was a quick hiss and he inhaled, then held his breath for a few seconds. “Sorry,” he said finally, “that kind of thing sometimes triggers an attack. Asthma,” he said, as she shot him a questioning gaze. “My lungs don’t always like to do their job and will choke up on me.” He shook his head, then sat down in a nearby, smaller chair. “What exactly do you mean, Oz is destroyed?”

“The land itself is still there.” She tried to find the right words. “But it is no longer the Oz you have read of – even allowing for what those books did not tell you.”

He had an odd smile for a moment as she spoke, then his expression grew more serious. “Was this a… natural change, for want of a better word?”

To her own surprise, she found herself hesitating. She knew that it hadn’t been natural in any sense of the word… yet he clearly had a very good reason for asking… and a part of her felt that there might be something important behind that question, something her father might have understood better than she. But she shook her head. “No. Conquest. And you need to realize that Oz… is the center of Faerie. Those who hold it are more powerful than the rest, and the condition of Oz can affect the rest of us. And perhaps rebound upon your own people.”

The blue eyes narrowed as he nodded his head, and for a moment she saw a strategist, leaning over a map. “Or, perhaps, what is done here rebounds upon your own.”

That… is not far from something Father said. “There are… connections between our worlds, according to my Father. So… you may be right.”

“Okay, Polychrome.” He spoke with a new tone, someone listening to a problem and looking for understanding. “Start from the beginning. Tell me how it happened, who was responsible, and then how I come into all this.”

Maybe… maybe he can help. She drew a deep breath. “It began when there were… thefts…”

 

Trial By Fire – Snippet 25

Trial By Fire – Snippet 25

Trevor shrugged. “So what? A little sensory deprivation might make our guest more cooperative.”

Caine’s helmet lights picked out the spacesuited Arat Kur, floating motionless in a corner on the opposite side of the room. The cables wrapped around the oblong shape were intact. Trevor centered the laser aimpoint on the lower half of the alien’s belly. “You’re covered.”

Caine activated the room’s lights and the two humans closed to a meter’s range. Still no movement. Caine undid the knotted cables. The coils fell away from the Arat Kur, which simply floated, inert.

“Is it dead?” asked Trevor.

He had meant the question as a rhetorical gibe, but Caine leaned closer to inspect the life-support unit on the alien’s back. “I doubt it. There are no red lights showing on its life-support pack. However, a number of gauges have changed since we came over from the wreck. Probably those are simply measuring the drain on energy and air supplies.”

Trevor nodded; a reasonable hypothesis. “What do we do with him now?”

“We dress him out,” said Caine.

Trevor’s stomach contracted, trying to get away from the alien and the notion of seeing it fully exposed. “Is this a suitable environment for him?” he croaked.

“He should be okay. The atmosphere we found on his ship shows that they are oxygen breathers. If anything, he’ll find our air a little bland. His had higher traces of sulfur.”

Trevor found that removing the Arat Kur’s spacesuit was not especially difficult. The garment was semirigid, with a more flexible strip running across the dorsal surface. This strip functioned as a hinge, which allowed the suit to split into anterior and posterior halves. The ventral surface was quartered by the intersection of longitudinal and latitudinal seals. Opening the suit involved undoing these ventral seals and then exerting a slight pressure on the dorsal hinge; the Arat Kur eased out of the garment like an irregular pea forced out of its pod. Its six legs also dragged free of their coverings limply, then they slowly curled back up toward the torso until the rear two pair laid flat against the flat belly and the front pair were bunched up just under the alien’s chin.

Chin? Well, at least that’s how Trevor thought of it: the Arat Kur didn’t really have one. The creature’s body was essentially a front-heavy ellipse. The front was a blunt, flattened surface with a large, recessed central orifice: the alimentary opening, maybe? Two wide-set eyes were located above this “mouth” and two equally wide-set orifices were located beneath it. Slight, rhythmic alterations in those lower orifices suggested that they were respiratory ducts.

