Such a world attracted a certain kind of human. There were pastoral worlds within the Commonwealth, where a similar physical lifestyle could be followed. But it was the Silfen themselves that attracted the gentle, spiritualist types. About a million and a half people had emigrated there. Lyddington, the town with the CST station, had about ten thousand residents; the rest found villages that took their fancy. Then there were the caravans, eternally touring the land, and sailing ships that spent years on a single voyage. A few solitary wanderers wanted the whole Silfen experience. These set off into the forests that covered sixty percent of the land, where legend said you could find paths leading to other worlds and realms.
It was a simple FG67 diesel engine that pulled the five carriages into Lyddington station. The service ran twice a week from Bayovar, through a gateway that was just wide enough to carry a single set of tracks.
Ozzie got out of the first-class section and stood on the solitary platform. He was wearing fawn-colored leather trousers, a thick woolen red and blue checked shirt, a wide-brimmed olive-green oilskin hat that was crunching up his big hair, and the best hiking boots money could buy, manufactured on the Democratic Republic of New Germany. His luggage was a towering backpack full of spare clothes, top-quality camping equipment, and packaged food. There was a saddle under his arm, which was proving exceptionally heavy and awkward to carry.
He looked around to see who was about to help him. A couple of CST staff were standing at the end of the platform talking to the train manager; other than that the only people in view were his fellow passengers, seemingly as bemused as he. When he looked behind the train, he saw the rail leading back to the pearly luminescence of the gateway, not two hundred yards away. Beyond that, the countryside was standard for any H-congruous world, with green vegetation and a light blue sky. There were mountains in the distance, not quite tall enough to have snowcaps. Ahead of him was the town, a drab brown sprawl of small buildings, few of which were more than one story. They clustered along the slope above the harbor, where a natural spit of rock curved defensively around a long beach. Wooden boats were drawn up above the waterline, their nets draped over masts to dry out. A bunch of kids were playing a game similar to football on the sand.
The passengers started to wander along the platform toward the town. Ozzie shoved the saddle over one shoulder, and moved off with them. The CST staff never gave him a second glance. He thought it strange nobody at all from the town was at the station; the train left back for Bayovar in another two hours. Surely someone must be returning home to civilization?
There were houses right up to the station, the oldest section of town. These were either drycoral or prefab, the kind found on any frontier planet. The streets knitting them together were made from thick stone slabs, their only drainage a deep open gutter at the side. Ozzie soon realized why they needed to be so deep; he wished he’d brought some kind of scarf he could wrap over his nose. The transportation was either bicycle or animal. Horses clumped along passively, as did the quadruped galens from Niska; and lontrus, big, shaggy-pelted octopeds that looked terribly hot on this sunny afternoon; he also saw tands being used, some finnars, and even a giant bamtran, which had been given a saddle platform and a harness that pulled a cart the size of a bus. The domesticated beasts either carried riders or pulled wagons. People and cyclists took care to avoid the muck they left behind them, but the smell couldn’t be missed so easily.
Farther into town, the buildings were made from wood or stone; many had thatched roofs. Brick and clay chimneys puffed out thin blue-white tongues of smoke, the scent of burning wood mingling with the smell of animals and cooking. Creeper plants swarmed up every vertical wall, adding to the overall impression of shabbiness. They weren’t cultivated for decoration; in some cases they completely swamped buildings, with just a few holes hacked into the bedraggled greenery to keep windows clear. The stone paving under his feet had given way to hard-packed gravel with a thick top layer of mud and manure. He could see the neat white rectangular offices of the Commonwealth cultural mission sitting at the top of the town, overlooking all the rooftops, but that was the last place he wanted to be. This wasn’t any part of the ExoProtectorate Council mission.
Ozzie kept on walking. As he suspected, the sophisticated handheld array in his rucksack was almost useless, operating at the most basic level and with frequent glitches. There was no cybersphere here, nothing his e-butler could link him to. But all his OCtattoos seemed to be working, for which he was grateful; he’d spent nearly two days in an expensive Augusta clinic having new ones etched into his body, along with several modern biochip inserts, which also appeared to be operational. Whatever the Silfen used to glitch human technology, it only affected photonic and electronic systems. Bioneural chemistry was relatively immune.
