9 Tales From Elsewhere 11

by 9 Tales From Elsewhere

  Hulé’s four top-eyes opened wide then narrowed sternly at her friend. “Not in a million solars would I ask that man to discuss his past. His wife and son were murdered, Zeeah. Would you like to relive that?”

  “I do relive it,” she answered. “Every morning, every day, every night I wonder what happened to Karrick. I lay awake and watch him getting blasted, exploding in his craft or worse, getting shot down in some terrible outlands where God knows… I do relive it, sister.”

  Hulé stood now with head bowed and eyes closed.

  “All I want is one conversation,” she said softly. “And I think I know how to appease him.”

  Saiojéte rose up and ran forward, toddling across the floor at an increasingly reckless incline until she caught his arms and swept him up, twirling around under the dome of their tan metal igloo. “You are mad, little théquo,” she laughed, rubbing her nose against his. “Just like your papa. What should we do today, huh? Take a drive in an airsled? Go and hike by the river? If only that stream were water and not indrosludge we could jump in and have a swim, you and me. Cluck-cluck-cluck,” she chirped in his ear.

  The land around their dwelling was desert; dark red sand, weathered rock formations, and harsh dusty winds. Woodland also with patches of thick forest, tenacious plant life, gnarled old trees, and the occasional pool of slime welling up from subterranean currents fed by the colonies of Calperon T15-30. The area was far from safe, although as long as one didn’t fall and cut one’s skin, or physically ingest any elements of the environment, it was possible to survive the wilderness for short periods of time.

  Zipporah trekked through the trees with Saio bound to her chest in a papoose, the limbs curling above them as they hiked, wandered, seeking something new. “Look at this flower, little one—no,” she slapped his hand away, “just look.” The pedals were white with purple flecks like teardrops running out from the center. “Beautiful, no? Bee-yoo-tee-full.”

  “Brrrrrrmmmphrrrll.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  They trekked on past the plants and trees and out into a rocky expanse of rolling sand hills that rose into reddish crags and layered rock walls overlooking shallow dusty canyons and dry ravines. The tallest peak spiked half a mile into the sky, a makable trip from where they stood now, not too far from their dwelling.

  “Do you feel like an adventure?” she asked the child. “A bit of a climb?”

  Saio cooed happily.

  “Alright, mum-mum,” she wrapped the head cloth round his nose and mouth and fixed the goggles over his eyes.

  “Eklokeyli gand lávwequor, beczun vaknegáu,” spoke Hulé to the traveler. “Vikhan Raanved.”

  “Uliel ke guavgon,” he retorted, not without compassion.

  “I know this is difficult,” she continued in Braekean, “I wouldn’t want to look back either. My friend is like you, seeking only peace. Is there anything you can tell me about the invasion, anything at all?”

  The man sighed, looked down at his stomach. “If I do this, I do this one time. You mustn’t return with your widow friend to ask me more questions.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Alright. I was a clayworker by trade. My store crafted dishes, pots, bottles, mostly kitchen pieces for those in my village and sometimes the neighboring towns. My wife, Duijairo, helped at the store, firing the kiln, repairing broken vessels, manning the register—”

  “I too run the register, at my store,” Hulé said cheerfully. “Sorry. Please go on.”

  “The Trozek armies had been robbing our land for years. Every two weeks, when it was bad, a new gang would fly through and storm our town, take what little food we had. When it was good, half a solar might pass without a visit from the thieves. Nevertheless we hid portions of our goods away, you know, always keeping enough in the open so as not to anger them or cause suspicion.” The traveler smiled faintly, “One thing about the Trozeks, they never raised a hand against anyone in my village.”

  “No?”

  “No. Their war was with the rich, the government, not us farmers. As long as we had enough food for them to eat their fill they remained civil. People feared them, complained. Duijairo, she complained all the time. ‘Trozek this, Trozek that, a Trozek stole the Egg remote.’ Most of us knew it could be worse. Some Raanvedians,” he shook his head, “never knew peace.”

  “Your son,” said Hulé, “did he work in your shop too?”

