The Rosetta Codex

by Richard Paul Russo

  After nearly three years here, Cale was still struck with wonder at seemingly impossible phenomena like a river appearing in the air above him, unlike the people around him who continued on their way hardly noticing this manifestation, or not noticing it at all. Cale still felt that wonder . . . but also unease and unreality and a sense of displacement.

  Cale left the main thoroughfare, crossed a cluster of bubbling hot springs, then climbed a low grass rise. He descended the slope on the other side and stopped at the edge of an animal park, leaning against the vine-covered railing. Horned marboks sprinted past him in both directions across the rocky trails, as if they were fleeing from some unseen or imagined predators.

  Someone to his right leaned against the rail, a large and dynamic presence, and a familiar voice said, “Hello, young Cale.”

  Cale didn’t turn, but he stared at Blackburn’s shadow stretching out before them, at the familiar outline of the hat he’d worn on Conrad’s World.

  “You never told me you came from a famous family,” Blackburn said.

  Still not looking at him, Cale said, “You never asked,” trying to keep his voice under control. His stomach and chest and throat strained with the tension.

  “Not true, Cale. When we met, I asked if you had a last name, and you told me you couldn’t remember.”

  Cale nodded deliberately, recalling the first time he’d seen Blackburn: a powerful figure riding into the village atop Morrigan in the pouring rain, tipping his hat to Cale in greeting. Then Cale recalled the last time he’d seen Blackburn, the big man walking out of the building in the abandoned town at the edge of the dry lake bed while Cale and Sidonie remained bound and helpless inside.

  “You also never told me you’d found the codex.”

  Cale slowly turned to him, furrowing his brow. “Codex?”

  Blackburn smiled. He wore black and gray clothes, and heavy black boots, dressed more for Conrad’s World than for Lagrima. “No, I don’t imagine you’ll admit to that, will you?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He put his hand on Cale’s shoulder. “You’ve been struggling to keep the Family Consortium solvent. You’ve done well to prevent a complete collapse, but it’s always going to be a struggle, and you may still lose it all in the end. I have an offer for you. The Sarakheen have an offer for you. For the codex. Enough wealth to guarantee the Alexandros Family will never worry about its finances again.”

  “I still don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cale said. “There’s nothing the Family has that you or the Sarakheen would want that much.”

  “You’ve acquired an interstellar freighter,” Blackburn said.

  Cale kept his expression fixed, surprised once again at what Blackburn knew and afraid of what Blackburn might guess. What was he getting at? Cale was almost afraid to speak, but with steady voice he replied, “Yes, we have.”

  “Expensive,” Blackburn said, releasing Cale’s shoulder and taking a step back. “A small fortune to acquire, months and another small fortune to retrofit, and a third small fortune to stock it with worthwhile cargo. Three small fortunes, only one of which you have—or I should say had, since you’ve spent it to acquire the ship. You’ve been doing better with the Family’s commerce, but you’re overleveraging it and you’re in the process of mortgaging most or all of the Family’s assets to finance this venture. An enormous risk.”

  Cale felt a calm spreading through him, relief that Blackburn misunderstood. “With enormous potential rewards,” Cale answered. “We used to own and operate interstellar freighters directly, several generations back. That’s how the Family originally built up its wealth and power. But you know that, since you seem to know so damn much about my family.”

  “Yes, I know that, and I know they divested the line once they’d acquired the bulk of their wealth so they wouldn’t have to take those risks.”

  “Now we have to again,” Cale said with a shrug.

  Blackburn shook his head. “But you don’t, young Cale.” He stepped toward Cale and gripped his shoulder once more. “Sell the codex to the Sarakheen, and you won’t have to take the risk. You won’t have to risk everything, which is what you’re doing now.”

  “I don’t have a choice,” Cale told him firmly. “I don’t have this codex you keep talking about.”

  A smile slowly worked its way onto Blackburn’s face, but there was no smile in his eyes, no friendliness in the way his fingers gripped Cale’s shoulder.

