by J G Cressey
“C9?” Toker asked.
“The Carcarrion home world,” Cal informed him. Then he shook his head. “But no, that’s not what I had in mind. A few years ago, I paid a visit to another planet in the Krill Strip. It has a military research base on it called Deltapoint Three, a place where they collect and study alien life forms…thousands of specimens all under lock and code. Assuming they haven’t gotten rid of it or dissected it into a million pieces, one of the specimens was a pretty formidable female Carcarrion. Of course, without communications, there’s no way of knowing if she’s still there or even if the base is still operational. But it might be one of the only places to find people who really know what they’re talking about, a place to get some real answers. Otherwise, we might have months, even years, of useless rumors.”
Toker shrugged. “If these specimens are under lock and code, then I guess it sounds like a good plan to me. They are under lock and code though, right, Cal?”
“As far as I know. But a visit to Deltapoint Three wouldn’t be without risks. We’d have to travel to the near side of the Krill Strip, a good two months’ travel from here, maybe more. And once there, we’d only be a stone’s throw from the Carcarrion home world, maybe two weeks from it in a ship like this. Personally, I don’t believe the Carcarrions can be responsible for all this mess, but there’s a link there somewhere. Could be risky getting so close.”
“Maybe too risky,” Jumper said.
Cal almost nodded in agreement. It was too risky. In fact, he’d almost not suggested it at all, but he hadn’t been able to get the idea out of his head. He was pissed off not knowing what the hell was going on. And he was pissed off being bounced around like a pinball. If he was on his own, the route would already be programmed in. But he wasn’t on his own. “Yes, it could well be too risky. But then, everything’s going to be risky now. Pirates, raiders—”
“Human bloody sacrifices,” Toker interjected. “Crashing ships, feasting monsters, fat frickin’ con men. I agree with Cal; trouble’s getting worse, and we’re bloody trouble magnets. No matter where we go, it’s gonna find us. If it's going to a vote, then I vote we head to Cal’s base and try and work out what the hell's going on…an’ I reckon we should do it before things get any worse.”
“Bravo, blondie,” Eddy said, sliding off the console and brushing clumps of black hair off her shoulders. “I'm with him. Let's go get our hands on one of these Carrion things and work out the best way to bust them up.”
Cal nodded. “Okay, that's two votes. What about you and Melinda, Viktor?”
The boy’s attention was back on his console screen. Always hungry for knowledge, Cal guessed he was probably studying up on the Carcarrion home world of C9, or the research base of Deltapoint Three.
“We're in, Cal, Melinda and me,” he mumbled with a wave of his hand. “Whatever you decide.”
“Okay,” Cal said with a shrug. He wasn’t sure how he felt about the ease at which his young companions were agreeing to the plan. Part of him had been sure that Toker and Viktor’s vote would have been no. Then they wouldn’t go. Then he could get the bloody idea out of his head. “Jumper?”
Jumper rubbed and scratched at his smooth chin. “Like you say, it could be the best way to get some facts,” he said after a few moments. After a moment more, he added, “I think we should be especially cautious though.”
“Agreed,” Cal said, slapping his old friend on the shoulder. “Caution it is.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
THE PERFECT PRESSURE
Laurence Decker's arms were limp with exhaustion. Every muscle in his starved, pathetic body was now utterly defeated by sickening fatigue. The previous evening, he had made a solo attempt at burying his father, a task that had utilized every last scrap of his withering energy. He'd then spent the longest night of his life slumped, almost paralyzed, among the black rocks. Unfortunately, the overwhelming fatigue had never quite reached his brain, and his dying father's last words had run on a continuous loop in his mercilessly active mind. To make the waking nightmare worse, great sheets of hot rain had fallen, hammering rain that had stung his skin and abused his ears as it noisily pounded the rocks around him. The torrent had finally dissipated sometime just before the crimson dawn. Now only sparse, heavy drops fell, plopping loudly in the deep puddles that had collected in the crevices of the jagged landscape.