  “Ccazi? No. Ccazi was a musician. Altophone, drums, harpong… He played everything. The night… it happened… the night they died, he was playing a drum and singing outside in the market. Duija and I had come to take an order and buy groceries when they arrived, eighteen of them, on a Rettrian Plank.”

  “A destroyer ship? Trozek rebels?”

  “These were not Trozeks. They were Korratrean soldiers—I know,” the traveler’s face darkened, “I was surprised as well. Until then I had only seen Korratreans on the System news. What are these men doing here? I asked. Then the leader, a commander, you can tell from the eyes, he looked over the whole market, like he was scanning the place for, I don’t know, something. Then he turned around, spoke a word to the captain, and reboarded the Rettrian. That’s when it happened.”

  “What happened?”

  “Genocide. They murdered my village.”

  Hulé held his hand between two of her own. “I’m so, so sorry, Ccazolan. How did you survive?”

  The traveler scoffed. “Dumb luck, I guess. No reason for the gods to spare my rotten bones, not when my wife could have walked away instead. She saw me, truly. My soul was the last thing she saw.”

  They talked for a while longer about pleasant things. She asked easy questions about Duijairo’s favorite foods, favorite trees, favorite seasons on Raanved. When it was time to go he asked, “Don’t you want to know what the commander said, the word by which he murdered my family?”

  “You heard him?”

  “I saw his lips. My son, Ccazi, was deaf since birth. The word he spoke to his captain, I’ve never heard it before, but there is no doubt in my mind as to what this man said.” A spark of silver flashed in the traveler’s eyes. “Manglokel.”

  IV.

  The papoose had been shifted to Zipporah’s back for the climb, the child looking out over the desert through which they’d hiked to the foot of the mountain. She moved quickly, gripping holds with confidence, even leaping to catch ledges a full body length above her. The reflexes she’d acquired as a young warrior returned alongside the exultant joy of climbing, the fresh air, the danger, and the thrill of freedom.

  “Don’t worry, Saiojéte, I could do this blindfolded,” she called back. The child squealed a reply touched with fear. “No, I won’t actually try it,” she added.

  The steep cliff they scaled flattened onto a broad shelf where they could rest and rehydrate. Zipporah untied the papoose and gave Saio a drink from her canteen. “Look,” she pointed, “you can see the village from here. You see the supply tent, and the Shell, look, aha.” She squeezed the last of the water into her mouth. “What will we see from the peak I wonder?” She kissed her baby’s forehead. “You’re a brave one, little théquo. Your papa was brave, too, as brave as one could be.”

  The rest of the climb was relatively easy. A thin ledge circled the highest rock so all she had to do was cling to the wall and shuffle sideways, one step at a time, until the uneven plateau came within reach. Hoisting herself up and sitting atop the tallest boulder, she unfastened the papoose and cradled Saio so he could see the vast horizon.

  The metropolis of Calperon T15-30 dominated the skyline, its massive buildings looming far into the purple and green swirling vapor that filled the upper atmosphere. T30 limits ended more than eighty miles away, yet the colonies gave the impression of bearing down on the outer territories, of imposing on the inhabitants of T34 despite their considerable distance. Even from the mountaintop Zipporah felt as though the city were towering above her. “Okay, brave one,” she said, casting a fi
nal glance at the stars twinkling out beyond the radiant mist. “Let’s go home, shall we?”

  On the way to work the next day, she stopped into the temple so she and the child could receive the sacraments. The village priest, a cheerful old Urguit, greeted her with a hug and kissed both her cheeks. He inquired about her work, the baby’s health, the general wellness of her existence on Calperon, and they stood before the altar and prayed. The priest anointed the baby’s head with oil, then Zipporah’s, before distributing the elements.

  “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” he blessed them, making the sign of the Cross over the empty sanctuary.

