Footwizard

by Terry Mancour

  The hieroglyphs proved her theory, whatever they said. They were more than a million years old, easily, and they belied translation. But the Orions had records that extended back that far, thanks to their long lives and tumultuous history, and their scholars could very well know what they said.

  When they did arrive a few moments later, Saram was dismayed about how formal and protocol-minded they were, for scholars. The introduction rituals were tedious, the discussion was heavily scripted, and the entire exchange was compounded by the Orion delegation’s open contempt for Saram and her colleagues. Only a few of the junior scholars were even remotely polite and interested in her little world. The rest were officious and boring, seeming to sneer at every suggestion one of the natives made about the discovery.

  It was excruciating to bear, but there was little choice. Saram knew the Orions were just looking for an excuse to intervene here. Escalating a scientific debate into a diplomatic crisis and then into a reason for intervention and sanction was well within the Republic’s capabilities. Hence Lississix’s insistence on strictly maintaining protocols, even if it meant skipping the buffet.

  But, finally, the actual inspection of the twelve-foot-long steles that had been discovered in the extinct volcanic caverns at the equator began. The stuffy Orions tried to conceal their eagerness, but as soon as they were displayed on six long tables, they were examining them by eye and with their own scientific instruments.

  “It’s clearly millions of years old,” Saram pointed out, as she shadowed one young scholar.

  “It’s Mamatic, probably Secondary Mamatic,” the man said, peering through an optical scope. “Very old. Very rare.” He was handsome, Saram noted, a specialist in ancient Galactic languages.

  “Do you know what it says?” she asked, curious.

  “In general, yes. It’s a kind of monument and warning. It tells the story of ancient races on hidden worlds where the laws of physics are different.”

  “Fables, then,” she nodded.

  “Fables?” the man asked, surprised. “Oh, no. Or not in the way you mean. They’re real enough. The Republic has known about these places for millennia. We even have a special catalog classification for them.”

  “You do? I thought they were mere legends,” she said, innocently. She did not think them mere legends.

  “There are a lot of legends The universe is a very odd place, you know,” he said, relaxing a little as he lectured. “Especially at the quantum level. It’s not really my field, but they’ve appeared in histories, here and there. We have records of visiting them, in the past. Well, our Sliss’stik allies have – they’re fascinated by them. Consciousness directly acting on the universe at the quantum level is a bit fanciful, but those places do exist. They’ve produced some real nastiness, too, if the records are to be believed. They’re best avoided.”

  For some reason, Saram didn’t believe the scholar was reluctant to study such things. In fact, he seemed quite eager, and pleased that he’d seen the Mamatic Steles, as the Orion delegation named them. In fact, every one of the scholars seemed excited by them.

  That was worrisome. Any time the officious Orions got excited about something, worlds could fall. She tried to determine why she was feeling so anxious, all of a sudden, by continuing to intellectually flirt with the man.

  “I know that strange quantum effects can happen close to singularities,” she recalled, “but I didn’t think that had much influence on things, outside of their immediate vicinity.”

  “Oh, it’s not the sort of thing that happens near black holes,” the man said, chuckling patronizingly. “Quite the contrary. That’s why they’re so rare. When they do evolve, they tend to be temporary in nature. And therefore, highly sought after by so many for their differences in quantum field.”

  “A difference in the quantum field? That’s enough to cause this much interest?” she asked.

  The scholar stiffened, a bit, and then smiled patronizingly. “Well, there are a lot of useful experiments you can do in such places. Perhaps if you study quantum dimensional mechanics and transpatial theory for a century or so, you’d understand.”

  Saram suppressed an impulse to slap the man for his arrogance. Instead, she pursed her lips and stared at the stele before them, the bizarre hieroglyphics that had been taunting her since their excavation, continuing to mock her ignorance.

  “So, what does this stele refer to?” she asked, instead. “Surely you’re smart enough to figure it out.”