Slumped against a smooth, angular rock face, Laurence shifted his head in an attempt to look about at his fellow survivors. Of the scores of prisoners who had once filled the desolate landscape, maybe a third now remained. Laurence had remembered thinking that their alien captors were, for some unfathomable reason, weeding out the strong. Now, he wasn't so sure. Every single one of those supposedly strong ones were now in a similar state to himself, and it was far from strong. He had no doubt that every one of them, himself included, would soon be dead, and for what? He'd probably never find out.
The Carcarrion aliens remained a mystery to Laurence. A far greater number of them had begun to stalk among the surviving captives. They continued to dish out stale water and scraps of dry plant, but they also picked their way through the rocks, peering menacingly at each of their prisoners, systematically carrying away the dead. Monstrous gardeners ridding their land of weeds. Laurence wanted to cry out to them, wanted to let them know they'd made a mistake. He wasn't one of the strong ones, he'd just been a fat one. Maybe in realizing their error, they’d kill him quickly. But it was no good; even if he had the energy to cry out, he still couldn’t bring himself to do so. He’d lasted this long, hadn’t he?
No, he would see it through.
Feeling almost in a trance, he stared into a pool that had formed in a small hole before him. The hole was there as a result of his excavations the previous evening. He had eventually succeeded in lifting enough rocks to cover his father’s body, but only just. He was damned if he was going to let those monsters take it from him, not as long as he still had breath. No, his father would rest in peace. He deserved it. What a shame there would be no one to do the same for his own corpse when his turn came. But perhaps he didn’t deserve it.
Waiting helplessly for that inevitable turn to come, Laurence caught sight of a strange-looking insect. The creature was no bigger than his thumbnail and was struggling desperately on the surface of the newly formed pool before him. Why bother to struggle? he thought bitterly. Life and death is oblivious, uncompromising. Far easier to let it do with you as it pleases. As he continued to witness the little insect’s futile struggle, his father's final words flashed again into his mind and brought with them their usual dose of shame. Fearful that the torturous mind loops might restart, Laurence quickly, almost desperately, pushed the thoughts aside. He felt like crying, but this time, he held back the tears. He'd had enough of crying.
The little insect's efforts slowed, and Laurence found himself wondering where those gods were—any one of those all-powerful, all-forgiving gods that countless people seemed so fond of. “If God's real, then I guess you and I aren't in his line of sight, eh, little feller,” he whispered, letting a somber chuckle escape his lips. “Or maybe we're just not worth the effort.”
“How do you know God is a he?”
The voice was loud, high-pitched, and so unexpected that it almost made Laurence leap to his feet. Had he the strength, he just might have. “What the…?” he gasped. For a ridiculous moment, he almost believed the struggling insect had been the one to address him. Forcing his head up, his eyes fell upon the strange sight of a skinny, deeply tanned man standing just a few meters away. The man was barefoot and wore tattered gray clothing. His long hair and beard were as white as snow and close to becoming dreadlocked.
“I must apologize for startling you, my friend,” said the strange man in a cheery tone. “The voice has a tendency to amplify in this rocky terrain.”
With great effort, Laurence straightened himself and rubbed his face with a grubby hand. “I'm hallucinating,” he muttered.
“Possibly, but who's to say your whole life hasn't been a hallucination, eh?” The little man let out a quick, bird-like laugh.
Laurence rubbed his face again.
The man walked—almost skipped—towards Laurence then squatted down on the opposite side of the little pool. Closer up, Laurence could see deep lines mapping his face. If he’s real, he must be pretty old, he thought. But the spring in his step and the glint in his bright eyes suggested otherwise.
“Now I know I'm hallucinating,” Laurence said. “No one could negotiate these razor sharp rocks with bare feet. It's hard enough in military boots.”
“Well observed, my friend. It's true, the black rocks are far from forgiving on the old feet. Twelve years of hopping around on them though seems to toughen up the sole. There's no lie.”
Laurence stared at the man. “Okay, perhaps you are real. But I have to tell you your brain is playing tricks on you. It might seem like twelve years, but I can assure you, we've only been here a handful of months.”