The inn was called the Last Pony, a long shambling wooden building camouflaged by an ancient vine that had colonized the sagging front wall to such an extent it was probably all that was now holding it up. The big indigo valentines of semiorganic precipitator leaves were draped along the eaves, sucking clean water out of the humid air and funneling it into the building’s pipes for drinking and washing. A dozen young kids were playing in the dusty soil outside. The boys were dressed in badly worn trousers and shirts, made from natural fabrics in dark brown and gray colors. Most of the girls wore dresses that were frayed and patched. Their hair was wild and grubby, detonating out from their heads in frizzy strands. Ozzie smiled at them, enchanted; their faces were those of miniature angels, all happy and curious. They’d all seen him, the clean stranger in decent expensive clothes. Their games were drying up as they whispered among themselves. One ran over, the boldest of all: a little girl no more than seven, wearing a simple fawn-colored sleeveless dress.
“You’re new here,” she said.
“That’s right, my name’s Ozzie, what’s yours?”
“Moonshimmer.” She grinned knowingly. “But you can call me Moony.”
Ozzie resisted the urge to look up at the sky; Silvergalde had twin moons in the same half-million-kilometer orbit. “That’s nice. So tell me, where’s a good place to stay in this town?”
“In there.” Her little arm rose to point at the Last Pony.
“Thanks.” He flipped a coin to her, a fifty Earth cent, which she caught neatly and smiled up at him, revealing two gaps in her front teeth.
Ozzie pushed aside strands of fur-leaf creeper from the front door, and walked in. The main bar was a simple rectangular room, with a counter along one side. Heavy wooden tables, darkened by age and ale stains, cluttered up the floor space. Bright sunbeams from the windows shone through the dusty air. A huge brick fireplace filled the far wall, with black iron doors of ovens built into both sides. The grate contained a high pile of ash and embers, with the blackened ends of logs sticking out, glimmering weakly as they smoldered away.
Just about every head turned to look at him as he entered; conversation ebbed away. It was all he could do not to laugh at the cliché. He walked over to the counter. The landlord eyed him up; a thickset Native American with his graying hair tied back in a neat tail.
“Afternoon,” Ozzie said politely. “I’d like a drink, and a room for the night, please.”
“Yes, sir,” the landlord said. “Will that be ale?”
Ozzie glanced at the shelves behind the counter. There were five big wooden barrels set up, already tapped. Various bottles were ranged along beside them. He didn’t recognize any of them. “Sure. You got a wheat beer?”
The landlord blinked, as if that wasn’t the answer he was expecting. “Yes.” He took down a tall glass, and went over to one of the barrels.
The two men leaning on the counter next to him were exchanging significant looks. Now they started sniggering quietly.
“Anything wrong?” Ozzie asked.
The smaller one turned to him. “Not with me. You here for the Silfen are you?”
“Jess,” the landlord warned. “There’s to be no trouble i
n here.”
“I’d like to meet them, yes,” Ozzie said.
“Thought so. Your type always does.”
“My type?” For a moment Ozzie wondered if he meant his color. Prejudice in the Commonwealth worlds wasn’t anything like as strong as it had been back in San Diego while he’d been growing up, but that didn’t mean it had disappeared. There were several planets where he would be in real trouble if he ever walked into a bar like this. He hadn’t expected it on Silvergalde, though.
“Rich,” Jess drawled insultingly. “Young. Don’t work for a living, don’t have to, not with family money. Looking for a new thrill. Think you’ll find it here.”
“Will I?”
“Do I care?”
The landlord put Ozzie’s beer down on the counter. “Ignore Jess. The Silfen do.”
That brought some derisive laughter from the customers who’d been listening. Jess scowled.
Ozzie reached for his drink, only to find the landlord’s fleshy hand closing around his wrist. “And how will you be paying?” he asked softly. “Your bank tattoos are no good here.”