The Arat Kur’s back was most notable in that it seemed to be the only part of the body that sprouted any hair. The growth was sparse, occurring as small, evenly distributed clusters of short, fine spines. Each spine rose from the center of a pronounced pore. These, and a few other apparently hairless pores, were the only ones on the alien’s entire body.

Trevor pushed away from the presumed Arat Kur. “Any helpful insights?”

Caine shook his head. “None. You?”

“No. But I don’t trust it, the way it just floats there, waiting. Waiting for what? For us to turn our backs? To die?”

“Maybe it’s not waiting at all. Maybe it can’t move.”

“Can’t move?”

“Maybe it’s in shock. Or in an altered state of consciousness. Or is too emotionally traumatized to respond.”

“Strange behavior for a race that settles its diplomatic problems by invading another species’ territory.”

“I agree.” Caine continued to inspect the creature. “Unusual eye structure: no pupils.”

Trevor leaned over to look for himself. “No pupils?”

“None that I can see. But then again, the whole eye is different.”

Trevor studied the area surrounding the organ. “I can’t see any ducts or moisture. In fact, I don’t think there’s much capacity for ocular movement.”

“Odd.” Caine paused. “What about those wrinkled ridges around the eyes? Maybe some kind of folded cartilaginous sleeve?”

“Doesn’t look like it to me. Why?”

Caine shrugged. “Could be the sign of an extrusive mechanism.”

“Eyestalks, huh? I don’t think so. Why are you checking the eyes so closely, anyway?”

“Sensory ability tends to be a first cousin to communication. If we get an idea of how the Arat Kur perceive their environment, we might learn a little about how they–now this is interesting.”

“What?”

As Caine drifted closer to the Arat Kur, Trevor pushed farther back, retightening his grip on the gun. One fast slash of its front claws might filet Caine. But he seemed oblivious to the threat, staring closely into the alien’s eyes. “What are you doing, trying to hypnotize it?”

Caine’s voice suggested that he hadn’t even heard the gibe. “This isn’t really an eye at all. It’s the end of a thick fiber-optic bundle. It’s a–a kind of lens. No soft tissue whatsoever.”

“So where is the retina, or its analog?”

“Probably back in the carapace. Which makes sense, when you think about it.”

“Why?”

“Well, they appear to be evolved from some kind of burrowers, right? So, lots of dirt and debris flying around, airborne. Trapped in tight, subterranean spaces where it can’t disperse. The Arat Kur eye, evolving in that environment, develops a fairly insensate outer surface: a thick lens. Multiple lenses, if I’m seeing things correctly.”

“Why multiple? Redundancy in case of obstruction or injury?”

“Maybe. Or maybe it gives the Arat Kur more visual options.”

“How?”

“The ability to change depth of focus, for instance. Our eye changes focus by using muscular force to reshape the lens. The Arat Kur eye doesn’t seem to have any muscles and the outermost lens certainly doesn’t look very flexible. So instead, they might select different lenses for different focal requirements.”

Trevor carried the idea one step further. “That could even give them a means of compensating for their lack of eye mobility. Perhaps the right combination of lenses gives them a fish-eye lens effect, a wide-angle view. But that wouldn’t give them very good vision. Compound eyes aren’t terribly efficient.”

Caine kept starting at the Arat Kur. “First of all, I’m not sure this is a real compound eye. Just because there are lots of lenses doesn’t mean there’s a retina for each one. And when it comes to efficiency–well, I suppose that depends upon what the eye is supposed to achieve. As burrowers, the Arat Kur probably don’t spend a lot of time above ground. So, how essential is three-hundred-sixty-degree vision? How much do they need highly mobile eyes?”

Trevor saw the point, finished it. “Instead, they’d need eyes that weren’t particularly sensitive to debris. And they’d also tend towards developing superior sensitivity to lower wavelength light in order to increase their ability to see in the dark.”

“Most specifically, to see in the infrared,” agreed Caine. “That way, in a completely lightless burrow, they can still locate other Arat Kur by their body heat.”

“Okay, but how does knowing all that help us to communicate with it?”