  “All right,” Blackburn said. “I hope you don’t have any plans for the next few hours, because I’m going to take you with me. We’re going to see a performance of sorts.”

  Cale pushed back from the railing. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  “Yes,” Blackburn insisted.

  Cale heard someone approach from his left and turned to see the nameless Sarakheen he’d met on Conrad’s World, the Sarakheen he’d last seen standing on the street as the Resurrectionists’ tunnels flooded and Karimah drowned. The Sarakheen’s face held no expression, but his eyes radiated a disturbing intensity in their hard shine. He wore a black single-piece, and gloves that hid his mek arm and hand.

  “No.” Cale stared at the Sarakheen. A cold and hard anger knotted up inside him, seared through with a pain he had thought long forgotten.

  “Yes,” Blackburn said once more, pressing something warm and metallic against Cale’s neck. Cale felt an electric jolt arcing into his skull, his vision became a wash of silver, and he collapsed.

  When he came to, he found himself strapped into a seat inside a dragoncub, the engine thrumming. Blackburn sat relaxed in the seat beside him, while the Sarakheen piloted the craft, his metal hand and arm embedded in the control console. Cale sat up, the seat restraints flexing to allow the movement. Blackburn glanced at him, said, “Awake, are you?”

  Cale’s neck was stiff and painful, and he rubbed it, tried to stretch it out. “What was that?”

  “Neural disruptor.” Blackburn paused. “Multiple charges can cause permanent damage, so I’d rather not have to use it on you again.”

  Cale shook his head. “You won’t have to.” He looked out through the dragoncub’s window and saw they were above the northern edge of Lagrima, where the industrial and warehouse district began. Rectangular buildings of all sizes spread out below them, set within a grid of transport lines that eventually curved and converged as they headed toward the ports. Steam rose in columns from some of the buildings, dark smoke from others, while still others seemed abandoned.

  The dragoncub slowed, then dropped toward one of the taller buildings that appeared deserted: rusting metal stairways clung to its outer walls, windows had been boarded over, pieces of twisted metal and broken machinery lay scattered about the roof. They veered toward a clearing amid the debris and settled to the rough surface with surprising gentleness.

  Cale was still shaky as he stepped down from the dragoncub and onto the rooftop. They were outside Lagrima’s climate-controlled zone and the heat was intense. Blackburn led the way to a rooftop shed and pulled the door open, revealing a shadowed stairway descending into the building. He started down first, followed by Cale, then the Sarakheen.

  They descended two long flights in near total darkness, more by feel than by sight, then emerged onto a landing about thirty feet above the floor. A warehouse, Cale thought, nearly empty and dimly lit by a few lights that hung from crossbeams several feet below them. The lights were shielded and directed toward the ground so that Cale and the others remained in darkness. Any windows or other openings were boarded over or covered so no light entered from the outside. The air was hot and stifling and smelled of dust and stale smoke.

  They stood at the landing rail and looked down on a circular section of the dirt floor that Cale now realized was the focus of the lights. This circular area was swept smooth and surrounded by piles of sawdust. Farther back were two sets of raised seats, five on one side of the circle and six on the other. Like the rest of the ware
house, the seats were empty.

  “The audience will arrive shortly,” Blackburn said.

  A few minutes later a man in dark coveralls appeared and walked about the cleared circle, looking at the sawdust piles, counting the seats. Apparently satisfied, he left.

  Finally a few people began to silently appear, escorted by the man in the coveralls who directed them toward the seats. Cale recognized one of the men—Enol Darfunslaar, one of the top executives of the Saar Family Consortium—and the woman—Kati Shinchosha, an independent trade broker he’d negotiated several deals with during the past two years.

  Over the next few minutes the rest of the “audience” came in and took their seats. Cale recognized more than half of them, all top executives or other elites in Lagrima’s business and social circles.