The man smiled and gave his nose a quick scratch. There are hidden depths in that smile, Laurence thought. Profound wisdom or possibly a deep-set madness.
“You're nuts,” Laurence decided.
“Indeed, my friend. I concur, I'm as nutty as a heap of Leepan squirrel dung, but then, surely a mad person would probably think themselves sane, would they not?”
Laurence had no answer for the odd little man, so he remained silent. He wondered how someone so small and old had survived the ordeal of the past few months. He concluded that the man must have been of ample proportions just as he’d once been. Where his energy and enthusiasm was coming from, however, was a mystery. Laurence mused over what role such a man might have played in the military. He certainly wasn't a soldier. Far too old. He finally settled on military intelligence. The smartest ones always had a tendency to become the craziest in times of high stress.
“I say, what have we here?” The little man’s eyes had fallen upon the insect struggling in the pool.
With the odd stranger’s arrival, Laurence had all but forgotten about his little partner in death. He watched in silence as the man leaned forward, dipped a finger into the pool, and lifted the tiny creature from its watery doom.
“Why bother?” Laurence asked glumly.
The man smiled at him—that same strange, all-knowing, all-mad smile—and began to gently blow on the sodden little creature. Once dry, he set it on a nearby rock and watched happily as it scampered away.
“You and I are the equivalent of gods to that little bug.” The man jabbed a skinny finger at Laurence. “You even had a hand in creating part of its world when you excavated that hole.” He straightened up and casually leaned back against a tall, jutting rock. The relaxed manner in which he moved gave Laurence the impression of someone enjoying a sunny vacation rather than a prisoner of war.
After a moment of careful beard-smoothing, the man said, “I guess I'd like to think that if I were adrift in a vast, perilous ocean, a god might take pity. Make the effort to scoop me to safety, maybe even give me a little blow dry, eh!”
Laurence was about to scoff at the man's words but held his tongue. Perhaps they made sense. “How do you know that I dug that hole?”
“Because I watched you dig it, and I commend your efforts. Was the man your father?”
Laurence nodded.
“I thought so. It seemed you were having quite the father-son talk before his new journey began.”
Laurence couldn't decide whether he should take offense at the man's strange comments or for the fact that he'd obviously been spying on him. But he was too tired to be offended. “My father told me many things: some painful and some that have done nothing but tie my brain into knots.” He pulled a face of unconvincing anger. “I wish he hadn't said anything.”
“Brain knots, eh? You want to share any? Maybe I could help you untie a few.”
Despite his odd appearance and his queer way of talking, Laurence was finding himself strangely comfortable in the man’s presence. Maybe voicing out loud some of what his father had said was a good idea. Maybe it would help put an end to those damned mind loops. Still, Laurence remained sceptical. “I doubt you’d make any sense of it. Most of what he said was probably gibberish. He was pretty feverish towards the end.”
The little man shrugged. “You know, you'd be surprised about that. Sometimes, fevers can squeeze quite a bit of truth, even wisdom, out of people. Sometimes stuff that's been locked away for a lifetime. Imminent death also has a habit of inducing, shall we say, high levels of confessional bravery.”
Laurence wasn't sure he knew what the little chap was spouting on about, but he continued the conversation anyway. “He confessed all right. Quite a few things in fact. Some confusing stuff came towards the end. He was mumbling plenty by then. Some of it sounded like a foreign language or, like I said, just a bunch of gibberish. Some I made out though. Talk of how he hadn't pushed me enough. He'd prevented my development, denied me the challenges of life.”
The little man nodded, his all-knowing, all-mad smile returning.
Laurence raised an eyebrow. “You understand his meaning?”
“Of course. And I'd wager that a not unsubstantial part of you does too. Isn't that right, Laurence?”
Laurence felt a sudden pang of anger. The old man seemed to know every bloody thing, even his name. He wanted to tell the crazy old git that he was nuts and to forget it, but again, he held his tongue. “Okay, okay. I understand it…at least some of it,” he blurted after a long, uncomfortable pause. He hoped the confession might redirect the little man’s gaze, which seemed to be boring a direct path into his brain.