“How would you like me to pay?” Ozzie brought out his wallet. “Earth dollars, Augusta dollars, Orleans francs?” He didn’t mention the gold coins in his secure pocket.
“Ah.” The landlord smiled for the first time, revealing yellow teeth. “A smart visitor. That’ll be five Earth dollars, thank you, sir.”
“Man,” Ozzie said glumly. “That’d better be for the beer and the room.”
“Not worth my while to open the door for less than thirty.”
“Thirty, my ass! I’ve only got fifteen in total, and I need to buy some provisions.”
It took another three minutes of haggling, but he managed to get the room, and the beer, for seventeen Earth dollars. He drank the beer as he counted out the money. For a wheat beer it was suspiciously dark, but Ozzie conceded it had a good taste—though he could have done without the slice of lemon that had sunk to the bottom of the glass. The landlord accepted the clean notes happily, and tucked them into his jerkin pocket. “Orion! Take the gentleman out back to his room.”
The kid who showed up was barely fifteen, dressed in long black trousers and an ancient purple T-shirt with a swirling counter spiral hologram of some Total Sense Immersion recording (Ozzie was interested to see that it worked). He had thick, curly, ginger hair that hadn’t been cut for a long time; it actually rivaled Ozzie’s luxuriant growth. Long skinny limbs, a semiwicked smile, freckles, bright green eyes, scab on his elbow—your typical hellbound tearaway. He’d taken hold of the saddle before Ozzie could say anything, struggling to balance it on his bony shoulder. “This way, mister.”
The guest rooms were in an annex at the back, surprisingly clean and well kept. Ozzie walked in to find a simple cot bed and chest of drawers, with a plain white china bowl and a jug of water on the table. A small fireplace was filled with kindling, a stack of cut logs beside it. There was a dreamcatcher web on the wall above the bed, causing him to raise an eyebrow. The first sign of spirituality he’d seen on the planet.
Orion dropped the saddle on the bed, and stood smiling expectantly.
Ozzie produced a dollar note and put it in his hand. “You look like you’re the kind of guy it’s smart for a visitor to know. It’s Orion, right?”
“That’s right, mister.”
“Okay, well just call me Ozzie, everybody else does. I get kind of nervous when people say sir or mister. Was that your daddy downstairs?”
“Hell no, this is Big Bear’s place. I don’t know where my parents are. They went down the paths ages ago.” He didn’t seem particularly bothered by it.
“Right. So who takes care of you?”
A frown creased the boy’s heavily freckled forehead. “I do.”
“Of course, sorry there, little dude.”
“What do you mean, little?”
“I don’t mean anything by it, just the way I talk, is all.”
“Well, okay then.”
“Good. Now I’m going to need some serious guidance around this town, can you like provide that for me?”
“Sure can.” He winked elaborately. “I know where all the girls are; I can help you meet them.”
The reply actually shocked Ozzie. A fifteen-year-old pimp? No—just a kid who’s been fending for himself for too long. Uncomfortable memories of his own time as a teenager on the city streets trickled back into his mind. “No. Thanks for the offer there, dude, but, uh, that’s not what I’m here for.”
“Okay. But if there’s anything you need, I know where it’s hid in this dump.”
“I’m sure you do. Right then, what I need is a horse, and maybe some kind of guide.”
Orion tipped his head on one side, viewing Ozzie skeptically. “You here to see the Silfen?”
“Obvious, huh? Yeah, I want to see the Silfen. That’ll do to start with.”
“Oh.” Orion pulled a face. “A pathwalker. It doesn’t work, you know. You can’t just show up and expect it to happen. The paths aren’t like the trains.”
“You think?”
“We get them here all the time, pathwalkers. They start off into the forest all happy and pleased with themselves; then a couple of weeks later they’re back, all dirty and hungry.” For a second he paused, his little face all serious. “That’s if they come back. I never met one who did get anywhere else but lost. But I can get you to the Silfen, no trouble. I know the glades they visit. The near ones anyway.”
“I’ve seen the Silfen many times.”