Caine was floating around the side of the alien. “It helps us by suggesting that vision cannot be the primary sense for the Arat Kur.”

“Huh?”

“Well, as you said, long-distance vision probably isn’t so good; that’s pretty much a constant with any multiple-lens ocular structure. That means that they would tend to be even less dependent upon visual warning, so it will be less important to their evolution. And if they are truly shortsighted, then they’re going to have to find another medium for long-distance communication.”

Trevor thought. “Which means that this critter should have a really good set of ears. But I’m not seeing any.”

“I think I’ve just found them.” Caine sounded like he was smiling. “Come take a look.”

Trevor moved forward slowly, keeping the aimpoint on the alien’s belly. He stopped, looked where Caine was pointing: at the Arat Kur’s back. Again, Trevor saw the big, raised pores sprouting rigid, short black hairs, although some of the biggest pores showed no hair at all. He looked for an orifice hidden amongst them, or a tympanum. Nothing. “I give up; where are its ears?”

“You’re looking at them.”

“Ugly back hairs?”

“I’m betting that those aren’t hairs. Those are retractable antennae. Almost fully retracted now, I’ll bet.”

Trevor looked again. “That’s an awful lot of antennae.”

“No more than you’d expect for a creature so completely dependent upon sound. They probably go straight down into acoustic chambers of some sort, transmitting the vibrations they detect to an audial nerve.”

“Then why are the hairs–antenna–retracted now? Are we being purposely ignored?”

“Maybe. Or maybe it’s a reflex that reduces stimuli.”

“So it is ignoring us.”

“No, more like it just can’t handle what it’s experienced and has withdrawn its consciousness from the outside world.”

“Like catatonia?”

“Maybe. Or perhaps it’s a natural trauma response for the species.”

 

The Savior – Snippet 08

The Savior – Snippet 08

3

Staff Sergeant Silverstein and the three others who had been killed lay wrapped in their own wax tarps. Temporary sergeants had been appointed, and the platoon had eaten breakfast and packed while a detail dug a hole in the middle of the trampled barley field.

Presiding was the squad sergeant who had given Abel the hard cider the night before. He was platoon staff sergeant now, in charge of the entire twenty-five men of the second platoon. Abel learned his name was Grimmett. He had a calf wound, which was treated and bound, but blood still seeped into the bandage and formed a red splotch on the side of his leg. Grimmett had tied his sandal straps over the wound and was going to make the day’s march with his men.

Derek Ogilvy, the company captain, was present. They’d been waiting for brigade command staff to arrive. The staff sergeant called his men to attention.

Abel straightened himself as well. Coming to attention was a relief. He had been hunched and tight from watching the interrogation and then the crucifixion, his muscles tensing vicariously with each pulled joint and hammered stake. He raised his right arm diagonally across his breast in the Guardian salute.

“Would the major say a few words?” Ogilvy asked him. This was ceremonial, de rigeur. The highest ranking officer present must speak the eulogy.

After a moment of silence by the open grave, Abel spoke the words he’d learned his first year at the Academy in Marching Order and Protocols.

“We are but wheat in the fields of the Law. We are grain in the hands of Zentrum. Let these who have served the Edicts and the Stasis faithfully be commended to the ground.”

Abel turned to the assembled men.

“Repeat after me,” he said. “We are the harvest.”

“We are the harvest.”

“We are the Land and the Land is us.”

“We are the Land and the Land is us.”

And the codes, spoken by Abel alone: “To serve Zentrum is to serve the Land. To serve the Laws of Zentrum is to serve the Land.”

Abel made the circled pyramid sign of Zentrum over each of the bodies with his right hand.

“As it is now, it always was, and ever shall be, Stasis without end.” He looked up, faced the men. “Alaha Zentrum.”

“Alaha Zentrum,” they returned. And it was done.

The burial detail dragged each of the dead men by their tarps and, with a yank, dumped them into the hole. The detail carefully folded the tarps and packed them away. A good wax tarp was not an item to part with.

The detail went to work with a will and filled the grave quickly, while the remainder of the platoon looked on until the task was complete. The men of the burial detail then took their place back in formation.