The old man didn’t shift his gaze and remained silent.
Feeling annoyed, so did Laurence.
In a partially successful attempt to compose himself, Laurence took a few dry, rasping breaths and eventually broke the silence. “I guess I would appreciate your take on what he said. Unless, of course, you're too busy saving bugs or birds or some other little critters.”
The little man let out a big laugh. “Very good, Laurence. Critters, yes. Very good. I do enjoy a good joke.”
Much to Laurence's bemusement, the man seemed genuinely amused.
“Very well. Seeing as you’ve given me a good laugh, I shall attempt to return the favor by sharing my take on your father’s words.” Pushing himself off the tall rock, the old man skipped forward and scooped up a fist-sized stone from the ground. “I believe your father was referring to the application of perfect pressure.”
“Application of what now?”
“Perfect pressure, Laurence. It's one of nature’s grandest laws.” The glint in the little man’s eyes grew. “Have you ever pumped iron, Laurence?” Seeming to take Laurence's blank expression as an indication to continue, he said, “As you know, there are people out there who like to build big muscles. I'm assuming you’ve heard of, or have possibly even seen, a gymnasium?”
Laurence nodded. “You mean a power gym. Of course I have,” he mumbled, uncomfortably aware of the dumb confusion in his voice.
“Good. Then you’ll know that gymnasiums are among the perfect places to build muscles. To pump iron, as the old saying goes.” Holding the stone in his right palm, the old man began to pivot his skinny arm at the elbow. “To make muscles stronger and bigger, one has to put strain on them or, if you like, pressure. If one puts too little pressure, then not a lot's going to happen. The muscle will remain weak and small. You must watch for the danger though, Laurence, for trying for too much pressure will overwhelm the muscle, causing it injury.” The little man’s arm trembled as he feigned a difficult curl of the rock. “So you see, one must find the perfect amount of pressure to reach an optimum rate of growth. That is the application of perfect pressure.”
Laurence shifted uncomfortably. “Very insightful, but I'm guessing my father’s dying words weren't a plea for me to venture forth and build bigger biceps!”
The little man l
et out another big laugh. “Congratulations yet again with the wit. I thank you. Yes, in my opinion, your analysis is correct. I believe that what your father was referring to was the application of the perfect pressure in conjunction with raising his son. Would you agree, Laurence, that you were…how to put it…mollycoddled as a child? Would you agree that you missed out on some of the harsh realities of youth? Bullying for example? Perhaps you even had your grades plumped up? Maybe a career boost to boot? And a—”
“Okay, enough,” Laurence interjected testily, his throat burning under the strain. He was angry. Not at the old man and his damned uncanny insightfulness but at his own ignorance—Ignorance that had apparently consumed him his entire life. “I'm sorry,” he said after a moment. “I didn't mean to shout at you.”
“I know you didn't. I believe you meant to shout at yourself. Possibly even at your father too, eh?” the little man said calmly. “It seems your father didn't apply enough pressure, perhaps even no pressure. He likely shielded you from any outside pressures too. Maybe you feel a little bitter towards him. He denied you that chance to grow into a strong-minded, strong-bodied man. Your father took all the weight of your God-given dumbbell, and you remained a flabby, underdeveloped bicep.”
Laurence thought the words a little harsh, but they shone light on a truth which, if he was honest, he already knew full well. Of course he knew it. He’d known it most of his life, but he’d ignored it, pushed it aside. He was angry at his father, but at the same time, he didn't blame him one bit. He knew all his father’s acts had come from a deep-seated belief that he was doing right by his son.
“Of course, your father's no longer with you, is he, Laurence? He's busy experiencing whatever delights that mysterious afterlife offers. For the first time, you are your own man, and no one can deny that you now have the mother lode of pressure on you. Is it going to be too much, Laurence? Or is it going to be the perfect pressure?'