“Why can’t I fashion a junction-stone?” Klane asked.
“Let me see yours.”
Klane dug in his furs to his secret place. He took out a bark container, twisting it until he withdrew a bolt of cloth. It was damp with vargr oil. He unwrapped the cloth and produced a small black stone. It was smooth like an egg and wet with the oil.
“May I touch it?” the seeker asked.
Klane hesitated, then he thrust his hand forward.
With a single finger, the old man touched the stone. He didn’t flinch, nor did his arm wither. Klane’s carefully worked curses were powerless. What made it unbearable was watching the seeker. The old man’s lips stretched into a smile.
Angrily, Klane withdrew the stone. He almost hurled the junction-stone from him. Instead, he wrapped it, put it in the container, and shoved it back into his secret place.
“I sense you’re upset,” the seeker said.
“You mocked my stone,” Klane muttered.
“You’re a foolish apprentice. But that is the way of young men. What troubles me is that you’re stupid, too.”
Klane’s eyes narrowed. Although he had learned to hide it, he hated insults.
“Do you wish to challenge me?” the seeker asked.
“You’re the only friend I have.”
“Ah, poor, lonely Klane, he sulks in his furs and wishes he could be powerful like a warrior. He never once realizes that he has far more potential than any of them.”
“Your mockery stings, Seeker.”
“And your continued sulking has begun to weary me. Go,” the old man said, with a wave of his stick-like fingers.
“Go where?”
“Anywhere but near me,” the seeker replied.
Klane hunched his shoulders. He hated mockery, having endured it his entire life. He’d become used to the young warriors insulting him. Receiving this from the seeker…
“Why did you smile when touching my stone?”
“What?” the old man said. “You’re asking me an intelligent question? Are you feeling feverish?”
“I am your journeyman, Seeker.”
“Do you remember the Mountain that is a Machine?”
“I dream of it all the time.”
“I’m not surprised. You must pack… hmm, three of your best lanterns. Then you must gather jerky for a trek.”
“We’re going to the mountain?”
“No. We’re going under it.”
“When?” asked Klane.
The seeker struggled to his feet and turned to his small tent. “We’ll leave as soon as you’ve gathered the needed items. Now hurry before I change my mind.”
The trek took six days of struggle and two of scaling downward toward the Valley of the Demons. The roar of the Mountain that was a Machine became a constant thunder. The billowing vapors roiling skyward amazed Klane every time he looked at the smokestacks sticking out of the mile’s long terraforming building.
Finally, the seeker showed him a natural entrance to a cave under the Great Machine. It was a dark hole, with coral grass sprouting from the rocks around it. The place was colder here than on the plateau and water dripped from the rocks and boulders.
As the sun sank below the jagged range, the two squeezed through the opening. Inside, the cave seemed vast and ancient, full of terrible wonder.
“Give me a lantern,” the seeker said.
Klane removed one of the bark lanterns from his pack, handing it to the old man.
The seeker moved his hand across his belt, and he held a blue junction-stone. He rubbed the stone and whispered in the High Speech. Then he pointed at the lantern and a flame burst into existence upon the oil-soaked wick.
“Spontaneous combustion,” the seeker told Klane, naming the spell. “Now, you must follow me as I try to remember the path.”
“You’ve been here before?” Klane asked.
“That is a foolish question, as I’ve already implied I have been.”
Klane nodded, too awed at this place to feel bad at the reprimand.
For a time they journeyed deeper into the cavern. A faint thrum began and increased the farther they went. The seeker stopped where the thrum was loudest and he spoke a word.
The flickering light in the lantern increased until Klane sucked in his breath in astonishment. He spied huge columns of polished metal. The columns were five times the thickness of the hetman, the biggest warrior of Clan Tash-Toi. Klane noticed that the columns were sunk into rock. Perhaps as interesting, they were etched triangles that went up and down the columns in strict rows.
“Is this part of the terraforming machine?” Klane asked.
“That is a prudent question, and the answer is no. This is older by a millennium. In fact, I believe it is older than the demons.”
“Why is it near the Great Machine?”
“I don’t know.”
“What is the purpose of the columns?”
“Purposes are important. A seeker should attempt to discover each thing’s use. What the columns did, I don’t know. What they do for me… yes, I do know that.”
“What do they do for you?”
“Provide magical power,” the seeker whispered.
Klane wrenched his gaze from the metal columns, staring at the old man.
“Squat, young journeyman. Open your mind to the singing gods. Listen to their words and let their power flow through you.”
“Like a junction-stone?” Klane asked.
The seeker nodded.
Klane sat on a cold rock, closed his eyes, and let his chin touch his chest. He opened his mind and suddenly he felt it. To Klane, it was like the time Grad had thrown him into an icy stream during the spring flood. The singing gods—if that’s what they were—swept him along in a fierce mental current. Klane struggled, his mind seemingly gurgling for air. A whisper from the seeker’s mind touched him, urging him to relax, to bob along. Klane dampened his fear, trying to feel what occurred. He heard a soft moaning like a mother for her lost child. He tried to decipher the god words, but could not.