  “I’ll have to work on the precise translation, but I believe it speaks of an ancient race, Those-Without-Form, is the literal translation. I’ve heard of them before, actually, in the Actinean archives. Indeed, the Actineans ended up destroying their homeworld, according to legend. But, of course, some escaped.”

  “They sound nebulous,” Saram said, conversationally. Certainly, the man was a boor, but she was learning some new things.

  “Those-Without-Form are one of those ancient, unkillable races that manages to not go extinct because, well, they’re ancient and unkillable. Thankfully, they avoid most civilized places and hide out in out-of-the-way planets with this kind of special quantum field. There are legends of them on dozens of planets, most dating to half a million years ago or more.”

  “That would put them in the Lektite Period, wouldn’t it?” she asked, thinking carefully.

  The man’s thin eyebrows raised. “You know of the Lektite Period?”

  “We do try to keep up with even the more obscure portions of Galactic History,” she said, a little more defensively than she intended.

  The scholar nodded absently. “Those-Without-Form are far older than the Lektite, but that was when they were most active. They’re parasites,” he explained, patronizingly. “They have some means of dimensional manipulation, thanks to their unique environment. This race uses dimensional sounding, it is theorized, to locate worlds with the proper esoteric quantum field, then it finds a way to get there.

  “Once it’s there, it consumes everything in its path, enriched on the . . . well, we don’t really know why they need to do it,” he confessed, putting down the scope, finally. “But they tend to destroy everything else while they’re doing it. The Republic and the Draco both consider them a restricted species. That’s the sort of reason we’re interested in these kinds of records: so that we know where races like this might linger and avoid them.”

  “But only on these special worlds?” she asked, trying to goad the man into revealing more.

  “Oh, yes,” he nodded. “See this symbol? That’s the one that the Mamites used to designate them. At the time, there were more than there are now, for some reason. That may just be chance. But the field allows all sorts of strange things to occur than cannot be done in a normal quantum field, especially with dimensional mechanics and consciousness. The Mamites were mad about that sort of thing. A pity they’re extinct.”

  “Yes, a pity,” Samra agreed, absently, as she stared at the ancient stele. “I do hope your team will be quick to share the results of your analysis. We’re very excited to have found something so . . . so venerable on our little world.”

  “Of course,” he nodded. “These little backwaters are where all the good stuff is found. When we take control here, eventually, a thorough, responsible, and orderly search is probably in order. We might find some more. And on that glaciated world next door.” He said it so casually that Saram almost didn’t notice – but when she did her spine stiffened.

  “I don’t think that is very likely,” she said, carefully. But there was no disguising her tone. “We can, of course, negotiate access to the steles, but they are our property.”

  “The Republic has gone to war over less. Your sovereignty here is temporary,” the scholar dismissed, as if it were established fact. “Within a decade, the Republic will be in charge, here. And probably throughout the Lyran Commonwealth. Then you can finally expect some decent organization. I’m hungry,” he said, and walked away toward the buffet table w
ithout bothering to disengage her properly. That was a blatant violation of social protocol, and likely intentional.

  The thought of those arrogant Orion bastards ruling her tiny little world galled her, and anger rose in her throat. She was not a violent woman, but she could not help but feel a pall of rage rise over her.

  Saram realized that her fists had been balled up in rage until the nails had left impressions in her palms. She opened them and flexed them, studying them absently while she tried to bring herself under control. She tried to relax and not cause an interplanetary incident by snatching up a skewer from the buffet and plunging it into the arrogant Orion researcher’s eye.

  Instead, she focused for a moment on the polar ocean, the white caps of the waves rolling on the bay at twilight. Both moons were in the sky, now. All three morning stars appeared, as well. Perhaps that was a sign, she hoped, as she stared at the indentations in her palm.

  And then I was someone else. Michael Anthony Palgrave.