“Yeah, so if you’re not here for them, or the girls, what are you doing?”
“You got it right the first time, I’m a pathwalker. I want to go deep into the forest and on to other worlds.”
“All right, it’s your money. You get your horse from Mr. Stafford, at Top Street Stables. He keeps a load of animals, not just horses, there’s dogs, venshrikes, and lontrus, too. Keeps them ready for offworlders, makes a pretty packet out of it, and all; but you can haggle him down if you stand your ground. There’ve not been so many folks visiting for a while.”
“Thanks. What about a guide? Do I need one?”
“I told you, I can show you where the Silfen live. I’ve met them, see.” He put his hand down the front of his T-shirt and fished out a small pendant worn around his neck on a black leather string.
Ozzie examined it curiously. It was a teardrop pearl with a strong gold tinge, held inside a mesh of gossamer-fine platinum. Tiny pale blue sparkles bloomed and died beneath its translucent surface, as if it had caged a swarm of Aphelli phospheens.
“Very nice.”
“I’m their friend,” Orion said proudly. “That’s a friendship charm, that is.”
“When did you get it?”
“Years ago. Mom and Dad used to take me camping with them out in the forests when I was little. I played with the Silfen. I like them, even though they’re weird.”
“You used to play with them? The Silfen?”
“Sure. No big deal. They like human kids. Dad says it’s because we’re more like them than the adults are. He always took me with him when he went into the forest. It was like I was his ticket to meet them.”
“What did you play?”
“All sorts of stuff. Tree climbing, swimming, chase. You know.”
“Yeah. So did they show you the paths?”
“No. I told you, there’s nobody who knows where the planet paths are, don’t matter how much they brag they do.”
“That makes sense.”
Orion dropped the pendant back down into his T-shirt. “So you see, I can find them for you. I charge five Earth dollars a day, and you got to feed me, too.”
“I think you should be staying here and earning your keep, perhaps go to school in the day.”
“What do I want to go there for?”
“I don’t know. To get educated, maybe? That’s what happened in those places when I was your age.” There was more he should have said. As a civi
lized responsible adult, things like what about the social services and medical care. He didn’t, even though it pained him. It was something he’d learned on his wanderings years—decades—centuries ago. Not to interfere—not unless he was witness to some monstrous evil or brutality. He couldn’t be responsible for everyone. Together with Nigel, he’d given the human race unlimited opportunity to live as they wanted. If some chose this kind of life that was up to them. But it was hard to see children living like this, they were having their choices taken away.
“I know what I need, thanks,” Orion said.
“Okay. I’m not the police. When did your parents leave?”
“I dunno. A while back. They walked off while I was playing with the Silfen. I looked for them for days, but I got hungry and came back to town. The Silfen eat the fruit in the forest, but it doesn’t fill people so good. I miss them sometimes, I guess.”
Ozzie sighed, and pulled out his wallet. “Look, I’ve got some friends back in the Commonwealth, quite a few families would be happy to take care of you. I’ll buy you a ticket for the train. How’s that?”
“But when Mom and Dad come back I won’t be here, I’ll never see them again.”
He didn’t know what to do, which was funny in a painful, sad way. The great Ozzie, stumped by a kid who wouldn’t admit he needed help. And he had set himself a greater task. “Okay.” He took a couple of twenty-dollar bills from the wallet. “But you get yourself some decent clothes, and a good meal.”
“Oh, wow!” Orion held the bills up, his eyes bugging in amazement. “You must be really rich, mister—er, Ozzie.”
“I am. Which means you do as I ask, or you’ll be in real trouble. To start with you can take me to the stable yourself, and help me find some local food for the trip.”
It took two days to prepare everything, which was slightly longer than Ozzie had expected. But Lyddington wasn’t exactly filled with overeager salesmen and dozens of competitive businesses. Half the people he met acted as if they were stoned, which he admitted they probably were. There were a lot of kids running around all day. School seemed optional, they mostly learned what their parents felt inclined to teach them.
The Commonwealth Saga 2-Book Bundle Page 27