  “Friends of yours,” Blackburn said. “Some of them.”

  Cale shook his head and whispered, afraid to be heard by those below. “I just know a few, that’s all.”

  “They can’t hear us,” Blackburn assured him. He gestured vaguely below them. “One-way sound baffles. They won’t have any idea we’re up here watching.”

  When everyone was seated, the coveralled man left again, then returned shortly carrying a large coil of rope and a bundle of metal blades, followed by three men barefoot and otherwise dressed only in calf-length trousers. One of the men was tall and bulky with weathered skin, while the other two were thinner, lanky, both with much darker skin. All three were already sweating.

  The coveralled man pointed, positioning the three men around the circle’s perimeter, then dropped the blades to the ground and uncoiled the rope. It was actually three lengths joined so they looked like the arms of a sea-creature, with leather bands at their free ends. He strapped one band around the right wrist of each man so that all three were now connected to each other by the rope. Then he picked up the long and heavy knives like miniature swords, and placed one each into the men’s left hands.

  “What the hell is this?” Cale finally asked, turning to Blackburn.

  The big man gave him a grim smile. “A competition. The winner’s prize is a huge amount of money, a home in Lagrima, and a job.”

  “The winner?”

  “The one who can walk out of that circle alive.”

  “I’m not watching this,” Cale said, and stepped back from the railing.

  Blackburn grabbed his arm and squeezed, then pulled him back, forcing his chest painfully against the railing. “You are.”

  Cale turned his gaze back to the scene below. The three men were now on their own in the circle, eyeing each other, taking cautious sliding steps, pulling tentatively at the rope, testing the strength of their opponents. Their awkward left-handed swings and jabs with the knives confirmed that all three were probably right-handed, which somehow added to the horror in Cale’s mind.

  For the first couple of minutes there was mostly tugging and feinting and sidestepping, and an occasional all-out lunge that caught empty air. Shallow slices appeared on all three men, seeping blood, but no one appeared seriously wounded yet. The bigger man began to yank and tug more forcefully at the rope, using his bulk and strength, twice nearly pulling one of the other men off his feet. He stepped up his efforts, gaining confidence.

  Too much confidence, perhaps, for he took to swinging his right arm back and forth as he leaned back, trying to jerk one or both of the other men off their feet. He lost his own balance, tried to adjust, then his left foot slipped on the dirt and he fell onto his side with a pained grunt. His fall pulled the other men toward him, and they each swung their blades as they stumbled closer, one nearly severing the large man’s arm at the shoulder, the other slicing across the man’s thigh.

  The large man howled and twisted on the ground, driving his face into the dirt as if that might take away the pain. The two smaller men eyed each other in a brief but silent communication. At nearly the same time they launched themselves at the fallen man and began hacking and slashing away at him with their knives. Blood spattered and sprayed with each stroke and poured onto the dirt, pooling and thickening. The larger man lay still, dark gashes bleeding heavily, pieces of flesh and guts scattered about.

  The other two men staggered to their feet, panting heavily and bleeding from their own fresh wounds—they’d each taken a few swings at each other while slaughtering the man who now lay at their feet. They tried to step back, but both were brought up short after only a couple of steps by the rope still strapped to the dead man’s wrist; the wrist and fingers now flapped grotesquely a few inches above the blood-soaked earth as the two men pulled at their own ropes, trying to maintain a safe distance from one another.

  “Look at your friends,” Blackburn said. “The watchers.”

  Cale did, and though the light was dim, there was enough to make out their faces. He was nearly as sickened by their expressions as by the violence they so eagerly watched. One or two seemed genuinely appalled by what they witnessed, though why they chose to be here was an unanswered question. The others, however, appeared engrossed, even fascinated, and two—Kati Shinchosha and a man who was only vaguely familiar—seemed to actually relish the carnage, leaning forward with eyes wide and mouths slightly open. There was something carnal in their faces.