“Journeyman!”
Vaguely, Klane felt someone shaking him. His teeth rattled. He unglued his eyes and turned to the seeker.
“You’ve finally come back,” the old man said. “Did you hear the gods?”
“I think so.”
The old man grinned. “Your lantern has burned out while you’ve listened. I had to use another.”
Klane was shocked.
“Carry us out,” the seeker ordered.
“What?”
“Do it, Klane. Use the power you’ve collected.”
Klane heard a strain in the old man’s voice. The buzzing in his head still made him groggy.
“Think it,” the seeker whispered.
Klane thought about the entrance, the coral grass around it. He blanked out, and there was a ripping sound and the feeling of rushing air. He swayed, opened his eyes, and found himself standing before the cave entrance.
It was a miracle, and he stared at the opening until he felt something wet on his lip. He wiped it and found red—blood—on his skin. He had a nosebleed.
“What happened?” Klane whispered. “How did we get here?”
“When you’re older, I will explain it. Until then, we will never speak of it again.”
“Can I fashion a junction-stone now?” Klane asked.
“Do you believe you can?”
Klane thought about it. “Yes,” he said.
“There is your answer,” the seeker said. “Come. It is time to begin the journey home.”
6
Cyrus ran along a road in the hot sun. It was the middle of the afternoon, almost one hundred degrees. He wore shorts and running shoes, and his lean, steely-muscled torso glistened in the light.
He liked running in the heat of the day. It made him sweat. Afterward, he drank glass after glass of cool lemonade. He would sit then and totally relax. He could never have done this in the slums. He had run often then, but from dange
r, from Red Blades, usually.
He liked being fit, strong, and he liked the freedom of the institute. He liked the outdoors most of all. Ninety-nine percent of the people on Earth lived underground. What a hideous existence. Soon, though, this freedom, this spaciousness of living on an empty Mediterranean island would end. He would begin his life of service powering the DW shift technology. He would live on ships, inside steel corridors likely for the rest of his active life. The idea of it made him squirm, and it lengthened his stride.
No. He couldn’t accept that. Yes, he was grateful for the rescue from a wretched life in the slums of Level 40. He might have gained rank in the Latin Kings—if he had survived the warehouse with the Red Blades. Okay. He needed to pay society back for what the NKV had done for him. He wasn’t an ingrate, and he understood carrying his weight. He wouldn’t try to get a free ride, especially as he did have a talent few possessed.
Did that mean he must live in steel corridors the rest of life? Must he be a slave to the state because of his rescue? They had altered his brain so they could switch him on and off like a machine. That had turned him into property, chattel. No one had a right to do that, especially not in the high-handed manner it had been done to him.
No one had asked for his permission. Did the state have a right to his body because he could do a certain thing?
What would Spartacus have said?
Cyrus Gant laughed as he ran. It was a wild laugh, full of fight and vigor. The state did not come first. A man came first. He lived in the state with others, and they agreed to work together. That’s what freedom meant. Once the state forced him to do a thing, it became tyranny.
Cyrus wiped sweat from his forehead. These were big words, and he wouldn’t have thought them only a few years ago. The state had given him an education. That was worth money. He would work for the state and pay them back so he owed them nothing.
If he could, he’d go to New Eden. But he had no plans to come back to Earth. He wanted a wife, kids, and to raise a family in the wilds of a new planet. He would emigrate and help build a better society. He would—
Cyrus shook his head, flinging sweat from his face. A cart was parked under a tree in the shade. Jasper sat in the cart, fanning himself with his flattish hat.
Cyrus’s feet thudded on the hard ground, and he sprinted to the small fat man, stopping in the shade with him.
“Thirsty?” Jasper asked.
Cyrus nodded.
Jasper tossed him a bottled water.
Cyrus guzzled it, and he put his hands on his hips as he panted. The sweat poured down his body and made his socks and ankles wet.
“Are you punishing yourself?” Jasper asked.
“Yeah. That’s it.”
From the twist of his face, Jasper seemed to switch mental gears. “There’s trouble and I’ve run into a snag. Are you alert enough to understand what I’m saying, or do you need more time to rest?”
“Go ahead, talk.”
“You should run when it’s cooler.”
“That’s the snag?”
“I know,” Jasper said. “You’re a tough guy. I’ve known many tough guys before your time. I took care of every one of them using this,” he said, tapping his head.
“Zeus making his rounds, huh?” Cyrus said. “You were out and about seeing how we mere mortals were doing?”
“You’re like a man who has just come into millions of credits. But instead of money, you got some education. Now you like showing it off.”
“What’s the snag again?” Cyrus asked.
“All this summertime heat must be baking your brains. Do you remember who I am? Once we get rid of the inhibitors, you’re going to want to walk softly around me.”
Cyrus wanted to respond with a cool comeback, but Jasper had a point. Cyrus practiced mind shields all the time now because he didn’t want a repeat of last time.
“I’m walking softly,” Cyrus said.
Jasper’s eyes narrowed, until maybe he saw that Cyrus wasn’t joking. “You’re all right, kid. You have… what do they call it?”