  The store was busy that morning. A shuttle of Chambrekian refugees had arrived with no clue where they were or why they’d been displaced. The dhreion bomb that hit their sector dissolved their mid-range memories, a trick employed by rogue nations in the Outer Four. When people don’t remember their lives before a change of power takes place, they’re more adaptable and less likely to revolt against the new leadership. Two hundred and thirty amnesiacs filed into the village like so many children in need of grownups to provide them food and shelter. Hulé and Zipporah took charge of collecting their time suits and arranging proper clothes for them all.

  “Next,” called the flustered arachnoid, motioning the line forward with her eight skinny arms. “Name please.”

  “Abimiku Ckezvwa Topepsmaquodrote,” said a small human woman.

  “Alright if we call you Miku Todrote? Good. Date of birth?”

  Zipporah passed out clothing vouchers, guided people through changing stations, and directed them to the bathing facility just past the hospital tent. In between gathering time suits and replacing fresh polyrobes she unfastened Saio and let him chase his pneumo-ball around the sideyard of the store, keeping a close eye on him at all times. T34 could be peaceful for long stretches but was no place to let a human child go unsupervised. The price one could get for him could pay a year’s worth of rent in one of the looming towers on the horizon.

  Perhaps it’s for the best, she thought to herself. The Chambrekians looked almost happy as they received their instructions and ventured out into their new temporary home, their unknown futures. For a moment she wished her own memory had been erased when the news of Karrick’s death arrived, then quickly no, she thought. No peace of mind, nor even freedom, was worth her memories of him.

  Later on after dark, after all the refugees had been cared for, Hulé offered to buy dinner at the market bar and restaurant. She chose a table inside opposite the patio where they could talk and ordered a bottle of warm liquor and two small mugs.

  “I didn’t want to tell you amid all the craziness today, but yesterday I went and spoke to your injured traveler.”

  “What?” cried Zipporah, “without me? How could you—”

  “Shhh, quiet, sister. Here, drink.”

  “No, you’ll need the bottle to yourself, once I snap off one of your arms. Why did you not wait for me?”

  “He would have held back with you there, he might not have told me what I know. Will you listen?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Before I say this you must promise to not do anything foolish, Zeeah. You have a baby who needs a responsible mother.”

  “I also have a friend who gives me no credit.”

  “And don’t forget a temper that sometimes gets the best of you.”

  Zipporah poured herself a cup and drank it down. “I’m listening.”

  “The traveler, Ccazolan, he lived in a sector of Raanved where rebel forces frequently sought provision and shelter. They rarely had problems with the Trozek rebels, but one day last solar a division of soldiers arrived on a destroyer ship.” Hulé spoke slowly, “Korratrean soldiers. A commander, a captain, and their men. They annihilated his whole village, Zeeah.”

  “Karrick was not among them.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I know. How much money do you have?”

  “No way,” Hulé shook her head, “none for you, sister.”

  “Suit yourself.” She leaned over the table, hugged her, and whispered in her ear, “You are my only friend.”

  The following morning Hulé rose from bed, stretched, and walked out to find Saiojéte in her living room, standing and watching the crabfish swimming laps in her aquarium.

  V.

  On the kitchen counter beside an unplugged Egg lay a sheet of notebook paper, which read:

  Dear Hulé,

  I do not expect you to approve of this decision, but I know you’ll take good care of Saio. As you’ve probably guessed by now I’ve gone to seek the truth about my husband. I cannot say where this quest will lead, nor how long I will be gone, and yes, it is possible that I will not return. Please do not worry, and please don’t be angry, for neither of those feelings ever does any good. Love my baby for me. I go with God. ~ Zeeah

  P.S. The Egg is for the traveler.

  The sidewalks of Calperon T15-30 were made of reinforced glass suspended every thirty feet around the buildings to allow traffic to fly between the levels. Zipporah walked quickly up a ramp along the Gomtroyer Heights, the tower that housed, among thousands of other offices, the Raanvedian Embassy and Travel Bureau. She ascended the ramp, traversed the crosswalk to the wall of the adjacent tower, and ascended the next ramp, and so on and so forth until estimating the number of ramps she’d climbed at somewhere in the triple digits. The architecture struck her as being absurdly inefficient despite the fact that the ramps were intended for people to advance from one level to the next, or perhaps to walk up two or three. Everyone else used the elevators inside of the buildings, however admittance to the elevators required an ID scan, and preferring not to leave a trail of bread crumbs, she had no option but to take the ramps.