  Chapter Forty

  The Flavor of Distant Earth

  We do not begin to understand the debt we owe to Old Terra for the gift she gave to Callidore in the humani.

  from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

  Recorded by Dr. Lilastien

  Tuaa Folauga’s unbearable grief. Saram the Scholar’s deep despair. Both long-dead minds now lived within mine, their memories and their hopes and their fears warring with my own.

  But Szal the Yith did not relent; there was no pause between exposures to my hosts. And as sure as I was lost among the memories of his previous victims, I had a certainty that he was rooting around in my memory with grim delight.

  But there was no rest. There was no time to acclimatize myself to having two strangers in my head. The next second brought the next impression, and I began to panic over the wave of new memory that coursed through my brain. The transitions were instantaneous and complete, jarring my abused mind viciously while I tried desperately to maintain my control and keep my thoughts on my goal.

  But I was out of my depth, here. This was beyond anything I’d done before with magic. The most difficult spells I’d ever attempted were a simple challenge, compared to the trial that was waging in my head.

  I went from Saram’s pretty, bronzed hands to the long, nimble, pale fingers of a man. I went from a reddish world with tiny moons to a lush, green land with oceans stretching from horizon to horizon and a single sun and a single fat moon to decorate the sky.

  My name was Michael Anthony Palgrave, and I was sick.

  I – he – stared out of the glazed window through the rain toward the distant sea, and I felt miserable. There was no source of the pain I felt, he noted, as I settled in behind his eyes and his memories overtook me. It seemed to come from everywhere, and a deep disquiet haunted his every thought.

  But it was time to buck up and ignore the pain, Michael knew. It was rare that he ever had visitors, here, but when they came, he did not like to appear as weak as he felt.

  He had to maintain appearances, after all. Anton had traveled all the way from London to come see him. He might have protested that he had business in the area, anyway, but Michael knew that wasn’t true. They had gone to school together, and Anton Folkstone was one of the few fellow students that had maintained a friendship with Michael since he had left so unceremoniously.

  “Would you like a drink, Anton?” he asked, trying to stand straight as he turned back from the window. “I think I’m going to have one.”

  “Good God, man, it’s ten o’clock in the morning!” his friend declared, appalled.

  They were a study in physical contrasts: Anton was getting stout, in his maturity, and his broad shoulders supported a large head, a wide face, and a bushy but neatly trimmed beard. He had a continental air about him, thanks to a Hungarian grandfather. There were rumors he was a Gypsy, but Michael knew better. Anton’s grandfather had been a Hussar, before he’d gone to Austria and married an Englishwoman.

  Michael, by comparison, was thin, approaching gaunt, with sharp features and no trace of facial hair. He was meticulous in his grooming and his wardrobe, though the latter was not as fine as it had been at college. His trust was running out, and he had no reason to indulge in new clothes. But he dressed as well as he could from his existing wardrobe and tried to portray the typical English aristocrat he was supposed to be . . . and secretly despised.

  “Well, if you’re going to have one,” conceded Anton, a moment later. “I would hate to seem inhospitable. Gin?”

  “Of course,” Michael said, heading for the bar. His long fingers nimbly mixed the embarrassingly cheap gin with tonic water. There was no lime, but he managed a few slivers of ice. He’d chopped some from the block the moment he’d gotten Anton’s telegram. “So, what brings you way out here?” he asked, casually, as he mixed the drinks.

  “My sister is worried about you,” Anton admitted. “She asked me to look you up.”

  “I hope she’s well,” Michael said, stoically. “How is the new baby? And her husband?” he asked as an afterthought.

  “They’re all well,” Anton agreed. “But your last letter gave her a fright. Something about ancient legends and all that mystical mumbo-jumbo we used to go on about at school. Haven’t you outgrown that silliness, Old Man?”

  Michael produced an indulgent giggle. “Ancient history is hardly mumbo-jumbo, Anton,” he assured, as he mixed the gin. “You, of all people, should realize that.”

  “Yes, but you weren’t writing her about Egyptian mummies, Old Man,” Anton sighed. “You apparently went on and on about . . . about other planets,” he said, enunciating the words sarcastically.