“Shoulder arms!” called the sergeant.

With a clank of metal and wood, the assembled men raised their musket to marching position.

“Right face!”

The men turned.

“By the left, double-march!”

With two abreast, the staff sergeant marched them over the fresh grave in the barley three times, each time stamping the earth down more. No one would disturb these bones, for there would be only a flat bit of bare ground in a field after they were through, soon overgrown with grain. The bodies of the dead would feed the Land. The dead would serve Zentrum’s divine purpose even in decay.

Then the sergeant marched them to the road, careful to join it south of the spot where the Hurthmen hung crucified.

When the platoon passed the crucified prisoners, the Guardian troops barely glanced aside. None stopped to gape or gloat. Abel wondered if even his Treville Scouts would show such restraint. He doubted it.

Zentrum’s finest.

The same did not apply to the crucified men. Although they could make only grunts and groans, their agonized eyes followed Abel as he moved past them. Bara, the youth, hung crookedly, like a shield that had been carelessly placed on a peg, his tendonless elbow distended on his right arm.

Abel could feel the young man’s eyes lingering on his back. He had never so badly wanted to go against the utilitarian path his head told him he must follow.

The boy’s agony, his desire to see his mother again, tugged at Abel’s heart.

He’s like me. He never will.

He glanced back.

I could break his legs; I could cut his throat quickly, Abel thought.

Not advised, said Center. Observe:

No matter how carefully Abel did it, there was a witness. He was seen and reported. He’d given the Hurthman an easy way out. He’d disobeyed orders.

The following day, he was brought up on charges. Flanked by two Guardians, Abel found his sword removed, his weapons stowed.

Then Abel was forced to gaze into the suffering eyes of von Hoff as the colonel pronounced judgment on his protégé. There was nothing von Hoff could do. Orders were orders.

Abel’s sword was brought forward. Von Hoff laid it next to a stone and broke it with a quick kick to the flat of the blade.

Abel was turned over to Timon for punishment. Friend or not, Timon did not shirk when delivering the one hundred lashes. He could not.

Then, with his back torn to ribbons, Abel was forced to complete the day’s march. He was put in ranks and did as his sergeant bid him. He was a private now.

And when the Progar campaign was done, he was nothing at all. For then Abel lay on the field of battle, a minié slug in his brain.

Projection sixty-eight point four percent accuracy, with a seventy-five percent accuracy on similar variations.

A private. So what? Abel thought. So I’m busted to ranks? And there’s a thirty-six percent chance I won’t be killed.

Even so, any chance of your death greater than fifty percent is unacceptable, said Center dryly.

To hell with our present purpose! Abel thought. Our purpose has always meant Center’s purpose, anyway. He did not preverbalize the thought, the way he did mind-speech that was directed at Center and Raj.

There was a place within Abel’s mind that he believed Center and Raj could not reach. It was a quiet, preverbal way of thinking. He’d tested them several times on it, and he was fairly sure he’d succeeded at keeping his secrets. He’d thought things he knew would always get a reaction from either Raj or Center, but not brought those thoughts to the edge of speech. No reaction. Abel called this place within himself the “Hideout.”

Still, he could never be sure that pretending not to “overhear” Abel’s innermost thoughts while in the Hideout was part of a long game by Center. Yet he believed this was not the case.

When he spoke directly to them, the words were always as if on the tip of his tongue. Not now. Despite his affection for his inner voices, he had spent years perfecting his ability to keep his thoughts from the presences in his mind. The truth was, in the past few years, and after all he’d been exposed to in the capital, they had begun to sound a bit old-fashioned to Abel. A relic of his childhood. As unreal as the Carnadon Man.

In his better moments, he knew this not to be the case, but there were times he couldn’t help pondering the possibilities.

This was definitely a train of thought Abel didn’t preverbalize. Raj and Center possessed the key to motor control of his muscles, both voluntary and involuntary, even if they did not subjugate his will. They could shut Abel down if they deemed it necessary.