  Blackburn chuckled beside him and Cale pulled his attention away from the “watchers” and returned it to the two men still on their feet. Both men panted heavily, weaving and staggering, their bodies practically painted with blood and dirt and bits of flesh. Cale was certain it wouldn’t last much longer.

  One of the men pulled back, not tugging, simply stretching the rope, and while keeping his gaze on the other began to saw at the rope with his knife. When the second man saw what the first was doing, he heaved himself forward to attack. As he did, the first man switched the knife from his left hand to his right and swung it with rope still trailing up and across, slicing a deep gash across the other man’s face, slicing through his nose and one eye. The other man howled, dropped his knife as he instinctively covered his face, and the first man lunged forward, knocking the other onto his back across the already dead man. Chest heaving, the first man straddled the second and drove his knife into the man’s throat.

  Cale finally turned away as he saw the man pull the knife out, releasing a pulsing stream of blood, and bring it back down to strike again. Cale stepped back and pressed himself against the wall, eyes closed but unable to shut out the warm odor of blood cut through with some acrid stink that burned his nose.

  Blackburn offered a quiet commentary, as if certain Cale wanted to be kept informed of everything that transpired below them. “The winner can barely stand,” Blackburn said. “Not surprising. He’s being released from the rope, after dropping the knife, of course . . . and . . . he’s being led away.” He paused. “Now we’ve got a couple of extra aides to help with the bodies. And a wheeled cart, so no one has to work too hard.” Another pause, longer. “Now the bodies are gone, the ropes and knives and the scattered body parts all cleared away. The ringmaster is spreading a nice thick layer of fresh sawdust to soak up the blood, so we can be ready for the next one.”

  Cale opened his eyes and stared at Blackburn. “The next one?”

  Blackburn nodded. “There will probably be two more bouts, maybe three. Likely only two contestants in each, but you never . . .”

  Cale turned and shoved Blackburn aside to get to the stairwell doorway, then started up, half running and half stumbling, scrabbling with hands and feet up the two long flights.

  He emerged from the warehouse and sucked in the outside air which, though hot, seemed cool and fresh. The dragoncub was gone, the roof deserted. He staggered to the edge and knelt, looking down at the transport tracks below. An old man crouched before a brazier beside the tracks and fanned a small clump of smoking coals. Footsteps sounded behind Cale, but he didn’t turn around even when Blackburn and the Sarakheen had flanked him at the roof’s edge.

  “What was that supposed to be?” Cale asked.
“A threat of some kind?”

  “A threat? In what way?”

  “I sell you this codex thing, whatever it is, or I’ll end up in there fighting to survive.”

  Blackburn laughed. “You think the victors actually survive?” he said. “You think they’re allowed to live? Not for more than a few hours, anyway.” He paused. “No, that wasn’t a threat. I was trying to show you something about the people you do business with. Something about those at the apex of ‘civilized society.’ ”

  Cale shook his head. “You think you’re showing me something I’m not already aware of?”

  “Maybe not.” With a shrug he said, “Then think of it as a reminder. More evidence to help you understand why you should help the Sarakheen, why you should sell them the codex.”

  Cale glanced at the Sarakheen, then looked at Blackburn. “You don’t make any damn sense,” he said.

  Blackburn turned toward the city, toward the rising towers and tree-covered floating archipelagoes and the drifting airborne fountains and the rivers that flowed in midair. “Progress,” he said. “We can create wonders and marvels of all sorts, we can do almost anything we can imagine. We were able to leave Earth and spread out among the stars.” He slowly nodded. “Lagrima is a good representative of all that, a center of commerce and technology.”

  He lowered his gaze, brought his head around to look at Cale. “Socially, however, psychologically, we’ve been stagnant since we walked out of the African savannas and began to build our cities.” He pointed a finger at the rooftop under their feet. “We just witnessed that. As human beings interacting with one another, we’re no better than we were ten thousand years ago.” He paused. “On its most important level, humankind is an evolutionary dead end.”