  The nebula had fallen by the time she reached Floor 462, when the sector lights switched on, saturating the streets with blinding fluorescent light. The various caps and boards zooming by enabled their shield screens while the pedestrians all disappeared into the towers. At night, apart from air traffic, the city streets were bright and vacant.

  “Name?” asked the gnarly-eyed Talitron behind the travel counter.

  “Abimiku Ckezvwa Topepsmaquodrote,” said Zipporah, covertly reading the ID.

  “Date of Birth?”

  “Quartember 9th, 12,091.”

  “Place of Birth?”

  “Bazeldown, Fohposkal, on Raanved.”

  “Can you spell that please?”

  “Uh, sure…” she hesitated.

  “This town and country isn’t in our system.”

  “That’s because it doesn’t exist anymore.”

  The Talitron looked up from his Egg screen. “Can you spell it or can’t you, Ms. Topepsmaquodrote?”

  “Of course I can,” she answered, looking him in the eye. “B-A-Z-L, I mean E-L-D-O-W-N. And the nation is spelled, F-O-H-P-O-S-K-A-L. Would you like me to spell Raanved also?”

  “That won’t be necessary, Miss. How long will you be staying?”

  “I’d like an open-ended ticket, please.”

  “How many items will you be taking?”

  “Just me and my time suit.”

  He leaned forward and inspected the weathered silver garment. “Is that standard issue?”

  “Yes, for five solars ago. They’re still regulation for intra-System space flights. Are we almost done here?”

  “Almost, Miss. May I ask the purpose of your journey?”

  “Visiting family.”

  He finished punching sensors on the magnetic Egg pad, and the inverted pyramid to her right spat out a holographic ticket. “Your flight leaves at 19:00 on the forty-first of Thorgh, one waxing moon from tonight.”

  “Is there no earlier flight?”

  “Not to Raanved there isn’t.”

  “Right, thank you, Mr…”

  “Thank you, Miss. Have a pleasant journey.”

  Zipporah spent the days leading up to her departure reading what
information she could find about contemporary Raanvedian power shifts and land disputes. Failing to discover any connection between the current governments of Raanved and Korratrea, or any logical reason for the KWPAF to send troops there, she resolved to find the village where the genocide had occurred. Whatever interest the Korratrean Military had in that location was somehow linked to her husband’s death, or possibly… well, too early to say.

  VI.

  The day before the launch Zipporah went back to the library to see if the name of the traveler’s village or the commander’s death word, “Manglokel,” would turn up any last minute search results. She surfed down from her cube gate on the complimentary graviboard they’d given her at check-in. Accelerating into the right lane, she leaned forward and sped up behind a sluggish motordeck. There was a time when she would have swooped the front of the vehicle just to teach the driver not to fly so slow in the airlanes, but she was older and wiser now, and all the more cautious for being on an important mission. Sliding left and away Zipporah flipturned into the plummet shaft and dove toward ground level where the T29 Public Library was located.

  You had to scan your ID in order to use the personal Eggs there, a calculated risk she decided to take.

  “GREETINGS, ABIMIKU!” the Egg flashed in pink and green strobing letters.

  Zipporah flinched and shielded her eyes. “SyzNet search, please.”

  “PROCEED WITH YOUR QUERY.”

  “Search for Raanvedian village, Henlopyow. Spelled, H-E-N-L-O-P-Y-O-W.”

  “SEARCHING RAANVEDIAN VILLAGE: HENLOPYOW… … … … …”

  She glanced around the library. Mostly human and radnoid beings seeking employment opportunities.

  “… … … … … … … … …”

  “End search, please. New query. Search for life form, location, or verbal expression, Manglokel. Spelled, M-A-N-G-L-O-K-E-L.”

  “SEARCHING LIFE FORM, LOCATION, OR VERBAL EXPRESSION: MANGLOKEL… … … … …”