“Street smarts?”
“There you go,” Jasper said. “I only had to show you once what I could do and you remember. I like that. Anyway, the snag is this: You have to pass Argon.”
“Who?”
“Argon is one of Premier Lang’s main NKV officers. He’s coming along as the Teleship’s chief monitor.”
“Why do we need monitors? Isn’t everyone in the crew vetted and loyal to Lang?”
“I’m surprised you need to ask that,” Jasper said. “No, Lang is the most suspicious person who ever lived. Sure, the crew is vetted and each of them has a high loyalty rating. But that doesn’t satisfy our Premier. He has monitors on every military vessel. How much did you study about the Cyborg War?”
“A little,” Cyrus said.
“One hundred years ago, Social Unity put commissars in most of their war vessels. Each commissar had secret police power. He watched the crew for devotion to duty and searched for those who deviated from correct thought.”
“Oh, you mean Thought Police,” Cyrus said.
“That’s almost right. The monitors help keep the military in cheek. Giving men guns and warships makes them dangerous. Premier Lang demands obedience from the military. The monitors or commissars are simply another layer of security.”
“Okay. Got it,” Cyrus said.
“Argon is the chief monitor for the voyage. To make it as shifter, you need his approval and Captain Nagasaki’s. Of the two, Argon’s is more important.”
“Why is any of that a snag?” Cyrus asked.
“Chief Monitor Argon isn’t like a normal man. He has Highborn genes.”
“You mean like the Highborn of the Cyborg War?”
“Right,” Jasper said.
Cyrus recalled some of what he’d read about the Highborn. A little over a hundred years ago, Social Unity had ruled the Inner Planets and had wished to conquer the rest of the solar system. They’d wanted shock troops. Scientists had genetically manipulated human embryos. The result had been superior combat soldiers, nine feet tall, with speeded reflexes and heightened intelligence. Over two million genetic soldiers had been created. They had looked around, seen their superiority, and decided they should rule. So they had rebelled and come within inches of defeating everyone. Different scientists had made cyborgs to combat the Highborn. After the Cyborg War, the Highborn of that era had merged their chromosomes back into the gene pool.
“Argon is like an echo of his Highborn ancestors,” Jasper said. “He’s only seven feet tall instead of nine. But he’s very smart and ruthless in his tasks. You need to be careful around him.”
“You mean not give away our plan,” Cyrus said.
“Think of him as the worst Latin King you knew.”
“You mean the most dangerous,” Cyrus said.
“What?” Jasper asked.
“The worst Latin King would be a fool or a weakling. The most dangerous were the best.”
“Keep it up, kid, and remember that I have a long memory.” Jasper started his cart. “Likely, he’ll interview you today. I’d give you a ride back, but I don’t want them to see we’re friends.”
“Is that what we are?”
Jasper stared at Cyrus. Without another word, the telepath turned onto the road and drove away, his rubber wheels making a hissing noise on the cement.
Cyrus started back for the institute. Possible aliens, maybe cyborgs, and now a Highborn chief monitor, or the echo of one. This was going to be a dangerous trip. But his study of Spartacus showed him that gaining freedom was worth any risk. It had cost Spartacus a brutal death by crucifixion. Yet for a time, the ex-gladiator had lived as a free man.
Cyrus kept running, enduring as the hot air burned down his throat. He had to get ready for anything and take his chance when the time came. The slums had taught him that when you got your chance, you took it with both hands. That’s exactly what he planned to do this trip.
Argon wore a black NKV uniform that stretched at his muscled neck. The fabric was shiny there, likely from constantly rubbing at the skin. Argon had flat cheekbones and the broad features of the historical Highborn, with something of their wild intensity radiating from him.
“Cyrus Gant,” Argon said from his table. “Come in. Sit.”
Cyrus entered the small cell. He’d showered, eaten, and taken a nap. One of the teachers had escorted him into the building and down a set of stairs. They met in the basement, and the door now closed behind Cyrus.
Argon watched him, and the chief monitor had predatory eyes. The gaze seemed to say that he judged Cyrus and would look for missteps or incongruities of behavior. It was like stepping back in time. This man could have ruled the Latin Kings.
Warily, Cyrus sat down. He didn’t like how Argon towered over him. The small room made everything worse.
Argon glanced at an e-reader. “According to this, you’ve led an interesting life.”
Cyrus said nothing. Argon reminded him too much of the cops he’d met in Level 40. Arrogance and authority seemed to ooze from the chief monitor’s pores.
In that moment, Cyrus decided he didn’t have a chance with Argon. He could cow down to the cop and try to bluff his way through, or he could tell the man the truth. Why not—he was supposed to be a Special now, an untouchable.
“You read I came from the slums?” Cyrus asked.
Argon nodded.
“I was a Latin King,” Cyrus said, “an illegal gang member. I started out as a scrawny kid with nothing, but even scrawny kids have to eat.”
“You could have eaten at the orphanage, but you ran away.”
“You ever been raised in an orphanage?” Cyrus asked.
“I’ll ask the questions,” Argon told him.
Alien Honor (A Fenris Novel) Page 5