  “Well, I’ve taken an interest in astronomy,” Michael demurred, handing one of the two drinks to Anton, and taking a seat. “I heard a programme on the wireless about the moons of Jupiter, and it started me studying, again.” He took a sip of the drink. I was surprised. It was a taste of old Earth. Terra.

  “It was Mars, not Jupiter, you mentioned in your letter, Old Man,” Anton said, as he sipped the drink. “That’s what disturbed Cecily. She said your letter sounded like one of those horrid things that American chap Burroughs writes about. All insect-men and fantastical theories about . . . well, she didn’t really know. But she is worried about you,” he emphasized.

  Michael sniffed. “Not enough to consider my proposal,” he said, taking a larger swallow of his drink than he’d intended. By that was to be expected. Cecily was a painful memory.

  “Now, now, Old Man, you have to consider her position,” Anton soothed. “A destitute aristocrat with few considerations? Or a surgeon at the top of his class? A woman must keep things in perspective,” he said, with a cock of his head.

  “Of course,” Michael agreed, mildly. “I was just excited about some of the lectures I’ve been to, and some of the information that’s come into my hands. I thought Cecily might be interested. Now that she’s married, I’m certain that she needs some sort of intellectual stimulation,” he reasoned.

  “Not that Blavatsky tart, again?” Anton moaned. “She just wants what little money you have left. And by all that’s holy don’t tell me you’re hanging around Crowley again. That man is a menace,” he warned. “He hasn’t been right since he got back from Egypt.”

  “No, no,” Michael assured, “I’ve been corresponding with . . . well, let’s just say that they are people who know things. Important things,” he emphasized. “Explorers. Scholars of note. Men who have access to secret and occult knowledge,” he confided. “There are things being discovered in the deserts of North Africa, in the mountains of Patagonia, in Tibet, in Cathay, in Antarctica – secret things, long lost to the knowledge of man – that have recently come to light.”

  “Such as?” groaned Anton. “Really, Old Man, I thought this sort of thing would be out of your system by senior year.”

  “I never got to senior year,” Michael said, drinking defensively. “Surely you remember.”

  “Vividly,” ag
reed Anton with a sigh. “So, what ‘occult knowledge’ got your knickers twisted enough to bother my sister?” he asked, pointedly.

  “Well,” Michael began, slowly, “there was a lecture recently that presents evidence that humanity . . . that humankind did not evolve on this world, as Darwin theorizes,” he declared, in a quiet voice.

  Anton studied his friend carefully for a few minutes. “You don’t have the syphilis, do you?” he asked, in a pleading voice. “That can lead to madness.”

  Michael blushed at the suggestion. He was still a virgin.

  “No, no, I’m as hardy as I’ve ever been—”

  “That’s not saying much,” Anton shrugged.

  “Yes, I’m aware that His Majesty does not consider me fit for military service,” complained Michael, bitterness in his voice. “Nor am I suited to the soldier’s life. But this new information is key,” he insisted. “It suggests that our hallowed ancestors hail not from Saxony and the Danelands, or even Africa but . . . from Mars!” he said, insistently.

  “Dear God, you must have started drinking before I arrived,” sighed Anton, shaking his head. “Really, Palgrave!”

  “It’s true, Anton, or at least the theory has merit!” Michael insisted. “The tablets discovered in Mesopotamia, the hieroglyphs in Egypt, the—”

  “The usual mystical nonsense designed to take in gullible fools that’s been haunting London for fifty years – really, Palgrave, you must learn to be more discriminating. Next thing you know, you’ll be a Bolshevik!”

  “I swear to you,” Michael insisted, “the information I’ve seen nearly confirms that the human race did not descend from apes, like Darwin contends, nor was it created by divine fiat, as the Papists insist. Our ancestors emigrated here from Mars.”

  “Really?” Anton asked, with skeptical humor. “And landed where? Essex?”